Winter did not end after the burial.
It thinned.
That was all.
The hut remained.
The mat remained.
The cracked bowl remained.
He worked because there was no reason not to.
Stone did not soften for grief.
The quarry demanded hands.
He gave his.
Villagers spoke less to him now.
Not out of cruelty.
Out of discomfort.
Tragedy unsettled people.
Especially when it did not make noise.
—
At night, the hut felt larger.
Three breaths had once filled it.
Now there was only one.
He repaired the roof where wind slipped through.
He split wood carefully.
Measured.
Nothing excessive.
Nothing wasted.
Anger still existed.
But it did not move.
It rested.
Contained.
—
On the seventh day after the burial, a stranger entered the village.
White robes.
No dust on the hem.
No cart.
No horse.
He walked as if distance did not concern him.
Conversations thinned as he passed.
The elders approached first.
Polite.
Guarded.
The stranger's voice carried easily.
"I am here to test for spiritual roots."
The words meant little to most.
But the tone did not.
Opportunity always sounded different from trade.
—
By evening, it was decided.
All children under twelve would gather at the well at dawn.
He did not ask questions.
He did not expect anything.
Expectation had been corrected recently.
—
The crystal sphere was small.
Clear.
Unremarkable.
Children stepped forward one by one.
Hands pressed against its surface.
Most received nothing.
Some flickered faintly.
The stranger shook his head each time.
When his turn came, the air felt thin.
He placed his palm against the crystal.
Cool.
Smooth.
Nothing.
Then—
A dim glow formed.
Not bright.
Not radiant.
It did not flare outward.
It deepened inward.
Like ink sinking into water.
The stranger leaned closer.
The glow did not tremble.
It condensed.
Quiet.
Controlled.
The stranger's expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
"Low-grade," he said.
A murmur passed through the villagers.
Then he added,
"Stable."
The murmuring stopped.
"You may come to Qingyun Sect," the stranger said.
"Return at dawn tomorrow if you wish to leave."
Leave.
The word settled in his chest.
He nodded once.
No more.
—
That night, the hut felt smaller.
He sat beside the hearth long after the fire dimmed.
The cracked bowl rested near his hand.
The wind pressed softly against the walls.
He lay down without ceremony.
Sleep came slowly.
—
He stood in snow.
But it was not cold.
The sky was pale.
His parents stood before him.
Not coughing.
Not tired.
They looked as they had before winter deepened.
His father regarded him quietly.
"We delayed," he said.
His mother's fingers tightened gently around his father's hand.
"We thought we had time."
Silence rested between them.
It was not heavy.
"You will need one now," his father continued.
"A name," his mother said softly.
"For the road ahead."
He did not speak.
He did not step forward.
They did not move closer.
His father looked at him steadily.
"Shen."
His mother finished it.
"An."
The snow did not stir.
The sky did not brighten.
They simply remained there for a moment longer.
Then the world thinned.
—
He woke before dawn.
The hut was cold.
The fire had died completely.
Outside, the mountain waited unseen beyond the trees.
He sat up slowly.
The name remained.
Quiet.
Certain.
Shen An.
—
Dawn arrived without color.
The stranger stood where the road narrowed into frost-hardened earth.
He did not ask if Shen An had changed his mind.
He only turned.
Shen An followed.
The village did not gather to watch.
Snow absorbed footsteps quickly.
Within a hundred paces, there was no evidence he had ever lived there.
—
They walked until the trees thinned.
Until stone replaced soil.
Until the mountain revealed itself fully.
It did not rise sharply.
It endured upward.
Layer upon layer of carved terraces cut into its face.
Stone stairways clung to cliffs.
Bridges spanned open air without visible support.
Structures rested upon impossible ledges.
Mist moved slowly between levels, never fully clearing.
"This is Qingyun Sect," the stranger said.
The words were simple.
The mountain was not.
Shen An did not feel awe.
He felt scale.
Scale had weight.
—
They ascended without rest.
The stranger did not tire.
Shen An did not complain.
Halfway up, he began to notice something else.
The air was different.
Denser.
Not heavy.
Alive.
Each breath carried something faint—
Like threads brushing against awareness.
He did not reach for them.
He remembered the manual's first line.
Qi follows intention.
