The thaw had turned the paths into soup.
Mud clung to boots in thick strips and made every walk feel heavier than it should have. Cloth stayed damp even when it was hung near heat. The cold wasn't sharp anymore—it was wet, and wet cold found its way into joints.
Li Shen arrived at the forge with yesterday still in his throat.
Not pain. Just roughness. The kind that made a cough easier than silence.
Silence was safer.
The board at the entrance had the same batch headers, the same oil warnings, the same clipped handwriting that never apologized for what it demanded.
And under it, the same narrow strip:
COVERAGE WINDOW — LATE
Line Three: escort hardware
His name wasn't special enough to be written twice. The assignment didn't need to remind him. His body did that on its own.
Meng was already near Line Three, hands busy, attention split between flow and failure points. He didn't look at Li Shen when he spoke.
"Late window makes everyone talk," Meng said. "Don't give them words."
Li Shen set his kit down. Jig. Tongs. Dip rack. Oil bucket checked against the scratch marks on the stone base.
He nodded once.
Words were expensive.
He paid with actions instead.
—
Wu Kai arrived with a tool roll under one arm and nervousness in his eyes that the forge heat immediately turned slick.
He bowed too deep again.
Li Shen didn't let the bow become a habit.
"Two rules," Li Shen said.
Wu Kai blinked, relief flooding his face like being given a rope in deep water.
Li Shen held up two fingers.
"One: hands off racks unless I say."
Wu Kai nodded quickly. "Yes."
"Two: if you touch anything, you say it out loud. Immediately."
Wu Kai hesitated, processing. "Even if it's small?"
"Especially if it's small," Li Shen said.
Small touches became big questions.
Questions became paper.
Paper became knives.
Wu Kai swallowed and nodded again, tighter this time. "Yes. I will."
Li Shen didn't praise him.
Praise made people forget rules.
He turned back to the line and started work.
Heat. Shape. Check. Dip. Lift. Cool.
Escort hardware didn't forgive drift.
It didn't care if your throat was rough, or your eyes were scraped, or your sleep was short. It cared if the clasp mouth was true. It cared if the link held tension without twisting. It cared if the oil had been swapped on time.
Iron Grip came in short pulses when the metal wanted to slip out of alignment. Clamp. Release. Clamp. Release.
He refused long holds. Long holds were greedy. Greedy holds made tremor come early.
Smoke-Sealing stayed out of his breath until the forge air pushed him close to a cough. Then one controlled hold—just long enough to smooth the edge of dryness—and a release before it became a tell.
Entry work, boring and repeatable.
That was the point.
Wu Kai hovered behind him like a shadow trying to learn the shape of discipline. He didn't talk. He didn't move unless Li Shen moved first.
Good.
Halfway through the window, Wu Kai shifted his weight and his sleeve brushed close to the cooling rack.
Not a touch.
A near-touch.
Wu Kai froze anyway and spoke, voice tight. "I almost hit it."
Li Shen didn't look up. "Step back."
Wu Kai stepped back.
The moment died without becoming a story.
Li Shen felt a thin satisfaction that wasn't pride.
It was control.
—
When the late window deepened, the forge changed.
It wasn't visible. It was in the men.
A fraction slower. A fraction less precise. Small hesitations that made the line's rhythm wobble.
Li Shen's throat roughened again. His eyes felt hot and dry at the edges. His hunger sharpened.
He kept his technique usage strict.
No extra holds. No extra clamps.
Work first. Body second. Pride never.
A runner passed once, glancing at Li Shen's station too long, then continuing as if he had just been checking the dip rack.
Li Shen didn't react.
Reaction was another form of speech.
When the bell finally marked the end of the late window, the relief in the room was quiet. Men didn't celebrate leaving. They just stopped paying.
Wu Kai bowed again, but this time he didn't look like he was begging for approval.
He looked like he'd learned fear usefully.
Li Shen cleaned his station, wiped his tools, and scratched a final mark on the stone base.
Then the new piece of the system arrived.
A clerk from the Seal Circle approached, holding a thin slip of paper and a small stamping block. His face was neutral in the way clerks learned to be when their job was to make friction feel like policy.
"Observation slip," the clerk said.
Li Shen took it without expression.
The slip was divided into neat sections, as if the page itself wanted to be objective.
Coverage mentorship: helper assigned.
Safety: incidents / near-misses.
Technique use: excessive / appropriate.
Compliance: cooperative / delayed / refused instruction.
Boxes designed to turn reality into interpretation.
A paper knife.
The clerk held out the stamp, waiting. "Standard," he said.
Wu Kai stood behind Li Shen, very still. His breathing sounded too loud in the forge heat.
