Yan Xuan learned what Mu meant by work before the sun reached its peak.
He was handed a dull iron hoe and pointed toward the eastern fields, where frozen soil clung stubbornly to the ground. The man giving instructions did not look at him twice.
"Clear stones," the man said. "Stack them there. Don't break the tool."
Yan Xuan nodded and walked into the field.
The hoe was heavier than it looked. Its handle was worn smooth by hands larger than his own. The first swing jarred his arms painfully, sending a shock up to his shoulders. He adjusted his grip and tried again.
The soil resisted.
Good soil always did.
He worked in silence.
Each swing revealed something different—how the angle changed resistance, how striking too hard wasted effort, how small stones loosened soil around them if approached correctly. His movements slowed, then smoothed. Not because the work became easier, but because inefficiency became obvious.
Sweat gathered at his temples. His breath deepened.
Around him, others worked as well—older villagers, some youths, a few who glanced at him with faint curiosity before losing interest. He was smaller than most. Quieter than all.
By midday, his palms blistered.
He noticed them only when the hoe slipped.
He adjusted again.
"You didn't complain."
Yan Xuan looked up.
Mu stood at the edge of the field, hands behind his back as usual. He had not announced himself. Yan Xuan had not noticed his approach.
"There was nothing to complain about," Yan Xuan said.
Mu snorted. "Pain usually inspires words."
Yan Xuan considered that. "Words don't reduce it."
Mu studied him, eyes sharp, unreadable.
"Come," Mu said. "Eat."
The meal was simple. Thin porridge, coarse bread. Yan Xuan ate slowly, not from politeness, but because eating too fast after exertion made his stomach cramp. Mu watched him from across the table, saying nothing.
"Do you know why I made you work the fields?" Mu asked eventually.
Yan Xuan swallowed. "Because effort reveals limits."
"That's part of it," Mu said. "But not the reason."
He leaned back slightly.
"Most people who touch something beyond themselves start believing they are owed more," Mu continued. "Power. Food. Safety. They forget that nothing arrives without balance."
Yan Xuan listened.
"You stood in the river," Mu said. "That showed you could endure. Today, you worked. That shows whether endurance turns into entitlement."
Yan Xuan frowned slightly. "And?"
"And you kept swinging after your hands broke," Mu said. "That tells me you don't confuse suffering with importance."
Yan Xuan did not respond. He was not sure how.
Mu stood. "Rest for an hour. Then come back to the river."
Yan Xuan paused. "Again?"
Mu looked at him. "Did you think standing once meant understanding?"
Yan Xuan bowed his head. "No."
"Good."
The river was colder in the afternoon.
Fatigue made everything worse. Yan Xuan's muscles responded slower. His balance wavered more easily. He slipped once within the first few breaths and swallowed river water before he could stop himself.
Mu did not comment.
Yan Xuan pulled himself upright, coughing quietly, and resumed standing.
Pain was no longer sharp.
It was layered.
Old ache from work. New cold from water. Weight from exhaustion. Each interfered with the others, turning simple balance into something complex and unstable.
He failed again.
And again.
Each time, he corrected something different.
Not faster.
More precisely.
Mu spoke little, but when he did, each sentence cut cleanly.
"Don't compensate blindly."
"You're forcing balance instead of finding it."
"You're thinking about falling."
That last one stayed with Yan Xuan.
Thinking about falling increased the chance of falling.
He adjusted his focus—not on remaining upright, but on how the river pushed, where it resisted, where it yielded.
Minutes passed.
Then something shifted.
Not in the river.
In him.
The shaking did not stop, but it synchronized. Breath matched movement. Weight distributed naturally. The pain was still there—but it no longer interrupted thought.
Mu watched closely.
When Yan Xuan finally stepped out, Mu nodded once.
"That," Mu said, "is the beginning."
That night, Yan Xuan returned to the storehouse with sore muscles and blistered hands. He washed them carefully, not to soothe pain, but to prevent infection.
As he lay down on the straw mat, exhaustion pressed heavy behind his eyes.
He did not fall asleep immediately.
He replayed the day—not the pain, not the work, but the moments where correction followed failure. Each adjustment had a cost. Each improvement had required something to be given up.
Strength, he realized, was not gained.
It was paid for.
Outside, the river flowed on, unchanging.
Yan Xuan closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would work again.
And then, he would return to the river.
Not because he was told to.
But because the world had proven it would respond.
And he intended to learn how.