The afternoon had begun to soften, though the camp itself showed no sign of slowing.
Liang Wei ran the perimeter of the training ground until the ache in her body dulled into something she could manage. Dust clung to her boots. Her breath fell into a steady rhythm that hurt less than stopping would. The pain from the morning lingered low and insistent, but motion gave it shape, turned it into pressure she could carry without thinking too hard about it.
She ran because stillness made her too aware.
When she finally slowed, sweat cooling along her spine, she bent forward with her hands on her knees and fixed her gaze on the churned earth until the faint sway in her vision settled. The sword hung at her side, familiar in its weight, constant in its presence. It did not stir. It waited.
Li Běichén stood at the edge of the field and watched.
He did not speak right away. He rarely did. His eyes followed the way she favored one step over the other, the speed at which her breathing evened out. When he finally addressed her, his voice carried easily without rising.
"Come."
She straightened and approached, posture aligning out of habit rather than thought.
"We will go to the forest to practice Archery." He said.
Her gaze lifted before she could stop herself. It was the first task he had given her that did not strip anything away from her. She inclined her head. "Yes, Commander."
They left the noise of the camp behind, passing the supply road and moving into the trees where the light broke unevenly across bark and leaves. Targets had already been set against the trunks, simple rounds nailed at different distances. Some close. Some chosen to humble.
Li handed her a bow.
She tested the string, adjusted her grip, and took her place. Her stance was correct but not perfect. She drew and loosed. The arrow struck just wide.
She drew again, this time close enough to count, not close enough to impress. The arrow flew past Li and landed perfectly on the wrong tree.
She missed on purpose. A fraction off here, a shoulder dropping too early there. She compensated for a wind that barely existed. Let the bowstring sing a little unevenly.
Li watched without comment.
"Your footing is wrong," he said after the seventh shot.
She corrected it, carefully, still leaving room for error.
"You are compensating where you should align," he continued. "Do not fight the bow."
She nodded. "Understood."
He studied her for a moment longer, then asked, "Why did you choose to serve."
The question landed cleanly.
"Duty," she replied at once. "Patriotism. The need to be useful."
Li's mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. "Earlier, you said a soldier who serves no one cannot be used."
She met his gaze.
"That answer," he continued, "sounds wrong coming from someone who believes that."
Something shifted in the branches above them.
The movement was quick and light. Not a bird. Not prey. Liang Wei reacted before her mind could even process what it was.
Her feet adjusted. Her spine aligned. Breath stilled. The bow rose as if it had always belonged there. She did not release the arrow.
She did not need to.
The stance alone betrayed her.
Li saw it. He did not comment. Only inclined his head slightly, acknowledgment without exposure, then turned away as if nothing had happened.
"That will be all," he said. "When you return, recopy the training manuals assigned to you."
A sudden wave of irritation hit her like a physical sting. "Yes, Commander."
The task was dull by design. Ink and paper. Repetition meant to grind obedience into muscle. Liang Wei sat beneath a shaded awning and copied until her wrist ached. As the sun dipped lower, shadows crept across the page.
That was when something felt wrong. A diagram she had already copied twice refused to settle the third time.
The Standard Rooted Guard Form.
The stance was too rigid. The weight sunk too deeply. The breathing pattern counted instead of listened. Madam An's voice surfaced without warning, quiet and unyielding.
You root only long enough to choose where to move.
This version taught men to endure. Not to survive.
She turned the page to a half burned section clung to the margin of the manual, overlooked and misfiled. The characters were faint, but the title remained clear.
Sealing Clouds Technique.
Her fingers stilled.
"Dianxue."
Pressure points mapped not only on flesh, but on movement itself. It was not just about striking. A touch in the right place could break a rhythm, steal momentum, end a fight before it ever announced itself. Madam An had mentioned it once, long ago, in the same calm way she spoke of weather, as though violence were only another condition to prepare for.
Clouds gather when the air is wrong.
Liang Wei stared at the page, her heartbeat slowing, then picking up again. She knew this, not clearly, not in a way she trusted. The memory caught and slipped away, unfinished, like a word she almost remembered but could not quite say.
Why did this matter to her.
She did not know.
The uncertainty was enough.
She tore the page free, folded it once, then again, and slipped it into her sleeve. The manual closed without protest. The act felt wrong even as it felt necessary.
Outside, the camp shifted toward evening.
Li Běichén stood near the treeline, speaking quietly to a soldier. His gaze lifted once, briefly, toward where Liang Wei worked, then moved away again.
The wind passed through the leaves like a breath finally released.
Liang Wei dipped her brush back into the ink and continued copying, jaw set, pulse steady, carrying with her a stolen fragment of something she was not yet ready to remember.