Mu did not appear the next morning.
Yan Xuan noticed immediately.
Not because he expected Mu to be there—but because absence, like presence, altered conditions. Training with guidance created one set of constraints. Training without it created another.
He adjusted.
Work came first. The eastern fields again, soil damp from frost that hadn't fully lifted. Yan Xuan moved steadily, attention outward, body obeying familiar rhythms. The faint warmth stayed quiet while he worked, as Mu had warned it would when ignored.
By midday, his hands ached, but his movements remained precise.
That was when he made the decision.
Not impulsively.
Not emotionally.
Deliberately.
If alignment responded to measured attention, then repetition—controlled, minimal—should deepen familiarity without forcing change.
That was the hypothesis.
After work, instead of returning to the storehouse, Yan Xuan walked toward the ravine alone.
The stone channels were still cool to the touch. Moss darkened the rock where moisture gathered. The space felt unchanged.
Good.
He sat where Mu had told him to sit before.
He did not close his eyes immediately.
First, he steadied his breathing. Then he let his awareness settle—not inward, not outward, but balanced between the two.
Only then did he look inward.
The resistance stirred.
Beneath it, the warmth responded—slower than yesterday, but present.
Yan Xuan held his attention at the same shallow depth Mu had allowed.
No more.
No less.
For several breaths, nothing changed.
Then the warmth brushed against his awareness again, faint and tentative.
Yan Xuan did not pursue it.
He waited.
The warmth settled.
For a moment, everything aligned as it had before.
Then—something else happened.
The resistance tightened abruptly, sharper than before. Pressure spiked behind his eyes. His breath faltered.
Yan Xuan reacted instantly, releasing his focus.
Too late.
Pain flared, sudden and concentrated, as if something had snapped taut inside his chest. He gasped, hand flying to his sternum, vision blurring.
The warmth scattered violently.
Yan Xuan leaned forward, coughing once, twice, until the pressure eased. His heartbeat slowed gradually, uneven at first, then steady.
He stayed seated, breathing carefully.
So.
Repetition was not neutral.
Conditions had changed.
He had ignored one variable.
Permission.
"You didn't wait."
Yan Xuan looked up.
Mu stood at the edge of the ravine, expression unreadable.
"I repeated what you showed me," Yan Xuan said honestly.
Mu descended slowly. "Without supervision."
"Yes."
"And without understanding why yesterday worked," Mu added.
Yan Xuan nodded. "Yes."
Mu stopped in front of him.
"Describe what happened," Mu said.
Yan Xuan did so precisely—no embellishment, no omission.
Mu listened in silence.
When Yan Xuan finished, Mu exhaled slowly.
"You assumed alignment responds linearly," Mu said. "It doesn't."
Yan Xuan frowned. "Then what does it respond to?"
Mu met his gaze.
"Context," he said. "And intent."
Yan Xuan absorbed that.
"You weren't wrong to try," Mu continued. "You were wrong to assume the conditions were identical."
"What changed?" Yan Xuan asked.
Mu tapped his staff lightly against the stone.
"You," he said. "Yesterday, you were guided. Today, you were testing limits."
Yan Xuan understood immediately.
Testing implied pressure.
Pressure implied demand.
Demand distorted response.
Mu straightened. "This is your consequence. No injury. Just warning."
Yan Xuan inclined his head. "I accept it."
Mu studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.
"Good," he said. "Because next time, the warning won't be gentle."
They left the ravine together.
That night, Yan Xuan lay awake longer than usual.
Not from pain.
From recalculation.
The path ahead was not just about endurance or observation. It required restraint, timing, and—most dangerously—knowing when *not* to act.
He closed his eyes, deliberately keeping his attention outward.
The warmth stayed distant.
Satisfied.
Yan Xuan exhaled slowly.
Tomorrow, Mu would return to guidance.
And Yan Xuan would remember this lesson:
Repetition without understanding was not practice.
It was pressure.
And pressure, applied incorrectly, broke things that could not be repaired.