The first soul ring ceremony of the year was held under a clear sky.
That alone made people uneasy.
The Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon Sect preferred storms. Thunder felt honest. Predictable. A sky without clouds made elders restless, as if something important had been forgotten.
Yu Xiaogang stood at the edge of the viewing platform with the other children, hands folded in his sleeves, Luo San Pao pressed warm against his ankle.
Three boys stepped forward in turn, each escorted by senior disciples. Their beast spirits flared proudly as spirit beasts were subdued, rings drawn out with practiced efficiency.
White.
Yellow.
One purple, earned early and loudly celebrated.
Applause followed each success.
Xiaogang clapped when it was expected of him, quietly, precisely. His eyes never left the rings.
Power that announces itself, he thought. So loud.
Lin'er leaned close. "Young master," she whispered, "your turn will come next year."
He nodded. "I know."
He wasn't lying.
He simply wasn't sure what turn would mean by then.
Rank Ten came without ceremony.
No lightning. No surge. No sense of triumph.
Xiaogang felt it one morning while meditating, the soul power settling into place like a bead clicking into a groove.
He opened his eyes and waited for something else to happen.
Nothing did.
He exhaled slowly.
Luo San Pao snorted, unimpressed.
He tested himself immediately.
Manifest. Dismiss. Manifest again.
Clean.
Too clean.
He tried channeling soul power into his arm.
The same thing happened as before—power gathered, then slipped away, drawn inward, leaving only the bare minimum to work with.
He struck the wooden post.
Thud.
The sound was dull. Controlled. Not weak—but not strong enough to match the number now written beside his name in the records.
Instructor Qiao frowned when he saw the result.
"You've reached Rank Ten," Qiao said. "Your output should be higher."
Xiaogang nodded. "Yes."
"And yet it isn't."
"Yes."
Qiao stared at him. "Are you holding back?"
"No."
Qiao grunted. "Then your martial soul is worse than we thought."
Xiaogang didn't argue.
He went back to training.
By Rank Twelve, the problem became impossible to ignore.
Other children with lower innate soul power were overtaking him in visible strength. Their strikes cracked stone. Their movements carried weight.
Xiaogang's movements were correct.
They just didn't scale.
During paired drills, he learned to compensate.
He watched opponents' breathing. Their stance. The way their spirit flared a fraction of a second before they committed.
He stepped aside instead of meeting force with force. Redirected blows. Used timing.
He lost less than expected.
That bothered people more than if he'd lost outright.
"He shouldn't be able to do that," one boy muttered after Xiaogang slipped past him again.
Instructor Qiao snapped, "Focus on your own feet."
After class, Elder Mo watched him leave the yard.
"He fights like someone with nothing to lose," the elder murmured.
Another elder scoffed. "Or like someone who knows he cannot win."
Elder Mo did not reply.
Xiaogang began to chart discrepancies.
Rank vs. Output.
Rank vs. Recovery.
Rank vs. Soul Strain.
He wrote them down carefully, each entry dated, each comparison neat.
By Rank Fifteen, the truth stared back at him from the page.
His soul power density was rising.
His usable soul power was not.
He stared at the numbers until his eyes hurt.
This isn't gradual, he thought. It's a ceiling.
The realization made his stomach twist.
That night, he dreamed of walls.
Not stone ones. Not barriers you could touch.
Invisible ones.
He tested the ceiling cautiously.
He stopped trying to push power outward. Instead, he focused on sustaining it internally—holding it steady for longer periods, compressing it gently, the way he imagined one might pack earth before building.
The pressure in his chest deepened.
Not painful.
Heavy.
"You are learning restraint," Great Red murmured faintly.
Xiaogang did not respond.
He had learned that the presence did not explain unless it wanted to—and wanting was rare.
By Rank Eighteen, elders began whispering in earnest.
"He advances too fast for his spirit."
"Then why doesn't it show?"
"Perhaps his innate power was misread."
"No. The stone cracked."
That last detail unsettled them.
Elder Mo requested his notes.
Xiaogang handed them over without protest.
Mo read in silence, thin fingers tracing the margins.
"These observations," Mo said at last, "are not something a child should produce."
Xiaogang looked down. "I write what I see."
"And what do you conclude?"
Xiaogang hesitated.
He remembered his father's words.
When you are certain—when you can no longer deny it—we will speak again.
"I think Luo San Pao will not reach Rank Thirty," he said quietly.
The room stilled.
Elder Mo's eyes sharpened. "That is a serious claim."
"Yes."
"On what basis?"
Xiaogang pointed to the page. "The discrepancy widens every level. The spirit accepts command but resists growth. It behaves as if—" He stopped himself.
"As if what?" Mo pressed.
"As if it is already at its limit," Xiaogang finished.
Elder Mo closed the notebook.
"That is heresy," he said calmly.
Xiaogang bowed. "Then it is heresy with evidence."
Mo studied him for a long moment.
"You are dangerous," the elder said finally.
Xiaogang looked up, startled.
"Not because you are strong," Mo continued. "But because you are patient."
Mo handed the notebook back. "Continue recording. Do not draw conclusions publicly."
"Yes, Elder."
As Xiaogang left, Mo watched him go with an expression that was no longer dismissive.
Yu Yuanzhen summoned him that evening.
The sect master listened without interruption as Xiaogang explained—numbers, observations, the way his spirit refused to scale.
When Xiaogang finished, the hall was quiet.
"You are approaching Rank Twenty," Yu Yuanzhen said.
"Yes."
"And you believe the cap lies at—"
"Twenty-nine," Xiaogang said. "Possibly lower."
Yu Yuanzhen closed his eyes briefly.
"That would make you," he said, choosing his words, "a soul master who can never advance normally."
Xiaogang nodded. "Yes."
"Then why continue?"
Xiaogang answered without hesitation.
"Because understanding why matters more than what it costs me."
Yu Yuanzhen opened his eyes and looked at his son.
For the first time, something like pride flickered there—brief, dangerous, quickly hidden.
"Very well," he said. "Reach the limit. Confirm it. Then we will decide your future."
Xiaogang bowed deeply.
That night, alone in his room, Xiaogang stared at the ceiling.
Twenty-nine, he thought.
The number felt small.
Finite.
Luo San Pao rolled onto its side, warm and solid and alive.
Xiaogang reached out and rested his hand on the pig's back.
"If that's where you stop," he whispered, "then I'll stop there with you."
The pig snorted softly.
Deep inside, the scarlet presence remained quiet.
But if Xiaogang had been listening closely, he might have sensed amusement—not cruel, not kind.
Patient.
The kind that watched someone walk willingly toward a wall, knowing they would not turn away.
And in the ledgers of the Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon Sect, a strange contradiction continued to grow:
A boy whose rank rose exactly as expected—
And whose power refused to follow.