The passage of time did not announce itself with milestones. It did not arrive marked by sudden breakthroughs or visible changes that demanded acknowledgment. Instead, it seeped into Lin's life gradually, threading itself through repetition until the distinction between effort and habit blurred. Days folded into one another with little variation, shaped by work, cultivation, and rest, until progress became something felt rather than observed.
A month passed.
Lin noticed the difference most clearly in the way his body responded to stillness. When he woke each morning, there was no lingering stiffness in his limbs, no residual soreness clinging to muscle and bone. His body felt settled, complete in a way it never had before, as if the adjustments were happening beneath his awareness, long before conscious thought had a chance to intervene.
Qi rested beneath his skin with a composure that would have been unthinkable weeks ago. It no longer pressed insistently against his awareness, no longer threatened to gather or surge at the slightest lapse in focus. Instead, it remained evenly distributed, thin and obedient, responding the moment Lin guided it and dispersing cleanly when he withdrew his intent.
Control had ceased to feel like an active effort. It had become instinct.
Each morning, before leaving his room, Lin cultivated once. He sat upright on the mat, breathing shallow and steady, his awareness spread outward rather than drawn inward. He guided diluted ambient qi across the surface of his skin with careful precision, maintaining a pressure he had learned through repetition, one that strengthened without provoking resistance. The warmth that followed was uniform and restrained, a faint prickle that never crossed into pain.
When the sensation deepened, he stopped.
Qi unraveled smoothly at his command, dispersing without backlash or turbulence, leaving behind only a muted ache that faded almost as quickly as it appeared. When Lin opened his eyes, his heartbeat remained steady, his breathing unchanged. The process felt complete in a way it never had before.
A quiet sense of satisfaction settled within him, restrained but undeniable.
The Sword God observed him in silence, his presence unusually attentive. After several breaths, a sharp laugh escaped him, brief and edged with disbelief.
"I will say this plainly," he said. "What you are doing should not be possible…"
Lin lowered his gaze to his hands. They appeared no different than before, lacking any visible signs of reinforcement or transformation. The strength he felt resided beneath the surface, concealed by design.
"I am not finished," Lin replied evenly.
"No," the Sword God agreed, his tone measured yet unmistakably engaged. "But you are close. You are approaching the late stage of Skin Tempering, and you did so without haste, without shortcuts, and without destabilizing yourself. If I had not witnessed it step by step, I would dismiss it as fabrication."
Lin allowed himself a faint, satisfied smile.
"It feels rather stable," he said.
"It is," the Sword God replied. "Stability earned through discipline. Your body no longer resists you as much. It's starting to accept your restraint as law."
That mattered more to Lin than raw power ever could.
"I am content with my progress," he said quietly.
The Sword God regarded him closely, then inclined his head. "You should be. Satisfaction born of restraint is rare. Do not grow complacent."
The days continued in their familiar rhythm.
Lin's work at the canals remained outwardly unchanged. He hauled crates, balanced loads, and moved through long hours with the same measured pace he always had. His strength had increased significantly, but he kept it contained, careful not to let efficiency bleed into excess. There was no need to invite attention, no reason to rush.
The nights, however, belonged to preparation.
After returning to his room, Lin cultivated once, never more. The sessions stretched longer now, not because he pushed himself, but because his control allowed it. Qi circulated thinly beneath his skin, evenly distributed, never permitted to pool. He ended each session the moment his breathing threatened to deepen, releasing the qi in a controlled dispersion that left no trace of instability behind.
Only after resting did he begin his second routine.
The space in his room was narrow, barely sufficient for movement, yet Lin adapted to it easily. At first, his practice was limited to footwork and balance, learning to shift his weight without sound, to move his body as a single unit rather than a collection of limbs. Each motion was deliberate, stripped of excess, refined through repetition.
The Sword God observed closely.
"You waste less motion now," he noted one evening.
"I am learning where strength is unnecessary," Lin replied.
"Good," the Sword God said. "Strength that lacks efficiency is little more than noise."
For the first half of the month, Lin practiced empty-handed. He drilled basic strikes, defensive motions, and transitions, focusing not on speed or force but on coordination and recovery. He paid close attention to how his reinforced skin absorbed impact, how force dispersed rather than biting inward. He adjusted instinctively, refining his movements without ever pressing against his limits.
He had learned the value of restraint.
Near the middle of the month, Lin made a deliberate choice.
The shop was modest and easily overlooked, its weathered sign hanging slightly crooked above a narrow doorway. Inside, the scent of oil and metal lingered faintly, and the walls were lined with weapons that bore no pretense of grandeur. These were tools, meant to be used rather than admired.
He moved slowly, testing balance where permitted, letting each weapon settle briefly into his palm before setting it aside. Most felt serviceable. A few were well made. None of them stirred anything deeper than evaluation.
Then he reached the back of the shop.
