Morning came quietly.
Lin Mo lay there staring at the floor, following a thin crack in the wood that ran from the wall toward the mat. He'd noticed it yesterday. Maybe earlier. Hard to tell.
Breathing didn't hurt as much today.
Not because it stopped hurting. He'd just gotten used to where it hurt. Learned when to expect it.
That counted as improvement.
Yan Li woke before him, or maybe he'd already been awake when she stirred. She always moved carefully, like the room might punish her if she wasn't polite about it. Her steps were soft. Measured.
She looked at him.
He was awake.
She paused. Just a little.
"Did you sleep?" she asked.
"Yes," Lin Mo said. After a moment, he added, "Not deeply."
She nodded. Didn't ask anything else. Asking too much around broken people only made things worse. They both knew that.
Breakfast was porridge. Thin. And a small dish of preserved roots. Sour, a little bitter. Food meant to keep you standing, not strengthen you.
Lin Mo ate slowly anyway.
When Yan Li left for the fields, he stayed behind.
It was the first day he'd been alone since waking up in this body.
The room felt different without her moving around in it. Less tension. Like something fragile had been taken out, and now there was more space to breathe.
He sat upright and closed his eyes.
Not to cultivate.
Just to count.
Breath in.
Breath out.
On the fifth breath, pain stirred behind his chest. Not sharp. Just reminding him it existed. By the ninth, something trembled along a damaged channel, deep and wrong. On the twelfth, nothing happened.
That was good.
Not progress the kind people boasted about.
Just stability.
He stopped at twenty. Any more would be pushing. And pushing never ended well.
The mirror stayed silent.
He accepted that.
Standing took time. His legs shook, then steadied. The body hurt in a dull, constant way, but it held together.
He opened the door.
The village was already moving.
Children hauled water from the well, sloshing most of it onto their feet. Old men sat beneath a tree, arguing about soil like the land might hear them and decide their fate out of spite.
No one rushed.
That stood out.
Even the people who practiced—herbal healers, soul readers, the ones who hovered close to cultivation without crossing into it—moved carefully. Here, being fast wasn't impressive. It was suspicious.
Lin Mo walked down the path.
Voices lowered as he passed. Not stopped. Just softened.
People looked at him. Some curious. Some wary. Some already finished with their judgment.
Soul depletion left a shape on a person. Everyone could feel it.
At the edge of the village stood the apothecary. Small. Stone-lined. Open to the air on one side.
He hesitated.
Then went in.
The woman inside glanced up from grinding herbs. Younger than he'd expected. Her presence was quiet but firm, like something sharpened and put away on purpose.
"You shouldn't be walking," she said.
"I am," Lin Mo replied.
She stared at him another moment, then gestured. "Sit."
He did.
She didn't touch him at first. Watched how he breathed. How he held himself. Where his eyes went—not to her hands, but the space between them.
"You've been broken a long time," she said.
"Yes."
"Not just recently."
"No."
That made her look again. Not suspicious. Measuring.
"You're stable," she said. "For now. That's uncommon."
"Temporary."
She smiled faintly. "Everything is."
She slid a small packet of powdered herbs toward him. "This won't heal you. It'll help your soul remember how to stop unraveling."
"That's enough."
"Don't take it every day."
"I won't."
She paused. "If you try to cultivate, even carefully, it'll tear you open."
"I know."
"Good."
Lin Mo stood and inclined his head. Not deeply.
When he got back, the sun was already low.
Yan Li noticed the packet immediately.
"You went out," she said.
"Yes."
She didn't ask where.
That night, Lin Mo dreamed.
Not of falling.
Not of standing still.
He dreamed of walking beside others, keeping pace without effort. No one pulling ahead. No one left behind.
When he woke, the pain hadn't worsened.
That was enough.