Old Master Ren did not take Kael far.
The woodcutting grounds lay beyond the massive tree but still within the same enclosed region, where the forest thinned and the land flattened into a broad clearing carved by long use. Stacks of logs were arranged in disciplined rows, each piece cut to uniform length, each pile separated by shallow grooves in the earth that had been worn there by years of repetition. Nothing about the place was decorative. It was not meant to inspire. It was meant to endure.
The air here felt heavier.
Not oppressive in the way cultivation pressure weighed on the lungs, but dense, as if the world itself expected effort and had little patience for waste.
Kael noticed it immediately.
The Tenth Senior Brother noticed Kael noticing it.
"This is where you'll be staying for a while," the Tenth said, folding his arms and glancing around with a familiarity that came from having once hated this place. "Don't be fooled by how neat it looks. This ground has broken more bodies than most battlefields."
Kael nodded, eyes already moving across the stacks of wood.
There were too many.
Far too many.
Even before numbers were spoken, his mind began to estimate volume, repetition, time. Four piles to a row. Dozens of rows. Each log thicker than his thigh. Each piece cut with unnerving consistency, as if the wood itself resisted variation.
Old Master Ren stopped near the first stack.
"This is the second half of your first task," he said calmly. "You will split one hundred thousand pieces of wood into four hundred thousand."
The words landed without force.
The meaning did not.
The Tenth Senior Brother's head snapped around. "One hundred—" He stopped, coughed once, then stared openly at Ren. "Master, when I did this, it was fifty thousand."
Ren did not look at him. "You were older."
The Tenth opened his mouth, closed it, then rubbed the back of his neck. "He's eight."
Ren finally glanced at Kael. "He will not remain eight."
That was all.
No reassurance.
No elaboration.
Ren turned his gaze back to the wood. "You may begin."
And then he stepped aside.
The Tenth Senior Brother stared at Kael, then at the logs, then back at Kael again. His expression shifted from disbelief to something closer to concern. "Junior… do you understand what kind of wood this is?"
Kael crouched and placed his left hand on the nearest log.
The surface was smooth but cold, the grain so tight it barely looked organic. He pressed his thumb against it and felt resistance that reminded him less of timber and more of stone.
"It's wrong," Kael said quietly.
The Tenth snorted despite himself. "That's one way to put it."
He squatted beside Kael and rapped his knuckles against the log. The sound was dull. Dense. Wrong. "This stuff is grown here. Fed by spirit-rich soil, compressed over decades. It's not wood like you'd find in the outer districts. Density alone makes it a nightmare."
Kael frowned slightly. "How dense?"
The Tenth hesitated, then answered honestly. "About four times harder than the hardest mortal wood. More like metal that remembers it used to be a tree."
Kael closed his eyes briefly.
In his other life, that comparison carried immediate weight.
Four times the density meant exponential resistance. It meant fiber bonds that did not want to shear. It meant impact forces rebounding through the tool and into the body with little loss. It meant that even if the axe head survived, the user likely would not.
An eight-year-old body certainly would not.
The Tenth watched Kael's expression carefully. "You don't have to rush," he added, softer. "No one expects you to finish quickly."
Kael nodded again, but his attention had already shifted inward.
He summoned the axe.
It appeared in his right hand without spectacle, the blade resolving into physical clarity as it always did now, while the handle remained subtly blurred where his invisible fingers closed around it. The axe adjusted itself instinctively, shortening its haft, redistributing mass until it fit his frame rather than overwhelming it.
The Tenth's eyes widened.
He could see the axe clearly.
He could not feel it at all.
No pressure. No aura. No spiritual signature.
It was like looking at a weapon-shaped absence.
"…You're storing it where?" he asked slowly, glancing at Kael's waist, his sleeves, his back.
Kael shook his head. "I don't know."
The Tenth looked toward Ren.
Ren did not explain.
The Tenth exhaled, then chuckled weakly. "Figures. When I tried to lift that thing back then, it didn't even pretend to acknowledge me. Felt like trying to pick up a mountain with bare hands."
