I learned very early that my body was a liar.
Not in the sense that it betrayed me—but that it refused to tell the same story everyone else's body did.
The morning bell rang before dawn, echoing through the outer disciple quarters like a tired sigh. I rose with the others, washed my face in cold water, and reported to the logistics yard. My task for the day was simple: carry water barrels from the spring to the inner training grounds.
Simple, repetitive, and perfect.
While others groaned under the weight, I paid attention.
The barrel pressed against my back. My spine adjusted. My hips rotated slightly. My breath slowed, then deepened. With every step, the strain lessened instead of increasing.
A senior outer disciple noticed.
"How are you not tired?" he asked between gasps.
I tilted my head. "Am I supposed to be?"
He stared at me like I had insulted his ancestors.
By midday, my clothes were damp, but my muscles felt warm—not sore. That was wrong. Every manual said the same thing: the Tempered Body Realm strengthened flesh through pain, tearing muscles and rebuilding them stronger.
But my body didn't tear.
It adapted.
When I rested in the shade, I felt my blood move in slow, deliberate cycles, like a river finding the most efficient path downhill. Each heartbeat was steady. Each breath fed the next movement.
Flowing Blood.
I didn't know the term yet, but my body did.
That night, I returned to the clearing behind the storage hall.
This time, I brought a real sword.
It was dull, nicked, and barely better than scrap. The logistics division didn't give sharp blades to nobodies. I ran my thumb along the edge anyway and smiled.
"Let's see how much you can teach me."
I took a stance—not from any manual, but one my body suggested. My feet angled slightly inward. My knees relaxed. My shoulders dropped.
I swung.
The sword hummed.
Not loudly. Just enough to feel.
Again.
I adjusted my grip without thinking. My wrist loosened. The arc smoothed.
Again.
My breath changed.
Again.
By the tenth swing, sweat rolled down my spine, but my arms felt lighter than when I started.
I stopped and frowned.
That wasn't normal.
I closed my eyes and focused inward.
There it was—movement beneath the skin. Blood flowing not chaotically, but in patterns. Each pulse reinforced the next, carrying warmth and strength through my limbs.
Most cultivators hardened flesh first. Then bones. Then blood.
I had done the opposite.
If an elder saw this, they would panic.
If a manual described it, it would be labeled unstable or dangerous.
I laughed quietly.
"So that's it. You're teaching yourself."
The sword, naturally, did not answer.
The next few days followed the same rhythm.
Work by day. Practice by night.
I didn't cultivate Qi. I didn't dare. Without guidance, forcing Qi too early could twist meridians. Instead, I let my body continue refining itself.
Each night, my movements grew smoother. My balance sharpened. My reaction time shortened.
I began to notice things.
When other disciples sparred, I could predict their next move—not because I was clever, but because their bodies telegraphed intent. A shift in weight. A tightening of breath. A hesitation.
They weren't aware of it.
I was.
On the fifth night, as I practiced under the moonlight, a presence stirred.
Not a person.
Something quieter.
I swung the sword again.
This time, the air parted more cleanly than it should have.
I froze.
That was too sharp.
I tried again, slower.
The same result.
A faint pressure gathered at the edge of the blade—not Qi, not yet—but intent. Pure, untrained, instinctive intent.
My heart thudded.
Intent was supposed to awaken after Martial Foundation. After years of cultivation.
I was still in the Tempered Body Realm.
"This is going to get me killed," I muttered.
But even as the thought crossed my mind, my body adjusted, containing the pressure before it could spiral out of control.
Adaptation.
Always adaptation.
The next morning, Instructor Gao summoned me.
I knew before I arrived that this would end badly.
He stood in the training yard, arms crossed, eyes cold.
"Demonstrate the Iron River Slash," he ordered.
I hesitated.
The technique, as written, was flawed. I couldn't unsee it anymore. But correcting it in front of him would be…
Dangerous.
I chose the original version.
The slash was heavy. Wasteful. Slow.
Gao sneered. "Again."
I did it again.
"Again."
By the third time, my body rebelled.
Without permission, my stance shifted. My wrist relaxed. My breath aligned.
The sword sang.
Stone cracked.
Stone cracked.
Silence fell like a blade.
Instructor Gao's eyes widened—not with awe, but with fear.
And fear, in a sect elder, was never a good sign.
I stood there, sword lowered, heart pounding.
I had just crossed an invisible line.
And I suspected the heavens had noticed.