The training grounds of the Fallen Cloud Sect were already crowded when Kang Muyeon arrived.
Outer disciples stood in loose rows, some stretching, others chatting quietly. A few were already practicing basic stances, their movements stiff and careless. The early morning sun cast long shadows across the dirt field, highlighting every uneven step and sloppy posture.
Muyeon took his place at the far end.
No one complained.
No one cares.
That was how it had always been for this body.
"Line up properly," an instructor barked. "If I see anyone slacking, you'll be running laps until nightfall."
The man was middle-aged, broad-shouldered, with a permanently irritated expression. His cultivation was mediocre, but sufficient to intimidate outer disciples. He paced slowly in front of the lines, eyes sharp for mistakes.
Muyeon lowered his gaze slightly, adjusting his stance.
Not because he feared the instructor—but because standing out, even slightly, invited attention.
They began with basic conditioning.
Running.
Stance holding.
Controlled breathing.
Simple exercises meant to build the foundation of cultivation. For most disciples, it was tedious. For Muyeon, it was revealing.
This body lacked strength, but it wasn't fragile. Its movements were inefficient, but not hopeless. The problem wasn't talent—it was neglect. Years of being overlooked had left this body underdeveloped.
It can still be shaped, he concluded.
As the minutes stretched into an hour, sweat soaked through his robes. His legs trembled faintly, but he maintained the stance without complaint. He focused on balance, on distributing weight correctly, on breathing without wasting effort.
As the minutes stretched into an hour, sweat soaked through his robes. His legs trembled faintly, but he maintained the stance without complaint. He focused on balance, on distributing weight correctly, on breathing without wasting effort.
Old habits resurfaced quietly.
He did not push past his limits.
He did not correct others.
He simply endured.
"Hey."
A voice spoke from beside him.
Muyeon did not turn immediately.
"You're doing it wrong," the voice continued, lower this time. "Your knees. They're too stiff."
Muyeon glanced sideways.
The speaker was a boy around his age, perhaps a year younger. His clothes were cleaner than most, though still plain. His hair was tied neatly, and his expression carried a mix of caution and curiosity.
"I'm fine," Muyeon replied.
The boy hesitated. "If you lock your knees like that, you'll collapse faster. Try lowering your center."
Muyeon adjusted his stance slightly—not because he needed the advice, but because ignoring it completely would be strange.
The boy nodded, seemingly satisfied.
"My name'sJin Seorin," he said quietly. "You'reKang Muyeon, right?"
Muyeon gave a small nod.
Seorin glanced around before speaking again."People say you don't have any talent. But you're not shaking as much as you usually do."
Muyeon said nothing.
Observant. That was uncommon here.
Before the conversation could continue, a sharp crack echoed across the field. The instructor had struck the ground with a wooden rod.
"Enough standing," he snapped. "Pair up."
Groans spread through the group.
Sparring among outer disciples was rarely controlled. Stronger ones vented frustration. Weaker ones endured it.
Muyeon remained still as others paired off quickly, avoiding him on instinct. Jin Seorin hesitated, then stepped forward.
"I'll spar with him," Seorin said.
Several heads turned.
The instructor glanced over briefly. "Do what you want. Just don't waste my time."
They moved to the side of the field.
Seorin took a basic stance, fists raised but loose. "We'll keep it light," he said. "No need to—"
Muyeon stepped forward.
Not fast. Not slow.
Just enough.
He tapped Seorin's wrist, redirected his arm, and placed his palm lightly against Seorin's chest. No force. No qi. Just positioning.
Seorin froze.
The movement had been clean. Too clean.
Muyeon stepped back immediately.
"Sorry," he said calmly. "Reflex."
Seorin stared at him for a moment, then laughed quietly. "That didn't feel like reflex."
Muyeon shrugged. "You overextended."
They continued sparring, exchanging simple movements. Muyeon made sure to lose ground gradually, breathing heavier, letting his posture slip just enough to look believable.
Still, Seorin's expression grew more serious.
So he can tell, Muyeon noted.
When the instructor finally called an end to training, Muyeon bowed slightly and stepped away. He felt eyes on his back—not many, but enough.
Seorin walked beside him as they left the field.
"You're hiding something," Seorin said, not accusingly.
Muyeon stopped.
He turned just enough to meet the boy's eyes.
"So are you," he replied.
Seorin blinked, then smiled faintly
"Maybe," he said. "But if you ever want to talk… I'm usually around."
Muyeon watched him leave.
Interesting.
Back in the shadows of the Fallen Cloud Sect, someone had noticed him.
That was inconvenient.
And potentially useful.
End Of Chapter 2