Kael tightened his grip.
The axe shifted minutely, as if listening.
"Don't swing yet," the Tenth said quickly. "Feel it first. This isn't normal chopping. Even with cultivation, you don't brute-force this."
Kael nodded.
He positioned the log upright, planted his feet the way he remembered from watching laborers in Smoke City, then adjusted instinctively based on leverage rather than habit. His stance widened. His shoulders aligned. He raised the axe.
The blade fell.
It did not bite.
The impact rang through his arms like a hammer striking iron. The axe rebounded, and pain shot up Kael's right side, sharp and immediate. His grip faltered. His knees buckled.
The Tenth moved instantly, catching him before he hit the ground.
"Enough," he said sharply, steadying Kael. "That wasn't a failure. That was your body telling you the truth."
Kael's teeth were clenched.
His right arm burned.
Not where muscle should have been, but deeper, along bone and absence, where force had nowhere to dissipate.
"I didn't expect it to split," Kael admitted through controlled breaths. "But I expected… something."
The Tenth grimaced. "Most people break their wrists on the first hit. You only bruised yourself."
That was not comfort.
Kael forced himself upright again.
Old Master Ren watched from a distance, expression unchanged.
Kael adjusted.
He did not swing again.
Instead, he placed the axe head against the wood and pushed.
Nothing.
The axe did not sink. The log did not yield.
Kael inhaled slowly, using the breathing pattern his father had drilled into him long ago, the one that regulated heartbeat before exertion. His chest warmed faintly, a subtle internal response he did not yet understand.
He lifted again.
This time he let the axe fall with less speed.
The impact hurt less.
Still no split.
The Tenth nodded slowly. "Good. You're learning."
Kael repeated the motion.
Again.
Again.
Each strike sent pain through his arms, through his shoulders, into his spine. The axe head left shallow marks at best, no deeper than scratches. Sweat formed quickly. His breathing grew heavier.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
The Tenth stayed nearby, offering water, correcting Kael's posture, occasionally placing a steadying hand on his back when his legs shook too badly.
"You're not weak," the Tenth said quietly at one point. "Your body just hasn't caught up to your intent yet."
Kael smiled faintly. "I know."
That was the difference now.
He did not confuse inability with failure.
By the end of the first day, Kael had not split a single log.
His hands were blistered.
His shoulders trembled.
His right arm throbbed with a deep, aching pain that made sleep difficult.
That night, Old Master Ren led him to a shallow pool carved into stone, filled with warm liquid that smelled of herbs and earth. Kael lowered himself into it slowly, teeth clenched as the ache intensified before easing.
"This will not make you stronger," Ren said calmly. "It will keep you from breaking."
Kael nodded.
He slept deeply that night.
The second day was worse.
His muscles protested immediately. The axe felt no heavier, but his body felt weaker. The first swing sent a sharp jolt through his elbows, and he cried out despite himself.
The Tenth swore under his breath and steadied him again. "Careful. Pain teaches, but injury delays."
Kael adjusted again.
Less force.
More repetition.
By midday, he noticed something.
The axe was changing.
Not in appearance.
In response.
When he aligned his breathing and posture correctly, the resistance felt marginally… less.
Not enough to matter.
Enough to notice.
The axe did not comment.
It observed.
By the third day, Kael managed it.
A crack.
Hairline.
Barely visible.
But real.
He stared at it in disbelief.
The Tenth whooped, loud and unrestrained. "There! I told you—"
Kael lifted the axe again.
The next strike widened the fracture.
Not a split.
A beginning.
Kael sagged back, chest heaving, arms shaking violently.
The Tenth clapped him on the shoulder, pride unmistakable. "That's how it starts. Pain first. Progress second."
Kael nodded weakly.
Inside him, something settled.
This would take years.
And he was, unexpectedly, at peace with that.
Not because it was easy.
But because for the first time, the effort made sense.
The axe remained silent.
The wood remained stubborn.
And Kael remained standing.
That was enough.
For now.