Yan Xuan woke before dawn with his muscles locked tight.
The stiffness was deeper than soreness—an internal resistance, as if his body had quietly decided it would not cooperate today. He lay still for several breaths, testing small movements. Each adjustment sent dull signals through his limbs, warnings layered over fatigue.
So this was the cost Mu had meant.
He rose anyway.
The eastern fields were empty when he arrived. Frost cracked under his feet. He worked slower than usual, not because he chose to, but because forcing speed caused mistakes. Stones slipped. The hoe struck at poor angles. Each error echoed sharply through his arms.
By the time the sun cleared the hills, his hands trembled.
Mu arrived without greeting.
"Today," Mu said, "you will not work the fields."
Yan Xuan paused. "Then where?"
Mu gestured toward the hills beyond the river. "There."
They walked in silence. The path climbed steadily, uneven and narrow, winding through scrub and exposed rock. Yan Xuan's breathing grew heavier than it should have. His steps shortened unconsciously.
Mu noticed.
"You're conserving," Mu said.
"Yes."
"Wrong choice."
Yan Xuan frowned slightly. "If I exhaust myself—"
"You already are," Mu interrupted. "Just quietly."
They continued upward.
Halfway to the ridge, Yan Xuan's legs began to fail in earnest. Not collapse—something subtler. His muscles delayed their response. Balance corrections came a heartbeat late. Each step required conscious intent.
This was different from the river.
The river punished instability instantly.
The climb punished it gradually.
Mu stopped near a flat outcropping.
"Sit," he said.
Yan Xuan lowered himself carefully, pulse steady despite the strain.
"Tell me what's happening," Mu said.
"My body is refusing," Yan Xuan replied after a moment.
"No," Mu said. "Your body is protecting itself."
Yan Xuan looked up.
"You've pushed endurance, balance, focus," Mu continued. "Now you're meeting a different boundary. One you can't negotiate with adjustment alone."
Yan Xuan considered his legs—the heaviness, the lag.
"What boundary?" he asked.
Mu pointed at Yan Xuan's chest. "That one."
Yan Xuan followed the gesture inward, attention narrowing.
There—beneath the ache, beneath the breath—was a sensation he had never noticed before. Not pain. Not fatigue.
Resistance.
Like pressing against something dense and unseen.
His brow furrowed.
Mu watched closely. "Most people ignore that feeling their entire lives," he said. "They drown it with emotion or brute force. You didn't."
Yan Xuan's breathing slowed.
"What is it?" he asked.
Mu did not answer immediately.
"Stand," Mu said instead.
Yan Xuan hesitated. His legs protested sharply as he rose. For a moment, his vision dimmed. He steadied himself, drawing attention inward again.
The resistance flared.
Not pain—refusal.
"Walk," Mu said.
Yan Xuan took one step.
His body lagged again, but this time he noticed something else—when his focus sharpened, the resistance shifted. It did not vanish, but it responded.
He took another step.
The sensation pressed back harder.
Cause.
Effect.
He adjusted—not his stance, not his balance, but his attention.
The resistance thinned.
Yan Xuan stopped, heart steady.
Mu's eyes narrowed.
"Do you feel it?" Mu asked quietly.
"Yes."
Mu exhaled, slow and controlled. "Good. Then remember this moment."
"What is it?" Yan Xuan asked again.
Mu finally answered.
"It's the line between effort and change," he said. "You can't cross it yet. But you've found it."
Yan Xuan absorbed the words.
"Most people reach it by accident," Mu continued. "You reached it by observation. That matters."
Yan Xuan looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. The resistance was still there, receding now that he was still.
"What happens if someone crosses it?" Yan Xuan asked.
Mu's gaze drifted toward the distant hills.
"Then the body stops being only a body," he said. "And the cost increases."
They stood in silence for a long moment.
"Go back," Mu said finally. "Rest. Don't return to the river today."
Yan Xuan nodded. "Tomorrow?"
Mu looked at him. "Tomorrow, we see if the line remembers you."
That night, Yan Xuan lay awake far longer than usual.
He did not replay pain.
He replayed resistance.
The way it responded—not to strength, but to focus. The way it felt less like an obstacle and more like a threshold.
For the first time since arriving at Blackstone Village, Yan Xuan felt something close to anticipation.
Not excitement.
Possibility.
He closed his eyes.
Somewhere within him, something had been touched—but not crossed.
And the world, patient and exact, waited to see what he would do next.