Li Shen read the slip once.
Then he drew a line through the most dangerous words.
Not dramatic. Not angry. Just clean ink over poison.
He wrote in the margin in tight, factual strokes—short enough that no one could pretend it meant something else.
Helper assigned. Work paused to prevent rack contact. Instruction given; racks untouched afterward. Batch clean.
He left the "Technique use" boxes blank.
He left "Compliance" blank.
He wrote what happened and nothing that could be used to describe his intent.
The clerk's eyes narrowed a fraction. "You need to check—"
Li Shen looked at him, calm. "That is what happened."
The clerk hesitated. His job wasn't to argue reality. His job was to collect signatures.
He shifted tactics. "The form requires—"
"Then write what happened," Li Shen said. "Or take it back."
A refusal would be noted.
But signing someone else's story was worse than a note. It was a collar.
Wu Kai swallowed behind him. Li Shen didn't turn.
He didn't protect Wu Kai from guilt.
He protected himself from ambiguity.
The clerk's jaw tightened. He took the slip, pressed the stamp in one empty corner—marking it received, not judged—and handed it back.
"Sign," the clerk said.
Li Shen signed under his own sentence.
Not under theirs.
The clerk left without another word.
Wu Kai's voice came out small. "They wanted me to… write something?"
Li Shen didn't soften. "They wanted you to be a mouth."
Wu Kai's hands clenched at his sides. "I didn't—"
"I know," Li Shen said, and that was all he gave him. A fact. Not reassurance.
Reassurance made people careless.
Wu Kai nodded hard, then backed away like he was afraid of being seen standing too close to Li Shen.
Li Shen finished cleaning his station and left the forge.
—
Outside, the air was wet enough to feel heavier than cold.
He crossed the yard toward the dorms with his shoulders set and his breath held carefully in plain rhythm—nothing that looked like effort, nothing that looked like technique.
Near the dorm side, Bai Ren was hauling brace wood again, cheeks flushed from work, hair damp. He saw Li Shen and immediately put on his widest grin.
"Senior cultivator!" Bai Ren called out, loud, stupid, bright. "Teach me your secret technique: carrying planks without crying."
Two servants nearby snorted.
Bai Ren laughed too loud, because loud laughter meant simple thoughts.
Li Shen didn't stop. Bai Ren fell into step beside him, still smiling as if he had nothing in his head but porridge.
"They made you stay late again?" Bai Ren asked, tone casual.
Li Shen didn't answer in the open. Bai Ren waited until they passed the two servants and the sound of their steps changed.
Then Li Shen said, low, "They brought paper."
Bai Ren's grin didn't move, but his eyes sharpened. "Of course they did."
Li Shen continued walking. "Observation slip."
Bai Ren made a face like someone had offered him spoiled food. "Ah. A form where they ask you to describe yourself so they don't have to."
Li Shen's mouth didn't move. "I wrote one sentence."
Bai Ren nodded, satisfied. "One sentence is good. Two sentences is a confession."
Li Shen didn't respond. Bai Ren took that as agreement and kept his tone light.
"They're repeating it now," Bai Ren said. "The new story."
Li Shen asked the useful question. "Which."
Bai Ren shrugged, still smiling. " 'Clean record means assigned to assist.' "
Li Shen exhaled once.
Bai Ren added, softer, "They say it like a joke. But they watch to see who laughs."
Li Shen walked into the dorm and sat on his plank. The wood was damp from the air. Everything was damp now.
Bai Ren lingered in the doorway for a moment, pretending to adjust his brace boards, staying visible, staying harmless, making Li Shen look like a man with normal friends.
Then Bai Ren left, still smiling like a fool.
Li Shen waited until the dorm noise settled.
Then he stood, went to the back corner where the drafts were weaker, and sat with his knees drawn in.
He didn't open his ledger.
He didn't need to write tonight.
Tonight was a body problem, not a paper problem.
He set his hands on his thighs, closed his eyes, and breathed.
Plain breath first, until his heart stopped rushing.
Then a controlled hold—short, precise—Smoke-Sealing used not for power but for silence. The dryness pressed against his throat and he released before it became sand.
He switched to Iron Grip in his forearms only long enough to feel tendon alignment tighten, then released. Clamp. Release. No greed.
He let the cycle repeat.
The late window had stolen sleep.
The slip had tried to steal narrative.
He couldn't get the sleep back yet.
But the narrative was his.
In the dark, the wet cold dripped somewhere outside like the world counting time out loud.
Li Shen kept breathing anyway—boring, repeatable, alive.
And if they wanted a trace, he would give them one.
Only under his format.