The morning after the demonstration, the precinct buzzed like a disturbed hive. Whispers clung to the corridors, curled under the eaves, and lingered in the practice yards. Liang Zhen's name was now spoken with a weight that tilted conversations.
Some voices praised. "His control was clean, sharper than most seniors."
Others sneered. "A peasant's trick. He just got lucky."
Most wove both awe and envy into the same thread.
Zhen felt every glance as he walked to morning drill. Some bowed politely, some looked away too quickly, some stared too long. The ember inside him pulsed steady, but he sensed how attention pressed harder than any strike.
In the yard, Han approached, his pale robe swaying like a banner. "A fine showing yesterday," he said smoothly, loud enough for others to hear. "Few novices can draw applause from visiting masters."
The compliment was a blade wrapped in silk. Zhen bowed slightly. "I only breathed as I have been taught."
Han's smile thinned. "Ah, but not all teachings are equal." He let the words linger before turning away, leaving a ripple of speculation in his wake.
The head of novices arrived, cutting short the murmurs. Today's drills pressed harder, as though she meant to test who had grown lax after the demonstration. Qiu moved beside Zhen with renewed vigor, his strikes sharp, fueled by something bitter. At one clash, his staff angled too close, nearly striking Zhen's temple. Gasps rose.
The instructor's voice cracked like a whip. "Control, Qiu!"
Qiu bowed stiffly, jaw tight. Zhen met his eyes only briefly, recognizing the storm brewing there.
Later, when drills ended, a messenger summoned Zhen to the inner library — a privilege not often extended to novices. Stone steps led him upward, past carved doors banded with bronze. Inside, shelves climbed toward rafters, stacked with sutras, scrolls, and bound records. Dust motes drifted in the sunlight that filtered through high slits.
An elder scribe, robes the color of ink, awaited him. "Liang Zhen," he said, voice slow, deliberate. "The headmaster wishes you to copy a scroll. Not for your learning — for your steadiness."
Zhen knelt at the low desk, brush in hand. The scroll contained a simple sutra on breath and patience. As he wrote, he realized the test was not content but endurance. Hours passed. His strokes grew cramped, ink bled, yet he matched breath to brush. Each exhale steadied the line. Each inhale carried ink to paper. By dusk the sutra was copied in full, the letters calm, without tremor.
The scribe inspected it and nodded faintly. "Endurance… and discretion." His eyes searched Zhen's face. "Not every ember must flare. Some embers warm a house unseen."
Zhen bowed, heart steady. He sensed the lesson beneath the words: he was being watched, measured not just for brilliance, but for control.
Outside, shadows thickened. Whispers had followed him even here. Some disciples looked impressed, others wary. A few muttered darkly about favoritism. In the dormitory, a small bundle of herbs appeared on his mat — a gift, or perhaps a trap. Zhen studied it, ember stirring. The scent was sharp, unfamiliar. He wrapped it carefully in cloth and tucked it away, unwilling to take chances.
The nets were tightening. Some sought to pull him upward, others to bind his steps. He exhaled slowly, steady as ever, and thought: The ember must burn without smoke. Only then will it escape these nets.
---
That night, Zhen did not sleep easily. The bundle of herbs weighed on his thoughts. Its sharp scent seemed to cling to the dormitory air, faint but insistent, like smoke after a fire. Some novices glanced at it as they passed, but none spoke. Silence was often louder than words.
At dawn, he carried it discreetly to the infirmary. The healer, an elderly monk whose hands trembled with age but never faltered with precision, sniffed the bundle and frowned.
"This," he said softly, "is Stonevine Root. Mixed with water, it strengthens breath for a short while… but weakens it after. A dangerous thing in drills. Someone wanted you to take it, and stumble."
Zhen's jaw tightened. "Do you know who left it?"
The healer shook his head. "Nets leave no name." He pressed a hand to Zhen's shoulder. "Beware. The hall tests openly. But envy tests in shadow."
Zhen bowed and returned the herbs wrapped in cloth. He left them at the shrine outside the infirmary, letting smoke carry them away. By the time he reached the practice yard, whispers had already bloomed.
