Shen Qingyu learned her limits the hard way.
On the third morning after her awakening, she attempted to stand without support. The decision was not born of arrogance, only necessity. Remaining in bed forever was not survival—it was decay.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and placed her feet on the floor. For a brief, hopeful moment, nothing happened.
Then the world tilted.
A sharp ringing filled her ears, her vision collapsing inward as though someone had drawn a curtain over her sight. Shen Qingyu tried to steady herself, but her knees buckled without warning. The floor rushed up to meet her, cold and unforgiving, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs.
Pain flared along her side, but it was the exhaustion that followed that frightened her most. It seeped deep into her bones, heavy and suffocating, leaving her unable to move for several long breaths.
So this is the truth of this body, she thought faintly.
She lay there until the door finally creaked open.
A young maid stood frozen in the doorway, surprise quickly replaced by annoyance. "Third Miss?" she said, as though Shen Qingyu's presence on the floor were an inconvenience rather than a concern.
With reluctant assistance, Shen Qingyu was helped back onto the bed. No one called for a physician. No one scolded her recklessness. The maid simply straightened the blankets and left, muttering under her breath about troublesome masters.
Once alone, Shen Qingyu stared at the ceiling, breathing shallowly until the pounding in her head subsided.
This was not a matter of willpower.
The original Shen Qingyu's body had been sick for years—perhaps since childhood. Whatever illness lingered within her had never been treated properly, only ignored until weakness became her defining trait.
Training like the others would kill her.
That realization did not bring despair.
It brought clarity.
That night, Shen Qingyu revised her approach completely. No more testing limits blindly. No more standing without preparation. Strength could come later—if she lived long enough to claim it.
She focused instead on rest and observation.
Lying still, she paid attention to her breathing, slowing it deliberately. As her mind calmed, she sensed something faint within her body—a subtle warmth, fragile as a thread, gathering low in her abdomen before fading again.
Her heart quickened, but she forced herself to remain still.
Not yet, she warned herself.
Whatever this was, it was real—but her body was not ready to pursue it.
As exhaustion finally pulled her into sleep, Shen Qingyu felt no frustration.
Only resolve.
If survival required patience, then she would learn to wait—
not passively, but intelligently.