On the seventh day after the assessment, the bell rang at midday.
That was unusual.
Outer disciples gathered in the lower courtyard.
At the front stood Instructor Han.
Beside him rested a wooden crate.
Inside were small cloth pouches.
"Foundation allowance," he said evenly.
"Low-grade spirit rice."
A quiet shift passed through the group.
Even at six, Shen An understood what that meant.
Improvement.
Faster circulation.
Less fatigue.
Something extra.
"Distribution follows ranking."
The board was carried forward.
Names. Numbers. Clear.
Zhao Rui stood at the top.
He stepped forward first.
Instructor Han handed him a pouch.
It was slightly heavier than the others in the crate.
No one commented.
There was no need.
Rank carried weight.
One by one, disciples stepped forward.
The higher ranks received fuller pouches.
The middle ranks received moderate portions.
When Shen An's name was called, only a few pouches remained.
He stepped forward.
Instructor Han handed him one without expression.
It was light.
Not empty.
But light.
"Consumption is regulated," Instructor Han said to the group.
"Three grains per night."
A faint pause.
"Do not exceed."
Several older disciples nodded too quickly.
—
Back in the common quarters, the mood shifted.
Excitement mixed with calculation.
Some compared weight discreetly.
Some tied their pouch tightly and hid it beneath their bedding.
One boy glanced at Shen An's smaller pouch and looked away immediately.
Not mockery.
Just measurement.
Shen An untied the cloth.
Inside were pale grains, faintly translucent.
He picked one up.
It was cool.
Slightly warm beneath the surface.
Alive, but restrained.
He closed the pouch again.
Night would come soon enough.
—
When darkness settled, the common quarters quieted faster than usual.
Anticipation filled the air.
Shen An placed three grains in his palm.
Small.
Ordinary in appearance.
He swallowed them dry.
A subtle warmth spread through his chest.
Not violent.
Not overwhelming.
Gentle.
He guided the warmth downward carefully.
Breath steady.
The Qi responded more easily tonight.
The strand felt marginally thicker.
Still small.
Still precise.
Across the room, someone exhaled sharply.
Too sharply.
Another disciple's breathing quickened.
A faint tremor of unstable Qi brushed the air.
Ambition again.
Instructor Han's voice sounded from outside the door.
"Three grains."
Silence returned.
Shen An completed one full circulation.
Stopped.
The warmth settled completely.
Nothing scattered.
Nothing surged.
It rested.
—
In the days that followed, subtle differences appeared.
Zhao Rui's presence grew brighter.
His Qi circulation visibly faster.
His stance stronger.
Several older disciples began standing near him during training.
Not deliberately.
Naturally.
Higher ranks gravitated toward higher output.
Shen An remained where space allowed.
Small.
Unremarkable.
But each night, three grains.
One circulation.
No deviation.
No leakage.
No backlash.
On the fourth night, Instructor Han paused again behind him during training.
Just for a breath.
The instructor's gaze lingered on Shen An's spine.
On his breathing.
On the stillness of the Qi field around him.
There was no flicker.
No instability.
Only compression.
Instructor Han moved on without comment.
But that night, when he reviewed the ranking board alone—
His gaze rested briefly on one name near the bottom.
Shen An.
The mountain rewarded speed openly.
It rewarded stability quietly.
And quiet things, Shen An was learning, endured longer.
—
Winter thinned further.
Snow melted along the lower terraces of the mountain.
Outer disciples trained as before.
Stance. Breath. Circulation.
But differences were no longer subtle.
They were visible.
When Zhao Rui circulated Qi, the air around him faintly shimmered.
Not dramatically.
But enough that even younger disciples noticed.
Some older disciples completed two stable circulations now.
Instructor Han permitted it for the top ranks.
Their allowance of spirit rice had increased.
Progress accelerated.
The ranking board shifted weekly.
Names climbed. Names fell.
Shen An's position did not change.
Low-grade root. Stable circulation. Minimal output.
He remained near the bottom.
—
During guided practice, Instructor Han began timing them.
"One circulation."
"Now."
The courtyard fell silent.
