The morning air bit through the thin cotton of his shirt, but Rheon didn't stop. He dropped into a push-up, counted silently, and pushed back up. Thirty. His arms shook. Forty. The tremor traveled up to his shoulders. Fifty. He collapsed onto the floorboards, chest heaving, lungs burning like they'd swallowed ground glass.
"Pathetic," he muttered, rolling onto his back and staring at the water-stained ceiling.
It wasn't an insult. It was a measurement. Mortal I. The absolute baseline. Untrained, untested, carrying less functional strength than a dockhand who'd spent a summer hauling crates. He'd spent his first life breaking mountains with his bare hands and stepping through storms like they were drizzle. Now, fifty push-ups felt like hauling boulders up a cliff.
He sat up, wiped sweat from his forehead, and closed his eyes. Time to test the real problem. He shifted his posture, aligning his spine, and tried to cycle his breath the old way. Draw in through the nose, hold at the diaphragm, route the energy down the primary meridians, circulate, exhale. He'd done it ten thousand times. It used to feel like pulling water from a deep well.
This time, it felt like forcing a blade through a rusted lock.
A sharp, electric pain lanced through his ribs. He gasped, doubling over as his nervous system rebelled. No pathway. No Talent vessel to catch and channel the resonance. The energy had nowhere to go, so it just battered against his flesh until it bled out as nerve fire. He coughed, pressing a hand to his sternum, and waited for the tremors to pass.
"Not a conduit. Just flesh."
He opened his eyes, breathing shallow and controlled. Forcing it would tear his meridians. He'd end up crippled before the ceremony even started. The old cultivation paths were useless here. He'd have to strip everything down to the bones and rebuild from scratch. Footwork. Balance. Breath synchronization. Pain tolerance. He couldn't skip steps. Not this time.
He pushed himself up, walked to the washbasin, and splashed cold water on his face. The mirror showed the same tired boy, but his eyes were steady. He dried off, pulled on a pair of worn training pants, and stepped out into the courtyard behind the boarding house. It was empty this early, just damp stone and a few scattered leaves. Perfect.
He started with stances. Low center of gravity, knees bent, weight distributed evenly. He held it until his thighs burned. Then he shifted his weight, practicing pivots, testing how quickly his feet could adjust to imaginary shifts in pressure. The ground was uneven. His balance was worse. He corrected it, millimeter by millimeter, until his breathing fell into a steady, shallow rhythm.
"Breathe with the step. Not against it."
He moved again. Slower this time. Deliberate. Each step placed to minimize noise, each turn calibrated to keep his spine aligned. It wasn't about speed yet. It was about control. If he couldn't command a body this weak, he had no business stepping into a room full of people who'd been training since childhood.
A loud knock shattered the quiet.
Rheon stopped mid-pivot, exhaled slowly, and walked to the gate. He didn't need to guess who it was. The footsteps had been loud, hurried, and completely oblivious to the fact they were stepping on loose gravel. He slid the wooden bolt back and opened the door.
Tovin stood there, looking like he'd been dragged through a hedge backward. His hair was a mess, his tunic was half-tucked, and he was already sweating through his collar. He took one look at Rheon's calm expression and visibly deflated.
"You're up early," Tovin said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, obviously you're up early. You're always up early. It's just… I've been pacing outside my window for an hour and my mother keeps telling me to eat breakfast like it's going to magically give me an A-rank. Which, honestly, at this point, I wouldn't even mind."
Rheon leaned against the doorframe. "You're vibrating."
"What? No, I'm not. I'm just… you know. Anticipating. It's normal. The Rite's in three days, Rheon. Three days. My dad's already booked a resonance coach, my uncle's polishing his ceremonial armor, and my sister keeps leaving pamphlets about calming teas on my desk. I don't even like tea." Tovin ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "What if it's F-rank? What if it's something useless like color perception? I'll be stuck in logistics forever."
"You'll survive," Rheon said.
"That's not reassuring!"
