Morning came like it always did in the outer dorms, not with sunrise, but with noise.
Someone's heel hit the floorboards. Someone else coughed wetly into straw. A pair of disciples argued in low voices about a missing bowl as if the bowl had personally betrayed them.
Yuan He opened his eyes before the second argument could become a fight.
His ribs still ached when he breathed deep. The bruise from Sun Ba's fist had reached that stage where it felt less like pain and more like a permanent opinion. He rolled his shoulder carefully, testing.
Not worse.
That was good enough.
He sat up on his bunk and kept his face blank, because even when no one was looking, it paid to practice.
Inside, his mind was already laying out the day.
If the cycle was real, it wasn't supposed to make him a hero. It was supposed to buy him margin. A little less fatigue. A little less shaking. A little more repeatability.
A little more time.
Time was safety.
He slid off the bunk, grabbed his bowl, and joined the flow toward the wash basin like a man who belonged there. He didn't. He could feel it in the way people's eyes slid over him, found the wrong kind of root, and filed him under background.
Background was perfect.
He rinsed, ate the dorm's idea of porridge, and told himself it was fuel. It tasted like boiled disappointment with a hint of grain.
He swallowed anyway.
"Breakfast," he muttered under his breath, low enough that even the closest disciple wouldn't hear, "is a hate crime."
Then he forced his mouth into stillness, because a joke was another kind of leak.
He left the dorm with the others, moving with the herd toward the contribution board near the Merit Hall. The board sat under a simple awning, planks nailed into a frame, with rows of wooden chits hanging from hooks. Each chit had a task burned into it and a number stamped in ink.
Points.
Not coins.
Not ration slips you could peel from his fingers.
Points that lived in the ledger.
He stopped a little short and watched first. Not the chits. The people.
Who reached for what, how fast, and what they did when there were witnesses.
The older outer disciples took the best-looking tasks with the least dirt. "Assist Senior Brother's courtyard." "Carry scrolls to the lecture pavilion." Work that came with proximity and polite smiles.
The younger ones and the desperate ones took the heavy labor.
Water hauling.
Compost turning.
Herb-yard scraping.
Stone carrying.
It was the lower layer of the sect's lungs, inhaling and exhaling work that nobody wanted to see.
Yuan He waited until the initial surge passed. Then he stepped forward and scanned for what he actually wanted.
Low status.
Repeatable.
Hard to sabotage without doing it in public.
He found three chits that met the criteria.
Haul water to the herb yards, fill three barrels, confirm by yard steward. One point.
Scrape drying racks, collect fallen leaves and debris, confirm by herb attendant. One point.
Carry firewood bundle to the kitchen yard, confirm by kitchen runner. One point.
Small payoffs.
Enough.
He reached for the water chit first.
A hand snatched at the hook beside his.
Yuan He didn't flinch. He just let his fingers settle on the wood, steady.
The other hand belonged to a wide-shouldered disciple with a scar across his chin. The disciple glanced at Yuan He's wrist, then at his face.
"Five elements," the disciple said, like he was naming a bug.
Yuan He kept his tone neutral. "Water hauling doesn't care about roots."
The disciple snorted. "It cares if you spill it."
"I won't," Yuan He said.
The disciple hesitated, as if considering whether it was worth making this into a scene. Then he took a different chit and walked away, already bored.
Yuan He exhaled slowly.
Not relief. Inventory.
No escalation. No attention. Task acquired.
He took the water chit and the rack-scraping chit. He didn't take the firewood one.
Not yet.
One variable at a time, he reminded himself, even in work. If he stacked too much, he wouldn't know what the cycle had actually bought him. He would only know he was tired.
He tucked the chits into his sleeve and headed toward the well.
The well sat at the edge of the outer grounds, stone-lined and deep, with a hand-crank and two buckets. A short queue had already formed. Nobody talked much. People saved their breath for work.
Yuan He waited his turn, took the bucket, and began the rhythm.
He didn't do anything dramatic. He didn't sit down and make seals in front of witnesses. He just adjusted his posture so his shoulders stopped rising with every pull, and he breathed like he was supposed to breathe.
Four in.
One hold.
Six out.
He didn't chase the bead in public. That was a private experiment.
Here, he used the cadence as a metronome. A constraint. A way to keep his body from turning stress into wasted motion.
The crank resisted, then gave. Water rose with a steady slosh.
A disciple behind him clicked his tongue impatiently.
Yuan He ignored him.
"Stability first," he whispered in his head. "Then power."
He filled the first bucket and carried it toward the herb yards.
The path was uneven, dirt packed hard by hundreds of feet. If you rushed, you spilled. If you spilled, someone laughed, or worse, someone reported you for "wasting sect resources" and made it a problem.
Yuan He didn't rush.
He walked with careful steps and a controlled breath, like he was carrying something fragile.
Because he was. Not the water.
At the herb yard gate, a thin attendant sat on a stool with a brush and a register board. He had ink-stained fingers and a bored face.
Yuan He set the bucket down gently and nodded. "Water haul. Three barrels."
The attendant didn't look up. "Chit."
Yuan He offered it.
The attendant stamped it once, a simple mark that meant "arrived." He pointed with his brush. "The barrels are there. Fill them all up and don't splash the drying herbs. The steward checks after the third hour."
Yuan He nodded and went to the barrels.
He worked.
Fill bucket.
Carry.
Pour.
Repeat.
He kept the breath cadence quietly, not a performance, just a private rail his mind could grip when his arms started to complain.
On the second trip, his shoulders began to tighten, the old habit of bracing against discomfort.
He noticed.
