Rulan woke with a jolt.

  The pale light filtering through the paper screen was already shifting from ink-grey to pearl. Birds were stirring outside—somewhere on the mountain, water ran loud from the melt—and her limbs ached like she’d spent the night sparring rocks instead of sleeping.

  She shoved off the thin blanket and staggered upright.

  No time for tea. No time to untangle her hair properly. She rinsed her face in the basin with a splash that hit the floor. Pulled on her robe backwards the first time. Swore. Fixed it.

  The second bell hadn’t struck yet.

  But it was close.

  By the time she reached the lower training field, her breath was fogging sharp in the morning air, and the cold had already bitten through her soles. A light frost still clung to the edges of the practice stone, catching the first pale gold of dawn.

  Disciples were lined up already.

  Ten rows, maybe twelve. All of them facing the stone platform at the front of the field, where Senior Disciple Han Yufei stood with arms folded, his shadow long and unmoving.

  He was dressed as he had been before—plain robes bound tightly, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the fabric stained faintly at the cuffs from repeated use. No ornament, no weapons. His stance alone commanded attention.

  Rulan slipped into the last row, chest still rising fast.

  Han Yufei didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to.

  His voice rang out across the field, low and clear.

  “You are cultivators,” he said, “or trying to become them. That means your bodies must hold the path as well as your minds.”

  He paced slowly before the rows, steps measured. A thin mist still curled around the base of the platform, stirred only by his motion.

  “The Verdant Lotus Sect’s physical cultivation method is called the Stone Root Way. It is not flashy. It is not beautiful.”

  He stopped.

  “It is enduring.”

  The wind stirred faintly. No one spoke.

  Han Yufei continued, voice even as a drawn line.

  “There are nine realms of mastery.”

  His fingers curled into a fist, and he raised it beside his chest.

  “The first is Breath and Bone. That is where all of you begin. It is where we build foundation. Strength, balance, breath control. The merging of movement and intention.”

  He pointed two fingers toward the group.

  “If you cannot master your own breath, your limbs will betray you. If you cannot hold your own weight, your qi will scatter the moment it stirs. If your muscles fail you, no amount of energy will save you.”

  He let the words settle like dust.

  “From there, the path climbs.”

  He turned back to the rows, gaze cool and unreadable.

  “None of you will touch the ninth realm for a century. Most will not reach the seventh. Many will fail at the third.”

  A beat passed.

  “But if you train with discipline—if you build your roots deep—you will not fall.”

  He raised his hand once.

  “Begin stance forms. We hold each posture for five breaths. No correction until the third round.”

  The command rippled through the ranks like a current.

  Disciples moved. Rulan did too.

  Not smoothly. Not like the others. Her robe caught at her knees. Her breath caught at her ribs. Her legs remembered running, not standing still.

  But she bent her knees, shifted her weight low, and mirrored the first stance: Mountain Pillar—feet planted wide, arms angled forward, fingers outstretched as if holding the shape of a boulder in midair.

  Her thighs ached by the second breath.

  By the third, she was already sweating.

  The cold did nothing to help.

  And Han Yufei said nothing at all.

  He only watched.

  -- -- --

  The Mountain Pillar stance dissolved into the second form, then the third.

  By the fourth, Rulan’s arms felt like they’d been packed with lead.

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  By the fifth, the burn in her legs had moved from dull ache to grinding.

  There was no speech. No cheer. No encouragement. Han Yufei moved among the rows without comment, correcting only with brief touches or single words. Sometimes not even that. Just a glance, and the pressure of knowing you were seen.

  And then, abruptly:

  “Run.”

  No fanfare.

  Just the word.

  Disciples broke from their lines and began to move—some instantly, others with hesitation, all of them funneling toward the upper paths that carved along the ridgelines and wrapped around the slope like veins etched into the mountain itself.

  Rulan hesitated a breath too long before following.

  The cold hit harder when moving.

  The thin air bit deep.

  But her legs—trembling, sore, furious—knew how to run.

  She kept to the middle of the pack at first. Just far enough not to draw attention. Just close enough not to fall behind.

  They ran upward, stone steps giving way to winding dirt paths, mist clinging like old ghosts to the grass at the edges. The incline shifted steep, then cruel. The first switchback came fast. So did the second.

  Rulan’s breath began to hitch.

  Around her, disciples moved in pairs or small groups. A few—taller, cleaner, practiced—passed her without so much as a glance.

  And then—

  She saw him.

  The boy from the first day. The one with the curled lip and clipped tone. The one who’d mocked her robes in the courtyard and looked at her like something clinging to the underside of his boot.

  He was running a little ahead of her now. Easy strides. Not fast, not slow—controlled. Like he’d done this path before, many times.

  He glanced back over his shoulder once.

  Saw her.

  And smirked.

  Just a little.

  Rulan’s hands clenched tighter.

  She didn’t push her pace—couldn’t, not yet—but the spike in her chest wasn’t just from exertion anymore.

  At the next bend in the trail, near where the pine shadows broke open into sky, Rulan caught sight of Wang Feiyan. Of course she was there—neatly positioned several strides ahead of the others, her form impeccable even on uneven ground, posture loose and upright like she wasn’t descending a jagged mountain trail but gliding across polished stone. Her robe was different from yesterday—frost-pale, cinched tight with that same elegant minimalism that seemed bred into her bones. The knots at her wrists were tied with precision, no excess fabric to catch the wind, and even her sleeves moved cleanly, weightless. Her hair, bound in a high crown-plait, hadn’t shifted at all. No frizz. No straggle. No flaw.