Breathing synchronized.
Shen An guided the thin strand through familiar pathways.
Down. Across. Up.
Smooth.
Measured.
He completed it.
Opened his eyes.
Several others had already begun their second.
Zhao Rui was finishing his second when Shen An finished his first.
No one commented.
The gap was visible.
—
That night, Shen An sat alone longer than usual.
The three grains of spirit rice dissolved steadily.
The Qi responded as always.
Precise.
Contained.
Small.
He extended his awareness carefully.
The strand filled his lower dantian only partially.
After weeks of cultivation—
It was still only a thread.
Not a stream.
Not even a current.
A thread.
He inhaled.
Guided it once more.
Nothing changed.
He did not feel frustration.
But he felt limitation.
The mountain's air was dense with Qi.
He could sense it more clearly now.
It brushed against him constantly.
Others reached outward—
Pulled.
Drew it in.
He did not.
He allowed only what settled naturally.
Tonight, for the first time—
He hesitated.
What if he pulled?
Just slightly.
Just enough to close the distance.
The thought lingered.
Not loud.
But present.
Across the common quarters, a boy attempted his third circulation.
Breathing grew uneven.
A sharp, pain-filled gasp cut the air.
Qi scattered violently.
Several disciples flinched.
Instructor Han entered immediately.
The boy clutched his abdomen, trembling.
"Meridian strain," the instructor said calmly.
The boy would recover.
But he would fall behind.
Shen An watched quietly.
The scattered Qi in the air felt chaotic.
Unstable.
He lowered his gaze.
The thought faded.
He did not pull.
He allowed the strand to settle exactly as before.
Small.
Unimpressive.
Steady.
—
Days passed.
The gap widened further.
Zhao Rui had begun light body-tempering drills.
His strikes against wooden posts carried weight.
Shen An's palms still reddened after basic conditioning.
He was six.
His bones still growing.
His muscles thin.
Small among many.
But at night, when all movement ceased—
When the mountain exhaled into silence—
His strand of Qi remained exactly as it had been placed.
No tremor. No deviation. No fracture.
Not larger.
But deeper.
Like a seed pressing downward rather than upward.
Unseen.
The mountain did not favor speed.
It endured gravity.
And Shen An continued to breathe.
—
One month after the first assessment, the bell rang again before dawn.
The stone pillar stood in the courtyard as before.
Smooth. Unforgiving.
Outer disciples lined up.
This time, there was less whispering.
More expectation.
Rankings had shifted several times over the weeks.
Zhao Rui remained first.
Unchallenged.
Three others had advanced visibly.
Their Qi fields thicker. Movements sharper.
Even middle ranks had improved.
Shen An's name had not moved.
—
"Second assessment," Instructor Han said.
"Circulate once."
The first disciple stepped forward.
Light flared brighter than before.
Clear progress.
Recorded.
Another followed.
Stronger pulse.
Higher rise.
Murmurs were restrained but present.
Growth was visible.
Rewarded.
—
Zhao Rui approached the pillar.
He placed his palm against the stone.
This time, the silver column surged higher than before.
Brighter.
Denser.
It held for four breaths.
Instructor Han gave a slight nod.
"Significant improvement."
Ink moved.
—
When Shen An's name sounded across the courtyard, it did not carry weight.
He stepped forward.
Placed his palm on the stone.
He had cultivated exactly as before.
Three grains. One circulation. No forcing.
The Qi within him had grown.
But not outwardly.
Not explosively.
The pillar responded.
A dim glow formed.
As before.
It did not rise.
It did not flare.
It did not flicker.
It darkened inward.
Steady.
Contained.
Three breaths.
Four.
No visible increase.
The glow faded.
Silence lingered slightly longer this time.
Instructor Han's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
"Low-grade root," he said.
A pause.
"Stable."
Ink marked the slate.
Shen An stepped back.
The board was updated.
He had not moved.
—
Later, in the common quarters, conversation felt different.
"They're pulling ahead."
"Even Liu advanced two places."
"Another month and inner chamber access will increase."
Progress had become tangible.
Shen An sat on his mat.