He loosened.
On the third cycle, a familiar thought tried to slide in—oily and persuasive.
This is pointless. One slip won't matter. You're going to tense up anyway.
He answered it the way he answered bad data on Earth.
"Shut up," he murmured, lips barely moving. "We're not doing feelings as evidence."
He finished the third barrel. The steward, a woman with sun-browned skin and a practical knife at her belt, came over and checked the water level with a glance.
She looked at Yuan He, then at his chit.
"You," she said. Not a question.
Yuan He kept his face calm. "Yes."
"You didn't spill," she said, as if surprised.
"I walked," Yuan He said.
The steward huffed, but there was no real malice in it. "Most of them run like they're racing for a prize."
Yuan He hesitated for half a heartbeat, then made himself speak like a normal person.
"It's water," he said. "It wins if you argue with it."
The steward paused, then let out a short laugh. "Fine. Hand it here."
She stamped the chit a second time, heavier. Completion.
Yuan He's chest loosened a fraction. Not joy. Proof.
Two stamps.
One witness.
A task finished in a way that couldn't be denied without a lie.
He nodded. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," she said, already turning away. "Thank the barrels for staying upright."
Yuan He walked out of the herb yard and let himself breathe normally for a few steps.
His arms were tired.
But they weren't shaking.
That was new.
Not miraculous. Just measurable.
He went back to the contribution board area, not to take another task yet, but to observe his own state.
He found a spot near the shadow of a wall and did a quick internal check.
Breath: steady.
Nausea: none.
Heat near bead: none.
Head: clear.
Fatigue: present, but clean, like muscles used, not nerves frayed.
He could do another.
So he did.
He took the drying rack chit and returned to the herb yard, this time to the long rows of racks where bundles hung like sleeping bats. The attendant with the ink brush waved him toward a rake and a basket.
"Scrape under," the attendant said. "Leaves, debris. Basket to the compost pit. Don't knock the bundles."
Yuan He took the rake.
It was tedious work.
Which meant it was perfect.
He scraped slowly, keeping the tool steady. No sudden motions. No swinging that would draw attention. He used the breath cadence to keep his movement consistent.
He remembered the fire pulse from last night, the tiny warmth he'd allowed near the bead for exactly one count. He did not summon it now.
Work was not the place to experiment.
Work was the place to cash out the experiment.
He scraped. He collected. He carried the basket.
On the second basket, the ink attendant glanced up at him for the first time.
"You're not panting," the attendant said.
Yuan He shrugged. "I'm not running."
"That's not what I meant," the attendant said, narrowing his eyes. "Most new ones are red-faced by now."
Yuan He kept his expression mild. "Maybe they're excited."
The attendant stared at him like he was deciding whether that was stupidity or humor. Then he snorted and went back to his register.
Yuan He scraped another row and kept his mouth shut.
He finished the rack area, returned the rake, and handed over the chit.
The attendant inspected the ground like he was looking for an excuse to deny the stamp. Then he stamped it.
Second task done.
Two points, if the system did what it claimed.
If.
Yuan He didn't trust "if."
He trusted paper.
He walked straight to the Merit Hall.
The Merit Hall in the outer grounds was less a hall and more a set of windows cut into a wall, each with a clerk behind it and a line in front of it. Wooden boards listed rules and penalties. A bell hung from a hook. Someone had carved the words "NO FIGHTING" into the beam above the door, probably because somebody had tried.
Yuan He joined the shortest line and waited.
When his turn came, he slid his two completed chits under the window.
The clerk, a thin man with a neat bun and the dead eyes of someone who had seen too many petty disputes, glanced at the stamps.
"Two points," the clerk said flatly.
Yuan He held his voice steady. "I want them posted now."
The clerk looked up. "Posted at sundown."
"I want the receipt mark now," Yuan He said. "So the posting is not 'lost.'"
The clerk's mouth twitched.
"Lost," the clerk repeated, like the word tasted bad.
Yuan He kept his tone careful. "I'm not accusing anyone. I'm asking for procedure."
The clerk stared at him for a moment longer, then reached for a second stamp.
He stamped the back of the chit with a smaller mark and wrote two characters beside it.
Received.
Yuan He watched every stroke.
The clerk slid the chits back. "That is your mark. Keep it. If your points are not posted, you return tomorrow with this."
Yuan He nodded. "Thank you."
The clerk's eyes flicked to Yuan He's wrist, to the subtle feel of the root test string that still haunted the dorm rumor mill, and then away.
"You five-element types," the clerk said, not unkindly, more like stating weather, "work harder for less."
Yuan He almost answered with something sharp. He didn't. Law-abiding. Unremarkable.
He chose the truth that didn't start a fight.
"I'm not trying to get rich," Yuan He said. "I'm trying not to drown."
The clerk paused, then gave him a look that might have been pity or amusement. "Then keep your receipt marks."
Yuan He stepped away from the window with the two chits tucked safely into his sleeve.
Two points was not enough to change his life.
But it was enough to test something else.
Could he do this again tomorrow?
Could he turn labor into a ledger trail so dense that stealing from him required visible manipulation?
Could he make the cost of bullying him rise, not by punching back, but by forcing the bullies to fight the rules?
He walked back toward the dorms and let himself feel, for a moment, a small, private spark of satisfaction.
Not fire near the dantian.
Just human.
He muttered under his breath, "Version 'boring' seems viable."
Then he wiped his expression clean as he entered the dorm yard.
Because eyes were always watching.
Even when they pretended not to.
And a paper trail, he was beginning to realize, didn't just protect you.
It also made everything traceable.