Intention follows breath.
He kept his breathing steady.
The threads did not scatter.
They lingered.
—
At the outer gate, two disciples stood guard.
Robes gray.
Eyes sharp.
Their gazes assessed without greeting.
"Recruit," the stranger said.
One guard produced a slate tablet.
A brush dipped in dark ink.
"Name."
The word hung in the cold air.
For a fraction of a moment, silence existed.
He had never spoken it aloud.
It did not feel foreign.
But it felt new.
He answered evenly.
"Shen An."
The brush moved.
Ink marked the stone-smooth surface.
The guard did not comment.
The tablet dimmed faintly as the name settled into it.
"Outer disciple," the second guard said.
"Follow the marked path."
The stranger did not accompany him further.
Their eyes met briefly.
No encouragement.
No warning.
Only acknowledgment.
Then the stranger turned away.
—
The path led to a wide courtyard carved directly into the mountain.
Dozens of youths gathered there.
Some arrived in fine winter cloaks.
Some wore patched sleeves.
All carried the same uncertainty.
An older disciple stood before them.
Robes darker.
Sleeves edged in silver thread.
"Outer disciples begin at the base," he said.
His voice did not rise.
It did not need to.
"You are not cultivators yet."
He gestured toward the ascending terraces above.
"You are candidates."
A wooden board stood near the wall.
Names carved into rows.
Numbers beside them.
Contribution points.
Ranking.
Access.
"Talent determines your ceiling," the older disciple continued.
"Discipline determines whether you reach it."
His gaze passed over them without lingering.
"Rooms have been assigned."
He handed each a narrow wooden token.
When Shen An received his, the carved characters were simple.
Outer Court. Room Seventeen.
—
The room was stone.
Unadorned.
One mat.
One shelf.
One basin.
A thin booklet rested on the mat.
He sat.
Opened it.
Basic Qi Condensation Manual.
The script was clear.
Direct.
No ornament.
He folded his legs.
Spine straight.
Breath slow.
Around him, doors closed.
Murmurs faded.
The mountain seemed to inhale once—
And hold it.
He began.
He did not force the air.
He did not chase sensation.
He allowed awareness to settle.
The threads were there.
Faint.
Circling.
Others might reach outward.
Grasp.
Pull.
He did not.
He anchored his breath.
The threads gathered inward.
Not expanding.
Condensing.
Steady.
Outside, somewhere in the outer courtyard, a sharp cough broke rhythm.
Then another.
Someone had rushed.
A reprimanding voice followed.
"Control."
Shen An's breathing did not change.
For the first time—
He felt the mountain respond.
Not in approval.
Not in recognition.
But in resistance.
As if asking whether he would push against it—
Or align.
He did not push.
He settled deeper.
The first strand of Qi sank into his lower dantian.
It did not flare.
It did not tremble.
It rested.
Small.
Precise.
Outside, footsteps moved quickly.
Inside, silence held.
And Shen An did not hurry.
—
On the third day, the bell rang before sunrise.
It was not loud.
But it carried through stone.
Outer disciples gathered in the lower courtyard.
The air was sharp.
Breath visible.
At the center stood a waist-high stone pillar.
Smooth.
Unmarked.
An elder in dark robes stood beside it.
"This is your first assessment," he said.
"You have been given three days to sense and guide Qi."
His gaze swept across them.
"The pillar responds to foundation and circulation stability."
A faint murmur passed through the crowd.
"Place your palm upon it after circulating once."
He paused.
"Do not force."
—
The first disciple stepped forward.
He pressed his palm to the pillar.
A weak flicker appeared.
Faded quickly.
"Minimal sense," the elder said flatly.
The name was recorded.
Another approached.
This time, light flared brighter.
Unsteady.
It pulsed irregularly before dimming.
"Average."
Recorded.
—
When Zhao Rui's name was called, the courtyard quieted slightly.
He walked without hesitation.
Spine straight.
Breath even.
He placed his palm against the pillar.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
Light surged upward in a clear silver column.
Bright.
Clean.
It did not flicker.
It held steady for three full breaths.
A faint murmur escaped before discipline reclaimed silence.
The elder's eyes sharpened.
"High-grade root. Strong initial circulation."
