Mu changed the routine the next day.
He did not explain why.
Yan Xuan noticed the change immediately—not in location or task, but in expectation. Mu no longer corrected small errors. When Yan Xuan's stance drifted, Mu said nothing. When his attention wavered, Mu did not intervene.
Silence replaced instruction.
They returned to the river at dawn.
The water was calm, deceptively so. Yan Xuan stepped in as he had learned—testing pressure, mapping resistance, aligning breath before committing weight.
He held steady.
Mu watched from the bank.
Minutes passed.
The familiar resistance formed within Yan Xuan, layered and controlled. Beneath it, the faint warmth stirred, responsive but restrained. He did not pursue it. He did not retreat.
Balance.
Then Mu spoke.
"Hold it," Mu said.
Yan Xuan did not change anything.
"Longer."
The resistance thickened.
His legs trembled—not violently, but insistently. The warmth responded, brushing against his awareness, seeking direction.
Yan Xuan ignored it.
Pressure built behind his eyes.
"Don't suppress," Mu said calmly. "Endure without interference."
Yan Xuan obeyed.
This was different from before. Not observation. Not adjustment.
Endurance without correction.
The hardest kind.
His breath slowed. His muscles screamed quietly. The warmth pressed closer, not scattering this time, but waiting.
For the first time, Yan Xuan felt something new beneath everything else—
A limit that would not move.
Not a signal.
A boundary.
He understood instantly.
This was as far as alignment alone could take him.
If he went further, something would have to change, not just respond.
Yan Xuan stepped back onto the bank on his own.
Mu did not stop him.
They stood in silence.
"You felt it," Mu said.
"Yes."
"Good," Mu replied. "Then this part is over."
Yan Xuan looked up sharply.
Mu met his gaze without softness.
"You can't stay here anymore," Mu said. "Not with me."
Yan Xuan absorbed that without protest.
"You've reached the end of what preparation can give you," Mu continued. "From here, continuing means stepping onto a path that alters you. I won't guide that step."
"Why?" Yan Xuan asked.
Mu's expression darkened—not with anger, but memory.
"Because the moment the body changes," Mu said, "loss becomes real."
Yan Xuan waited.
Mu turned away. "Rest today. Tomorrow, you decide."
He walked back toward the village alone.
That night, Yan Xuan sat upright on his straw mat, attention turned inward for the first time without caution.
The resistance was solid now.
The warmth waited beneath it.
And beyond both—
Something unopened.
Yan Xuan understood.
This was the last night he would be merely a boy who endured.
Tomorrow, he would either remain ordinary…
Or cross into something that could never be undone.
And Mu, who had brought him this far, would not follow.