The scythe rested there with quiet indifference, leaned against the wall behind a rack of long-handled weapons. Its shaft was darkened with age, worn smooth by years of use. The blade curved in a broad arc, its edge carefully maintained despite its unassuming appearance.
Lin stopped.
The pull was subtle, but unmistakable. Not a surge of qi, nor an emotional response, but a sense of alignment, as though something about the weapon resonated with the way his awareness now settled beneath his skin.
Qi shifted faintly, responding without his intent.
Lin frowned.
"That," the Sword God muttered slowly, "is not ideal."
"You felt it," Lin replied.
"I felt it," the Sword God confirmed. "And I would like to clarify that I do not support it, not one bit."
Lin stepped closer and rested his hand on the shaft. The weight settled naturally into his grip, heavier than a sword, but balanced in a way that felt deliberate rather than cumbersome.
The sensation deepened.
"This is a farming tool," the Sword God said flatly.
"It is also a weapon," Lin replied.
"It is a weapon for people who enjoy wide arcs, poor recovery, and dramatic entrances," the Sword God said. "None of which suit your temperament."
Lin lifted the scythe slightly and tested its balance. The blade moved smoothly, its arc controlled rather than wild.
"It feels right," Lin said quietly.
There was a pause.
Then the Sword God sighed, long and resigned.
"I am the Sword God," he said. "Not the Scythe God. My experience with this particular tool is… limited."
Lin glanced at the blade again. "You can still teach me."
"Yes," the Sword God replied. "I can teach you how not to die while holding it. That is not the same thing."
Lin considered that, then nodded. "That is enough."
The Sword God huffed. "You are insufferable."
Lin paid for the scythe.
As they left the shop, the Sword God spoke again, his tone threaded with reluctant curiosity.
"I will say this," he admitted. "If you insist on being unconventional, you have chosen an appropriately inconvenient weapon."
Lin allowed himself a faint smile.
Training began that night on a empty square.
The scythe changed everything.
Its reach demanded greater awareness of space. Its weight required controlled momentum rather than sharp acceleration. Lin could not rely on tight cuts or quick recovery in the same way he had with a sword. Every movement had to be intentional, balanced, and precise.
The Sword God adjusted his instruction accordingly.
"Do not fight the arc," he said. "Guide it. If you resist the motion, it will resist you."
Lin repeated the movement slowly, learning how to let the blade's momentum carry through before redirecting it. The reinforced skin of his hands and arms absorbed the vibration naturally, allowing him to maintain control without tension.
"You are adapting faster than I expected, it seems your cultivation talent extends to training as well," the Sword God admitted after several repetitions.
"That sounds like praise," Lin replied with a smirk.
"Do not become attached to the idea," the Sword God said, turning his head away. "I am still annoyed." He secretly wore a smile, careful not to show it.
Their exchanges grew more frequent, the banter sharper but easier, shaped by shared effort rather than formality. Corrections came swiftly, often accompanied by dry commentary.
"You are overcommitting," the Sword God said during one session.
"I thought commitment was important," Lin replied.
"Commitment," the Sword God said patiently, "is not the same as recklessness. You are not trying to harvest wheat."
Lin adjusted the motion.
"Better," the Sword God said. "Marginally." He added.
As days passed, Lin's movements grew smoother. Footwork blended naturally with the scythe's sweeping arcs, and recovery became instinctive as he learned to redirect momentum rather than halt it. The weapon's demands forced him into discipline, rewarding restraint and punishing excess.
One evening, as Lin cleaned the blade, the Sword God observed him in silence for a long moment.
"You have made this more difficult for yourself," he said.
Lin looked up. "You taught me that difficulty reveals flaws."
The Sword God paused, then nodded. "Annoyingly accurate."
By the end of the month, Lin's routine had settled fully into place.
Cultivation twice per day. Martial practice in the cover of the evening. Rest taken seriously rather than sparingly.
Qi lay beneath his skin, compressed and calm. His body felt unified, reinforced evenly, responsive without strain.
One night, as Lin set the scythe aside, the Sword God spoke with unmistakable satisfaction.
"You are ready," he said.
"For what?" Lin questioned.
"For the tournament," the Sword God commented.
Lin inclined his head slightly.
"The tournament begins in a week," the Sword God added.
"I know."
"You will be watched."
"I expect that."
The Sword God regarded him closely. "You have done well."
Lin accepted the words without false humility. "I know."
The Sword God snorted. "Do not make a habit of agreeing with me."
Later, as Lin lay back on the mat, staring at the ceiling, the scythe rested nearby. Beneath his skin, qi remained quiet and disciplined, neither eager nor restless.
Watching him sleep, the Sword God took stock in silence. Cultivation and martial refinement had elevated Lin's strength far beyond its beginnings. If he had to guess, it now brushed against what a late stage Bone Temperer could produce.
The next morning Lin completed the Skin Tempering sub-realm.