Lin Chen skipped class.
Not out of laziness—out of caution.
He sat on the edge of his bed, feet flat on the floor, elbows resting on his knees, breathing slowly. Each inhale was measured. Each exhale deliberate. He counted them under his breath, anchoring himself to something simple and repeatable.
One.
Two.
Three.
The pain in his arm had dulled overnight, but it hadn't vanished. It was the kind of soreness that didn't belong to muscles alone—deeper, threaded through places he didn't have names for.
*I pushed structure where it didn't belong,* he thought. *Or rather… where it belonged too well.*
That realization unsettled him.
In the game, internal formations were late-game techniques. Not because they were stronger—but because they were unforgiving. A misaligned array could cripple a character permanently.
Here, there was no character.
Only him.
Lin flexed his fingers again, slower this time. He paid close attention to the sensation. Not the strength. The *response*.
When he tightened his grip, the pressure inside his arm condensed unnaturally, as if something were reinforcing the motion. The effect was faint, unstable—but unmistakable.
He released his hand at once.
"Residual structure," he murmured.
The formation was gone, but the pathways it had forced open hadn't fully closed.
That meant two things.
First: this wasn't temporary.
Second: if he left it alone, his body would adapt in ways he couldn't predict.
Neither option was acceptable.
Lin reached for his notebook.
He didn't open to a fresh page.
He turned back to the earliest notes he'd taken—sketches of triangles, observations about strain, reminders to stop early.
At the very bottom of the first page, something caught his eye.
A half-finished diagram he'd abandoned.
A *dissipation pattern*.
In *Eternal Grid*, it was used to safely dismantle unstable formations. Not by force, but by redirecting flow outward until structure couldn't hold.
He swallowed.
"If it works on formations…" he whispered, "it should work on residues too."
The problem was scale.
He wasn't dismantling something in the environment.
He was dismantling something inside himself.
Lin stood and paced the room, thinking.
*No direct construction.*
*No anchoring points.*
*Only release.*
He closed his eyes.
Instead of visualizing a shape, he focused on sensation.
The pressure in his arm.
The density behind each movement.
The way force gathered too efficiently.
Then he imagined it spreading.
Not exploding.
*Diffusing.*
Like heat leaving a metal rod placed in open air.
Lin's breathing slowed instinctively.
His headache flared—but softer this time, more like resistance than punishment.
The pressure shifted.
He staggered slightly as a wave of weakness washed over him, forcing him to sit back down on the bed.
For a terrifying second, his arm went numb.
Then sensation returned—normal this time.
He flexed his fingers again.
No unnatural resistance.
No compression.
Just muscle and bone.
Lin sagged forward, forehead resting against his knees.
"It worked," he breathed.
The relief was almost overwhelming.
But it was tempered by a cold realization.
That had been *dangerously close* to failing.
He'd felt it—the edge where diffusion could have turned into collapse.
He flipped to a clean page and began writing immediately.
**Internal structures persist**
**Dissipation requires calm, not force**
**Overcorrection = loss of function**
His hand trembled as he wrote.
This wasn't trial and error anymore.
This was risk management.
---
The rest of the day passed quietly.
Lin ate lightly. Drank water. Rested when the headache threatened to return. He resisted the urge to test his strength again.
Control wasn't about proving power.
It was about knowing when *not* to use it.
That evening, once his body felt stable again, Lin tried something new.
He stood in the center of his room and let his awareness expand—just a fraction. Enough to sense the lines without fully engaging them.
They appeared faintly, like ghosts of pencil marks erased too many times.
He didn't touch them.
He observed.
The more relaxed he was, the clearer they became.
The more he tried to *use* them, the faster the strain returned.
"Intent shapes cost," he murmured.
That, more than anything, felt like a rule.
He practiced for an hour.
Not building.
Not modifying.
Just *seeing*.
By the end, the headache was manageable. The lines no longer startled him when they appeared.
Familiarity bred calm.
And calm bred control.
---
Before bed, Lin stood by the window, looking out at the city lights. Everything below looked ordinary—cars moving, people walking, life continuing on its well-worn tracks.
He flexed his hand one last time.
Normal.
Good.
But now he knew how thin that line was.
Power wasn't something he could turn on and off like a switch.
It was something that demanded restraint.
Understanding had opened the door.
Control would decide whether he could stay on his feet—or be crushed by it.
Lin closed the curtains and turned off the light.
Tomorrow, he would start again.
Slower.
Smarter.
On purpose.