Ink moved across the slate.
Several disciples glanced toward Zhao Rui.
He stepped back into line.
Expression unchanged.
—
"Shen An."
The name sounded unfamiliar to the air.
He stepped forward.
The stone felt cool beneath his palm.
He had circulated once.
Slow.
Precise.
The Qi within him was small.
Contained.
He did not push it outward.
He allowed it to settle before contact.
The pillar responded.
A dim glow formed at its base.
Not rising.
Not flaring.
It did not tremble.
It darkened inward.
Like ink absorbed into stone.
Three breaths passed.
The glow remained faint.
Perfectly steady.
Then faded.
"Low-grade root," the elder said.
A pause.
"Stable circulation."
Ink marked the slate.
He stepped back.
His name appeared near the bottom of the board.
Above a few.
Below many.
Zhao Rui's name stood at the top.
Clear.
Uncontested.
—
After the assessment, access assignments were posted.
Top ten could enter the inner cultivation chamber twice per week.
Middle ranks once.
Lower ranks would cultivate in common quarters.
Shen An read the board once.
Then turned away.
—
That night, the courtyard did not fully quiet.
In the common quarters, breathing patterns varied.
Some forced speed.
Some attempted second circulation.
A sharp cough broke the rhythm.
Then another.
An older disciple's voice cut through the dark.
"You were told not to force."
Silence followed.
—
Shen An sat cross-legged.
He did not attempt a second circulation.
He did not test limits.
He allowed the single strand of Qi to settle again in his lower dantian.
Small.
Precise.
It did not tremble.
It did not leak.
Outside, ambition strained against stone.
Inside, stillness held.
—
The bell rang before sunrise.
It rang every day.
Outer disciples gathered in the lower courtyard.
Some yawned openly.
Some whispered.
Some stretched stiff limbs.
Shen An stood near the back.
Most of the outer disciples were older.
Ten.
Eleven.
Some nearly twelve.
Their shoulders broader.
Voices deeper.
Movements less uncertain.
At six, Shen An was noticeably smaller.
No one mocked him.
There was no need.
Size spoke for itself.
—
"Body before Qi," the instructor said.
His name was Instructor Han.
Mid-thirties.
Plain gray robes.
Eyes that missed little.
They began with stance training.
Knees bent.
Back straight.
Arms extended.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
Older disciples shifted.
Sweat formed.
One boy muttered under his breath.
Another adjusted his footing repeatedly.
Shen An held position.
Not because it was easy.
Because he did not measure time.
He measured breath.
In.
Out.
The ache existed.
He allowed it.
Instructor Han walked between rows.
He tapped knees.
Adjusted shoulders.
Pressed spines upright.
When he passed Shen An, he paused half a breath longer.
The boy's legs trembled.
But his breathing did not break rhythm.
Instructor Han moved on.
—
After stance came guided circulation.
They sat cross-legged.
Eyes closed.
"Once," Instructor Han said.
"Do not attempt twice."
A few older disciples inhaled sharply.
Shen An did not increase speed.
He allowed the thin strand of Qi to rise and settle as before.
Small.
Precise.
Contained.
To his left, a boy's breathing quickened.
To his right, someone forced flow.
A sharp exhale broke the silence.
Instructor Han's voice followed immediately.
"Control."
Shen An completed one full circulation.
Stopped.
He did not test further.
He opened his eyes.
Instructor Han was looking at him.
Assessment.
After a moment, the instructor turned away.
—
Later, in the common quarters, conversation loosened.
"Zhao Rui entered the inner chamber again," someone whispered.
"Twice this week."
"Of course he did."
"High-grade root."
The name carried quiet admiration.
No one mentioned Shen An.
Low-grade root.
Minimal output.
Small body.
Unremarkable.
He sat on his mat and folded the manual closed.
Outside, wind brushed against the stone walls of the mountain.
Inside, ambition stirred among children who were no longer entirely children.
Shen An lay down without speaking.
He did not feel inferior.
He did not feel resentful.
He felt small.
But small things could be stable.
And stability, he was beginning to understand, did not announce itself.
Across the courtyard, Instructor Han stood alone for a moment before leaving.
His gaze passed once over the rows of stone rooms.
It did not linger.
But it did not forget.