Morning passed without him.
The bell that summoned the new outer disciples rang clearly across the sect grounds, its sound carried by the breeze through courtyards and stone corridors. Liang Yue heard it faintly from within the room, muffled by paper walls and distance. He did not move.
Instead, he remained seated on the mat, back straight, legs folded, hands resting lightly on his knees. His long black hair had been tied loosely behind him, a few strands slipping free to brush against his neck. His face was pale, still carrying traces of exhaustion, but his eyes were clear—focused.
The gathering of new outer disciples was meant to introduce rules, schedules, and hierarchies. Liang Yue already knew how such gatherings went. In his previous life, he had attended them dutifully, listened carefully, memorized every word.
And still failed.
This time, he chose differently.
Shen Ji was gone. At some point before dawn, he had risen, dressed, and left without a word. His presence lingered only as a faint pressure in the room, like a blade that had been sheathed but not removed.
Liang Yue exhaled slowly.
Beneath his calm breathing, something warm stirred.
Yang essence.
It rested deep within his meridians, dense and unfamiliar, threaded through him like molten gold cooling into shape. It was not originally his—its nature was sharper, more aggressive, bearing the unmistakable imprint of Shen Ji's cultivation. Last night's dual cultivation had forced it into him faster than his body was used to, leaving it unsettled, powerful, and dangerous if left unrefined.
Liang Yue closed his eyes.
He guided his consciousness inward.
The moment he focused, the warmth responded, pulsing faintly, as if aware of his attention. His brows knit together. Shen Ji's yang was impatient even now, circulating too quickly, pressing against his still-fragile channels.
"So forceful…" Liang Yue murmured under his breath.
In his past life, he had lacked the insight to deal with such energy. It would have torn through him, caused internal damage, or forced him to rely even more heavily on his partner. This time, he slowed his breathing deliberately, drawing on memory rather than strength.
He did not try to suppress the yang essence.
He embraced it.
Using gentle intent, he guided it downward, letting it circulate through the smaller, less-used meridians first. The process was slow and painful. Heat bloomed in his abdomen, spreading outward in waves that made his shoulders tense and his jaw tighten.
Sweat gathered at his temples.
This was refinement, not indulgence.
Every breath drew the essence into harmony with his own yin-leaning constitution. The yang resisted at first, flaring sharply, but Liang Yue persisted, wrapping it carefully with his own energy, thinning its edge, smoothing its aggression.
Time slipped by unnoticed.
Outside, the sect grew louder as disciples gathered, spoke, and dispersed. Footsteps passed near the room more than once. Liang Yue did not react. His awareness remained turned inward, fully consumed by the delicate work of assimilation.
Gradually, the heat softened.
The sharp pressure dulled into something heavier, steadier. The yang essence began to respond to him—not as a foreign force, but as something that could be stored, drawn upon, and eventually wielded.
Liang Yue's breathing steadied.
A faint tremor ran through him as the last turbulent strand settled into his core. His cultivation base, previously sluggish and shallow, pulsed once—then again—before stabilizing at a slightly higher level.
It was not dramatic.
But it was real.
Liang Yue opened his eyes slowly.
Light filtered through the window, illuminating dust motes drifting in the air. His body still ached, and fatigue weighed on his limbs, but beneath it all was a new sensation: solidity. His foundation felt denser, more anchored than it had the day before.
He lowered his gaze to his hands.
They looked the same—slender, pale, delicate.
Yet something within them had changed.
Skipping the gathering would draw attention. Some would gossip. Others might look down on him for arrogance or laziness. Liang Yue did not care. None of them could sense what he had gained in this quiet room, in this single morning of careful refinement.
Shen Ji's yang essence had been poured into him without mercy.
Now, it belonged to him.
Liang Yue stood slowly, testing his balance. His legs held. His breathing remained even. Satisfied, he moved to wash his face, cool water grounding him further.
As he straightened, his reflection stared back from the basin—long black hair, feminine lashes, an androgynous face that invited underestimation.
He met his own gaze calmly.
"This is enough for today," he said softly.
The sect would continue moving. Rules would tighten. Cultivation would intensify. And tonight, Shen Ji would return, expecting more—expecting the same imbalance, the same vulnerability.
Liang Yue's lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile.
He would not be the same as he was last night.