"He rejected the gift."
"No, he feared it."
"Or he knew what it was."
The rumor spread faster than footsteps. Qiu smirked openly now, voice loud. "Perhaps the villager thinks himself too fine for gifts." Laughter scattered from those near him, brittle and sharp.
But others frowned. A girl from the southern coast whispered, "He was wise not to use it." Another nodded. "Caution is strength too."
The yard divided — some circling Zhen with suspicion, others with grudging respect. Han watched from the edge, arms folded, his faint smile unreadable.
That day's drill involved sparring circles, three on three. Disciples rotated through matches while instructors watched from shaded pavilions. When Zhen's turn came, Qiu stepped forward immediately, flanked by two others who shared his sharp smiles. The arrangement was no accident.
The bell rang. Qiu lunged first, strikes fast and aggressive, forcing Zhen back. The other two circled like wolves. Gasps rose as staffs cracked against Zhen's guard, one after another. He bent, turned, exhaled. The ember flared, not wildly but steady, feeding precision into each block.
He timed one exhale to a parry, turning Qiu's staff aside. Another exhale guided a sidestep, letting the second opponent's strike whistle past. Then he pushed forward with a clean sweep, knocking one disciple's legs from under him. The crowd roared — some cheering, some cursing.
Qiu snarled, sweat darkening his robe. He struck again, harder, faster, but his breath grew ragged. Zhen held steady, each inhale controlled, each exhale measured. Finally, with a timed strike, he sent Qiu stumbling back.
The bell ended the match. The yard erupted in noise.
"Did you see? He held against three!"
"Unfair match, but he still won."
"No, Qiu slipped — that's all."
The instructor's face remained stone, but her eyes flicked toward Zhen with something like acknowledgment.
As Zhen bowed and stepped back, he realized the truth: every contest now was more than a fight. It was a stage. And the stage had eyes — eager, jealous, watching for his rise or fall.
---
The days after the sparring match thickened like storm clouds. Qiu nursed his humiliation in silence, but silence had teeth. He no longer mocked Zhen openly; instead, he whispered in corners, fed rumors like dry twigs into a fire. Some disciples began to avoid Zhen's path, as if proximity might brand them with his strangeness. Others shadowed him more closely, eager to catch fragments of his training.
The hall itself seemed to breathe differently around him. When he entered the mess hall, conversations dipped, then swelled with forced laughter once he passed. In practice, partners struck harder, eyes tight with effort, desperate to prove themselves against him. Even mundane tasks carried weight; when he swept the courtyard, some nodded approvingly, others muttered that he was pretending at humility.
It was Han's moves, however, that unsettled him most. The pale-robed disciple never raised his staff against Zhen directly. Instead, he cultivated influence with a tactician's patience. He lingered at the gates when recruiters arrived, speaking in soft tones. He sat near masters during tea breaks, offering observations cloaked as compliments. His words always circled back to Zhen — never accusations, but questions, framed carefully enough to plant doubt.
Soon, Zhen overheard whispers that chilled him.
"They say he doesn't breathe like us at all."
"Maybe his ember isn't natural."
"Perhaps… it's a taboo method."
That word — taboo — struck like a stone thrown into still water. It carried weight heavier than envy. The ember inside him pulsed uneasily, as if recognizing the danger of being named.
Zhen responded as he always had: with practice. He rose before dawn, training alone in the shadowed courtyard. Each breath became a shield, each movement a stone laid on the road of endurance. He practiced silence too — learning when to answer, when to nod, when to bow without giving words that could be twisted. The ember grew steadier, warmer, as though it understood the need to burn quietly.
But silence could not smother everything. Whispers seeped beyond the precinct walls, carried by traders, porters, and visiting scribes. Rumors reached nearby villages: of a boy with fire in his breath, of a novice who bent sound itself, of someone rising too quickly to be ordinary. Some stories praised him as destined. Others warned of danger.
One evening, Zhen overheard two servants outside the kitchen.
"They say he'll rise high, but fall harder."
"They say the sect recruiters already have eyes on him."
