Chen Mu woke before the bell.
Not because he was diligent, or inspired, or chasing some sudden insight that might crack open the heavens. He woke because his body had learned the rhythm of the sect better than his mind ever had. The bell rang at the same hour every day. The cold crept through the same cracks in the wooden shutters. His breath fogged in the same way, each exhale a pale ghost dissolving into the air before it could finish forming a thought.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling beam above his bed.
The beam had a knot in it, shaped vaguely like a twisted mouth. He had once wondered if it was laughing at him. These days, it just looked like wood.
Chen Mu swung his legs down, feet touching the floorboards that were always a little too cold. He dressed without hurry. Grey inner robe. Blue outer robe. Sword belt, worn smooth by years of use. The sword itself rested where it always did, leaning against the wall, its scabbard unadorned. No inscriptions. No lineage marks. No dramatic name etched into the guard.
He washed his face in water that bit like winter regardless of the season and tied his hair with a plain cord. When he stepped outside, the courtyard was already stirring. Other disciples moved through the morning like parts of a mechanism—some brisk, some sluggish, all predictable.
The Sword Sect prided itself on order.
Chen Mu had once admired that.
Now, he simply noted it.
They gathered for morning practice as they always did, ranks forming by seniority with an ease that came from repetition rather than respect. Outer disciples at the back. Inner disciples closer to the front. Direct disciples nearest the elders, their robes a shade richer, their posture subtly different, as if the air itself bent more readily around them.
Chen Mu took his place where he always did: not quite in the middle, not quite forgotten.
Mid-tier. The phrase was never spoken aloud, but it hung over certain disciples like a quiet verdict. Not a failure. Not a promise. Simply… sufficient.
The elder overseeing morning cultivation spoke in a measured voice, reciting principles Chen Mu had memorized years ago. Breath aligns with intent. Intent aligns with blade. Blade aligns with heaven.
Chen Mu breathed when he was told to breathe.
He aligned what was expected to be aligned.
His qi moved along familiar paths, smooth and obedient, like a well-worn trail through a forest that had long since lost any sense of mystery. There was no pain in it. No instability. No danger. That, he suspected, was part of the problem.
Sword cultivation felt like polishing the same patch of metal over and over, hoping it would suddenly become sharper on its own.
They practiced forms.
The first form flowed into the second. The second into the third. Each movement precise, restrained, perfected to the degree that no one could find fault with it. Chen Mu's sword traced arcs through the air that matched the manuals exactly. His footing was correct. His wrist angle was correct. His breathing synchronized with the rise and fall of steel.
If an elder had been watching him closely, they might have nodded.
"He is steady."
That was the word often used for him.
Steady meant reliable. It meant unremarkable. It meant that no one worried about you, and no one waited for you either.
As his sword cut through empty air, Chen Mu found himself counting without meaning to. Not strikes. Not breaths. Years.
Seven since he had entered the sect as a hopeful youth with sore hands and too much enthusiasm. Five since he had advanced out of the outer ranks. Three since his progress had slowed to something that could no longer be measured in breakthroughs, only in refinements.
Refinement was praised. It was safe. It was endless.
The form ended. They reset.
The elder corrected a younger disciple two places to Chen Mu's left, tapping the boy's elbow into a sharper angle. The boy flushed, nodded repeatedly, and adjusted with visible effort.
Chen Mu did not need correction.
That, too, had become routine.
When the practice finally concluded, the group bowed in unison. The elder dismissed them with a few words about diligence and patience. The disciples dispersed, some to breakfast, some to additional training, some to the quiet errands that filled the spaces between cultivation.
Chen Mu sheathed his sword and walked.
He ate with the others in the dining hall, sitting at a long wooden table scarred by decades of use. The food was filling and bland, designed to nourish rather than please. Across from him, two junior disciples whispered excitedly about a senior who had shown signs of an impending breakthrough. At the far end of the hall, laughter rose from a cluster of inner disciples, confident and unrestrained.
Chen Mu chewed, swallowed, listened without listening.
