Yan Xuan returned to the river before dawn.
Mist hovered low over the water, blurring the line between river and sky. The village was quiet—not asleep, but waiting. He could hear it in the distance: the scrape of a broom, the cough of an old man waking too early, the soft clatter of a pot being set on a stove.
No one told him to come.
That was important.
He stepped out of his worn sandals and placed them neatly on a flat stone. The river looked the same as yesterday, indifferent and unwelcoming. Yan Xuan entered without hesitation.
The cold struck harder this time.
Yesterday, the pain had been new. Today, it was familiar—and because of that, sharper. His body remembered what was coming and resisted earlier. His breathing hitched despite his effort to keep it steady.
He frowned slightly.
So memory mattered.
He adjusted his stance, shifting weight from heel to toe, spreading tension instead of letting it gather. The shaking lessened, but did not disappear.
This was worse than yesterday.
Good.
Worse meant there was something to learn.
Minutes passed. His legs burned. His skin felt too tight, like it didn't belong to him anymore. He focused on what changed when he moved even a little—how the current pushed differently, how the cold bit deeper on one side than the other.
Standing still was not enough.
He had assumed endurance was the lesson. He was wrong.
When the shaking returned, violent and uncontrollable, he did not panic. He observed it. The tremor began in his calves, spread upward, disrupted balance.
Cause.
Effect.
Adjustment.
He bent his knees slightly.
The shaking eased.
Yan Xuan stayed in the river until his thoughts slowed to something almost empty.
When he finally stepped out, the sun had just begun to rise.
"You're early."
Yan Xuan turned.
The gray-robed man stood on the bank, hands clasped behind his back. Up close, he looked older than Yan Xuan had thought—lines carved deep around his eyes, skin weathered like stone worn smooth by years of wind and rain.
"I came," Yan Xuan said.
The man snorted. "That's obvious."
He looked Yan Xuan up and down, taking in the boy's stiff movements, the faint blue tint to his lips.
"Do you know why you were allowed to stand longer than the others yesterday?"
Yan Xuan shook his head.
"You didn't ask for permission to endure," the man said. "Most people beg the world to be kinder. You adjusted instead."
Yan Xuan said nothing.
"Name," the man said.
"Yan Xuan."
"I am Mu." He paused, then added, "Only Mu. Titles are for people who expect respect."
Mu stepped closer to the river and nudged a stone into the water with his foot.
"Tell me," he said. "Why did you come back?"
Yan Xuan considered the question carefully. Not because he feared answering incorrectly, but because careless answers revealed careless thinking.
"Because standing once was not enough," he said at last.
Mu's eyes narrowed slightly.
"That's not why," he said.
Yan Xuan looked up.
"You came back because yesterday proved the world responds consistently," Mu continued. "Cold punished weakness. Balance reduced pain. You want to know how far that consistency goes."
Yan Xuan did not deny it.
Mu smiled faintly, the expression sharp and brief, like a blade catching light.
"Good," he said. "Then you'll learn faster than most. Or you'll break sooner."
He gestured toward the river again.
"Stand."
Yan Xuan stepped forward.
"Not like that," Mu said. "This time, you move."
Yan Xuan paused. "Move how?"
"That," Mu replied, "is the mistake everyone makes."
Yan Xuan entered the water again, colder now that his body was already exhausted. Mu began to speak, his voice calm, unhurried.
"Pain is information. Movement changes information. If you don't understand the relationship between the two, you're just suffering."
Yan Xuan tried to shift his stance.
The current caught him off guard.
He slipped.
Cold water surged up to his waist. His breath left him in a sharp gasp, panic flaring before he could suppress it. He flailed once—only once—before forcing himself still.
Mu did not move to help.
"Why did you fall?" Mu asked.
"I misjudged," Yan Xuan said, breathing hard.
"No," Mu said. "You assumed yesterday's balance would still apply today."
Yan Xuan's fingers dug into the riverbed as he pulled himself upright.
Conditions changed.
He nodded slowly.
Mu watched him in silence.
Yan Xuan stood again, more carefully this time. He tested the water with deliberate movements, learning its response before committing weight.
This time, he did not fall.
They stayed by the river until the sun climbed fully into the sky. Yan Xuan fell twice more. Each time, Mu corrected him with few words, never touching him, never softening the lesson.
By the end, Yan Xuan's body shook uncontrollably.
But his mind was calm.
When Mu finally waved him out of the river, Yan Xuan collapsed onto the bank, chest rising and falling steadily.
"You'll ache tomorrow," Mu said. "And the day after."
Yan Xuan nodded.
"If you want to continue," Mu added, "you'll work for your meals. No exceptions. Strength without contribution rots."
"I understand."
Mu turned to leave, then stopped.
"One more thing," he said. "What you're learning isn't strength."
Yan Xuan looked up.
"It's alignment," Mu continued. "The world does not bend for you. You learn how not to be crushed by it."
He walked away.
Yan Xuan lay there for a long moment, staring at the sky.
Cold lingered in his bones. Pain threaded through his muscles. Exhaustion pressed down on him like weight.
But beneath it all was something else.
Clarity.
For the first time since arriving at Blackstone Village, Yan Xuan felt certain of one thing:
If the world followed rules, then it could be understood.
And if it could be understood—
He closed his eyes.
—then it did not need mercy.