"It wasn't meant to be." Rheon stepped back, gesturing for him to come in. Tovin followed, still muttering about worst-case scenarios, and dropped onto a wooden crate near the workbench. Rheon poured two cups of water from a clay pitcher and handed one over. "Drink. Your throat's dry. You've been talking in short, rapid bursts. It means you're hyperventilating without realizing it."
Tovin blinked, taking the cup. He took a sip, then another, slower this time. "Right. Okay. Thanks. I just… I don't know how to turn it off. The pressure. Everyone's watching. The instructors, the recruiters, the nobles sitting in the front rows like they're at a theater. You don't feel it at all, do you?"
"I feel it," Rheon said. "I just don't let it run my mouth." He sat on the edge of the workbench, crossing his arms. "You're treating the Rite like a performance. It isn't. It's a measurement. The crystal doesn't care about your posture or your family's reputation. It reads what's already there. If you spend the ceremony worrying about what they'll think, you'll drown your own resonance in static."
Tovin stared at him. "That's… actually really good advice. Terrifying, but good." He set the cup down, shoulders dropping an inch. "How do you stay so calm? Don't you want something? Something strong?"
"I want efficiency." Rheon tapped his thumb against his palm. "I want a foundation that won't collapse when the wind changes. You want a loud Talent. That's fine. But loud doesn't mean stable. If you get something volatile, you'll need discipline more than power. Start practicing breath control now. In through the nose, hold for three, out through the mouth. Do it until it's automatic. When the crystal lights up, you'll need to anchor yourself. If you don't, the resonance will scatter."
Tovin swallowed, nodding slowly. "Breathe. Anchor. Don't drown in static. Got it." He stood, stretching his arms. "You really think I'll be okay?"
"I think you'll survive whatever you get," Rheon said. "Stop rehearsing the worst case. It's wasting energy you'll need tomorrow."
Tovin gave a stiff, grateful nod, then turned to leave. As he pushed the gate open, Rheon's eyes caught something. A faint vibration in the air around Tovin's hands. Not sound. Not wind. A low, rhythmic hum, like gears turning in sync. It pulsed twice, then faded as Tovin's posture relaxed.
"Mechanical resonance. Pattern matches kinetic linkage. Gear Link, probably. Low frequency, stable output. Useful for precision work."
He filed it away. Talents weren't just flashy effects. They were structural. And structure could be read, if you knew how to listen.
The gate clicked shut. The courtyard went quiet again. Rheon stood, walked back to the center of the stone yard, and resumed his drills. His muscles ached. His lungs still burned. But his breathing was steady now, synced to the rhythm of his steps. He couldn't force power into a blank vessel. But he could forge the vessel itself. Brick by brick. Breath by breath.
He ran the sequence again. Pivot. Step. Hold. Breathe. Release. The pain was still there, but it was manageable now. Predictable. He pushed through it, counting the repetitions, mapping the limits of his current body. Mortal I was just a starting line. Not a sentence.
By late afternoon, his clothes were soaked, his hands blistered, and his legs felt like lead. He finally stopped, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. The sky was turning amber. Shadows stretched long across the stone. Somewhere in the distance, the academy bells chimed, marking the hour.
He walked back inside, stripped off the damp shirt, and pressed two fingers to his sternum again. The weight beneath his skin was still there. Quiet. Dormant. But it felt different now. Less like a stone. More like a locked door waiting for the right key.
"Three days."
He dressed in a clean tunic, laced his boots, and stepped out into the cooling evening air. The streets were already filling with students heading to prep halls, instructors locking up training yards, families gathering for last-minute dinners. The whole city was holding its breath. Tomorrow, they'd start walking the plaza routes. Checking sightlines. Measuring distances. Getting a feel for the ground before the crystal decided who mattered.
Rheon walked down the stairs, his thumb tapping once against his palm. The countdown was ticking. And for the first time since he'd opened his eyes in this soft, unfamiliar body, he felt the ground settle under his feet.
He wasn't ready for the Rite. But he was done pretending he needed to be.
He stepped out into the street, and the city swallowed him whole. Tomorrow, he'd start mapping the plaza. And he already knew exactly where the cracks would be.