"They say… heaven watches strange fires."
The last line lingered long after the voices faded. Zhen lay awake that night, staring at the rafters. Heaven watches strange fires. The ember within him pulsed softly, not in fear, but in quiet defiance.
He thought of Hua, of the smith, of the people who had given him small kindnesses when he was nothing. He thought of the nets now weaving around him — envy, ambition, suspicion. And he swore silently: If nets close around me, I will burn through them. Breath by breath, step by step.
---
The summons came at dawn. A messenger struck the temple bell twice, sharp and urgent, calling a small group of novices to the outer gate. Zhen joined the line, his staff strapped across his back, his heart steady.
The instructor addressed them briskly. "A caravan requests escort through the northern pass. Bandits have stirred there. This is no tournament, no staged spar. You will go, defend, return. Fail, and lives will be lost."
Whispers rippled through the group. Novices rarely left the hall so early in training. Some looked thrilled, others pale. Zhen glanced at Qiu, who stood two places away, jaw set. Han, at the rear, wore a faint smile, as if he had expected this.
The caravan was waiting beyond the gate — ox-carts piled with grain, merchants clutching tally scrolls, guards with spears who looked skeptically at the novices. When their eyes fell on Zhen, the skepticism deepened. "That one?" one guard muttered. "He looks like he walked from a rice paddy yesterday."
A merchant shook his head. "Don't mock. That's the ember boy. I've heard tales already."
The guards fell silent, but their eyes lingered on him, a mixture of doubt and unease.
The road to the northern pass wound through pines dark with morning mist. Birds scattered as carts creaked along, wheels crunching gravel. The novices walked beside them, staves ready. Zhen timed his breath to the oxen's steps, letting the ember match the rhythm. Each inhale drew strength, each exhale steadied his stride.
They reached the pass by midday. The cliffs rose sheer, casting long shadows. The air grew tense, like a bowstring drawn.
The first arrow fell with a hiss. It thudded into a cart, startling the oxen. Shouts rang as bandits burst from the rocks — a ragged dozen, blades glinting.
The novices froze for a heartbeat. Then the instructor barked, "Hold the line!"
Qiu leapt forward, striking with wild speed, his staff cracking against a bandit's sword. Another novice fell back, trembling. The caravan guards surged to meet the attackers, but the bandits pressed hard, smelling fear.
Zhen stepped forward, breath steady. He exhaled as he blocked a downward slash, the ember flowing into his arms. The staff met steel with a ringing crack. He shifted, inhaled, exhaled again, and drove his staff into the bandit's ribs. The man crumpled with a groan.
Gasps rose — not from his allies, but from the bandits themselves. They had expected green novices, not a youth who moved with such control.
Battle scattered into chaos. Zhen fought as he had trained — no wasted motion, each strike born from a breath. He parried, sidestepped, swept legs. A bandit lunged at his back, but he dropped low, exhaled, and thrust his staff into the man's gut. Another charge faltered at the sight.
Around him, the fight tilted. The novices rallied, emboldened by his steadiness. Even Qiu's strikes grew sharper, though his eyes flicked often toward Zhen, fury mingled with reluctant acknowledgment.
Within minutes, the bandits broke. They fled into the rocks, curses trailing behind them. The caravan stood intact, carts barely damaged.
The guards stared, breathing hard. One spat into the dirt and muttered, "Not bad, ember boy." Another clapped Zhen's shoulder roughly, almost grudging. The merchants bowed, murmuring thanks.
But it was the novices' eyes that burned most. Admiration. Envy. Fear. Every victory, Zhen realized, carved his name deeper — and painted a brighter mark on his back.
On the return road, whispers spread faster than the cart wheels turned. By the time they reached the hall, the precinct already buzzed. "He held the line." "He fought like a seasoned one." "He burned through them like fire."
That night, lying on his mat, Zhen listened to the murmurs drifting through the dormitory. Some spoke his name with awe, others with resentment. Nets tightened around him still — some to lift, some to snare.
He exhaled slowly, ember pulsing. If nets must close, he thought, I will decide which threads burn, and which I weave into my own path.
---