  She didn’t look back.

  Didn’t glance around to see who followed, who struggled, who stumbled or wheezed through mist and slope.

  She ran like someone used to being watched. Like her performance had never once faltered. She moved the way nobility was taught to move: without strain, without effort, without ever appearing to want.

  And Rulan—soaked in sweat, chest heaving, legs trembling with each compressed landing—could not stand her for it.

  It wasn’t the grace that stung. It was the ease.

  Not triumph. Not smugness. Just... untouched. Unbothered. As if the mountain bent politely beneath her boots.

  Wang Feiyan never looked back.

  Which, somehow, felt worse than if she had.

  By the time the path crested along the upper ridge, the wind had sharpened. The mist was thinner here, more translucent, and the sun had begun to press through it, painting everything in pale gold. Rulan’s breath tore from her chest in thick, ragged strands. Her tongue had gone dry. The ache behind her eyes pulsed with each beat of her heart, and her calves had long since stopped registering anything but fire.

  She had no idea how she was still moving.

  The view from this high should’ve been beautiful—should’ve been the sort of thing that made one pause, just for a moment, to breathe in the sky. But her vision was already starting to blur, the edges of her sight turning a soft grey-white, pressure building like storm clouds behind her eyes. Each step was a question. Each breath, a gamble.

  They didn’t stop.

  There was no pause at the top.

  No reprieve.

  No time to feel the height beneath their feet.

  Instead, the group flowed forward again, arcing around the ridge and beginning the descent down the opposite side of the trail—steeper now, more treacherous. The rocks were slick with early frost, the dirt uneven and rutted from countless years of pounding feet.

  This wasn’t a run anymore.

  It was an exercise in control. Every step had to be deliberate, measured. Too long and you overbalanced, too short and your knees bore the full shock. One slip, and the slope would claim you.

  Ahead, a boy—broad-shouldered, overconfident—misjudged his footing. His heel caught on a slick edge of stone, and he fell hard, arms splayed, the sound of impact loud and hollow against the ground. He rolled once, more by accident than design, and landed half-crouched, dazed. He didn’t cry out. Just sat there for a beat, breathing hard.

  The rules had been clear from the first day to Rualn. In the physical path, assistance was interference. Kindness disrupted training. You ran alone. You rose alone. You endured, or you didn’t. That was the lesson.

  That was always the lesson.

  Rulan kept going.

  Her legs were no longer legs. They were tools. Bent, burning tools, driven by the memory of movement and spite and the unwillingness to be seen at the back.

  Her balance wavered. She stumbled. Not fully, not enough to fall, but her boots skidded on a patch of grit and her shoulder clipped a low branch. She muttered a curse under her breath, caught herself, and pushed forward.

  And then—

  Beside her.

  A second rhythm of breath.

  Shen Li.

  Quiet as always.

  Not leading. Not correcting.

  Just keeping pace.

  Her presence was light. Not hesitant, but effortless—like wind moving alongside another gust. Not overtaking, not hovering. Simply existing beside her, as if she'd always meant to be there.

  She said nothing for several strides.

  Rulan didn’t speak either. There wasn’t room between the burning in her lungs and the ache in her thighs. Her thoughts had frayed hours ago—her body the only part of her still focused. But Shen Li’s arrival cut through the noise like water through silk.

  They approached the tight bend—where the slope curved sharply inward and the ground dipped before rising again. Rulan’s foot caught just slightly on the incline, her weight shifting at the wrong angle.

  And then Shen Li spoke, low and steady.

  “Lean forward. Use the incline.”

  Not a command. Not quite a suggestion either. Just a fact, offered like a thread.

  Rulan didn’t question.

  She leaned.

  Let her center shift. Let her weight settle differently through her hips, down her legs, into the slope instead of against it.

  Her stride changed.

  Not drastically. But enough.

  Her knees, still furious, stopped locking. Her balance, still precarious, began to settle again. It wasn’t grace. It wasn’t ease.

  But it was better.

  And Shen Li said nothing else.

  Didn’t look at her.

  Didn’t nod.

  But her breath slowed a fraction.

  And for Rulan, that was enough.

  They descended the rest of the path side by side, neither one asking the other to explain why.

  The training field opened wide below them, the grey stone glistening with early frost, now trampled and marked with the sweat of fifty bodies. Their feet met it in unison.

  Waiting at the base, carved from stillness like a statue of war-worn patience, was Han Yufei.

  He hadn’t moved since they’d left.

  His arms remained folded across his chest. His expression unreadable. Only the faint ripple of breath rising beneath the collar of his robe confirmed he was still alive at all.

  The disciples gathered again in loose rows.

  A few collapsed outright. Others stood with their heads down, hands on knees, faces pinched with fatigue.

  Han Yufei watched them.

  He let the silence linger.

  Rulan could hear her heartbeat behind her eyes.

  And then—flat, even, inevitable:

  “Again.”

  The groan in her chest wasn't alone in the pack of disciples, to her relief, but they turned back up the mountain anyway.