Cultivation breathing was usually taught outdoors.
Wind helped. Sound carried better when air moved.
So when Master Halden ordered Vale into the sealed stone chamber beneath the training grounds, the message was clear.
No wind.
No echo.
"Sit," Halden said.
The chamber door closed. Silence pressed in.
"Begin breathing."
Vale inhaled.
Nothing responded.
His breath felt heavy, unassisted. Each exhale vanished into stone.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
Sweat gathered at his temples—not from exertion, but from restraint. Every instinct screamed to force resonance outward.
He didn't.
He remembered the quarry.
The swallowed sound.
Instead of guiding breath outward, he folded it inward—shorter, shallower, slower.
Something shifted.
Not energy.
Spacing.
His dantian did not fill. It cleared.
When Halden reopened the door, the master stopped short.
"The air inside changed," he said quietly.
Vale opened his eyes. "I didn't cultivate."
Halden nodded. "You prepared the ground."
⸻