Opened his pouch.
Three grains remained for the night.
He swallowed them.
Guided the warmth.
The strand responded.
Slightly thicker than before.
But only he could tell.
He closed his eyes.
The memory of the pillar's unchanged glow lingered.
Not as embarrassment.
Not as shame.
As fact.
He inhaled.
The mountain's Qi brushed his awareness.
Dense.
Waiting.
Others drew from it aggressively now.
He could feel currents shifting across the courtyard nightly.
He examined his own strand.
It did not resist growth.
It simply refused expansion without compression.
Like water refusing to spill until the vessel deepened.
He lowered his breath further.
Slower than usual.
The strand tightened.
Not widening—
Condensing.
A subtle pressure formed in his lower dantian.
Not painful.
But heavier.
For the first time—
He felt depth instead of size.
Outside, footsteps passed.
Inside, the thread grew darker.
Denser.
Still small.
But no longer light.
—
Instructor Han stood alone after nightfall.
He reviewed the slate of recorded outputs.
Most showed predictable increases.
One showed almost none.
He tapped the slate once.
"Unchanged," he murmured.
But his gaze did not show dismissal.
It showed calculation.
Because while the pillar measured brightness—
It did not measure density.
And density was harder to see.
—
In the common quarters, Shen An completed his circulation.
Stopped.
The strand rested.
Small.
Heavy.
Perfectly still.
Above him, others reached higher.
Faster.
Brighter.
He did not.
He pressed downward.
Unseen.
And the mountain did not reject him.
—
The summons came at dusk.
Not announced publicly.
Not spoken aloud in the courtyard.
A younger disciple approached Shen An after training.
"Instructor Han requests your presence."
Nothing more.
Shen An followed.
—
Instructor Han's quarters were modest.
Stone walls. Single lantern. Low table.
The instructor did not look up immediately.
"Close the door."
Shen An did.
Silence settled.
Instructor Han gestured to the mat across from him.
"Sit."
They faced each other.
No ceremony.
No tea.
Just observation.
"You have not improved," Instructor Han said.
It was not an accusation.
It was fact.
Shen An did not lower his gaze.
"Yes."
Instructor Han studied him.
"Yet you have not regressed."
"Yes."
Silence stretched longer this time.
The lantern flame shifted slightly.
"How do you circulate?" the instructor asked.
"Once per night."
"No additional attempts?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because the strand settles completely after one."
Instructor Han's eyes sharpened slightly.
"Describe."
Shen An closed his eyes briefly.
"It does not expand outward," he said slowly.
"It compresses inward."
The lantern crackled softly.
"It feels heavier than before," Shen An continued.
"Not larger."
"Where does it rest?"
"Lower dantian."
"Movement?"
"Minimal."
Instructor Han leaned back slightly.
"Demonstrate."
Shen An closed his eyes again.
He guided the thin strand through its familiar path.
Slow. Even. Precise.
Instructor Han extended a hand, stopping just short of contact.
He felt it.
Not bright.
Not forceful.
But dense.
The Qi did not waver. Did not scatter. Did not ripple outward.
It folded into itself.
Like a knot tightening.
Instructor Han withdrew his hand.
"Who taught you this?" he asked.
"No one."
Silence filled the room again.
"Do not attempt to increase output," Instructor Han said.
"I will not."
"Do not alter your method."
"I will not."
Finally, the instructor spoke again.
"The pillar measures brightness," he said.
"It does not measure foundation density."
"You are dismissed."
Shen An stood. Bowed once. Left.
—
Alone, Instructor Han remained seated.
He extinguished the lantern slowly.
Low-grade roots were common.
Stable roots were rare.
Compressed roots at age six—
Unusual.
Very unusual.
But not yet extraordinary.
—
Back in the common quarters, Shen An lay down as usual.
Nothing had changed outwardly.
He remained near the bottom of the ranking board.
He remained small among many.
But tonight, when he guided the strand inward—
It felt slightly heavier.
Not brighter.
Not larger.
He simply allowed it to settle.
And somewhere deep within the mountain—
Something resisted less.