He remembered having that kind of excitement once. The belief that effort naturally led somewhere. That the path was long but visible, curving upward into something brighter if one only kept walking.
Now the path felt level.
Not blocked. Not broken. Just… flat.
After breakfast, he reported to the training grounds again, this time for solo cultivation. He chose a spot beneath a tree whose leaves barely stirred in the still air. He settled into a stance, sword resting across his knees, and closed his eyes.
He guided his qi as he had been taught, circulating it through his meridians, reinforcing what was already strong, smoothing what was already smooth. There was no resistance, no sense of pushing against a limit that might give way. The qi flowed like water in a canal, bounded by stone walls set long ago.
He could maintain this state for hours if needed. He often did.
It earned approving glances. Quiet praise. Occasional remarks about his "solid foundation."
Chen Mu opened his eyes and stared at the bark of the tree in front of him.
A thought surfaced, uninvited and unwelcome: If this was the foundation, where was the rest of the building?
He dismissed it, not because it was dangerous, but because it led nowhere. He had chased that question in circles for months now. Every answer he found looped back to the same point.
Train harder.
Be patient.
Wait.
Those were not wrong answers. They were simply insufficient.
By midday, the sun had climbed high enough to cast sharp shadows across the stone paths. Chen Mu returned his sword to his room and headed toward the administrative hall. A notice had been posted that morning, summoning several disciples for task assignments. His name had been among them, written neatly in black ink.
He was neither hopeful nor anxious about it.
Task assignments were another mechanism of the sect, a way to distribute labor without disturbing the hierarchy too much. Important missions went to promising disciples. Dangerous ones went to those who needed "tempering." Mundane tasks went to people like Chen Mu.
Inside the hall, the air smelled faintly of ink and old paper. An elder sat behind a low desk, scrolls stacked around him in careful disorder. He looked up as Chen Mu entered, expression neutral.
"Disciple Chen," the elder said. "You are punctual."
Chen Mu inclined his head. "As expected."
The elder did not smile. He never did.
The elder consulted a scroll. "Your cultivation has been stable. No recent infractions. No outstanding merits."
That was the entirety of Chen Mu's evaluation, delivered without judgment.
"Yes," Chen Mu said.
"There is a task that requires attention," the elder continued. "The sect library has accumulated… disarray."
Chen Mu waited.
"Several junior disciples were assigned to assist with cataloging," the elder said. "They proved unreliable. One complained of dust. Another claimed the work interfered with his cultivation rhythm."
Chen Mu kept his expression blank.
"The library requires someone patient," the elder said. "Someone thorough. Someone who does not require supervision."
Chen Mu understood.
"Therefore," the elder concluded, "you will be assigned to assist the archivist for the foreseeable future."
Assist was a generous term. Chen Mu had seen the archivist once or twice: a stooped figure who treated scrolls with more care than most elders treated disciples. The library itself was an afterthought in the sect's daily life, a place visited only when a manual was required, then promptly forgotten again.
Most of the truly valued techniques were passed down directly, orally, from master to disciple. Written records were considered secondary—useful, but lifeless.
Chen Mu bowed. "I will carry out the assignment."
The elder nodded, already turning back to his scrolls.
That was that.
When Chen Mu left the hall, he felt something unexpected settle in his chest.
Not excitement.
Not dread.
Something closer to… relief.
The sect library stood at the edge of the inner grounds, half-hidden behind a stand of old pines. Its stone walls bore the stains of weather and time, and its doors were rarely opened wide enough to let in much light. Chen Mu paused at the threshold, hand resting on the wooden handle.
From inside came the faint smell of dust and ink and something older, something that had not been disturbed in a long while.
He hesitated, then pushed the door open.
The hinges creaked in protest.
Chen Mu stepped inside, unaware that this was the first moment in years that his routine had shifted, however slightly. Unaware that he was smiling—not because he expected anything to change, but because, for once, he had been assigned something no one else wanted.
And that, he thought, might be enough to make the day different.