The outer disciple quarters sat at the base of Cloudfall Mountain.
They were not hidden, nor were they neglected—but everything about them spoke of function over comfort. Long wooden dormitories lined narrow stone paths. Training grounds were shared. Storage rooms were locked. The air carried Qi, but thinly, diluted by distance and design.
Yan Xuan noticed all of it.
This was intentional.
Outer disciples were not meant to grow quickly. They were meant to be filtered.
An attendant led them to a dormitory and spoke without ceremony.
"Eight per room. Daily duties assigned at dawn. Cultivation time is your own responsibility. Resources are distributed monthly based on performance."
Someone asked, "What kind of performance?"
The attendant glanced at him flatly. "Survival."
Then he left.
Yan Xuan chose a bed near the corner, farthest from the door. He unpacked efficiently, placed his belongings neatly, and sat down.
The others did not share his silence.
Introductions followed—names, origins, ambitions spoken too loudly. Several boasted about future inner disciple selection. One complained openly about the conditions.
Yan Xuan listened without reacting.
He learned three things quickly:
Most of them cultivated aggressively at night
Many compared progress obsessively
Almost none paid attention to how they cultivated
That night, Qi surged chaotically through the dormitory.
Yan Xuan did not cultivate.
He lay still, observing.
Qi in the outer quarters flowed poorly—uneven, unstable. Forcing circulation here would introduce flaws. He waited instead, letting his body adapt naturally to the ambient density.
By morning, several disciples looked exhausted.
Yan Xuan did not.
Duties were assigned as promised.
Hauling water. Clearing debris. Maintaining training grounds. Repetitive, time-consuming labor designed to eat into cultivation hours.
Complaints followed immediately.
Yan Xuan accepted his assignment without comment.
Work revealed patterns quickly.
Those who rushed cultivation grew irritable. Those who skipped duties were punished subtly—reduced resources, reassigned tasks, delayed evaluations.
The sect did not need whips.
Structure enforced itself.
Yan Xuan adjusted.
He completed duties efficiently, conserving strength, aligning movements so effort compounded rather than drained. His Body Tempering absorbed strain naturally, reinforcing stress points with every task.
By midday, he noticed eyes on him.
Not hostile.
Assessing.
The first conflict came quietly.
That evening, a disciple returned to the dormitory and found his bedding moved.
Voices rose. Accusations followed.
"You," the disciple snapped, pointing at Yan Xuan. "You were here."
Yan Xuan looked up calmly. "I did not touch your things."
"You're lying."
Yan Xuan stood.
The room fell silent.
He did not release Qi.
He did not threaten.
He stepped forward once.
The accuser hesitated.
Something about Yan Xuan's presence felt… dense.
Not oppressive.
Certain.
"I don't want trouble," the disciple muttered, stepping back.
Yan Xuan nodded and sat down again.
The matter ended.
No witnesses.
No report.
Yan Xuan had learned what he needed to know.
Here, strength was not announced.
It was felt.
That night, Yan Xuan finally cultivated.
He did not sit cross-legged like the others. He stood, body relaxed, breath aligned. Qi entered slowly, guided by the same principles that had shaped him since the river.
No surge.
No struggle.
His Body Tempering deepened imperceptibly, layers compressing, reinforcing.
If anyone had been watching closely, they might have noticed something unsettling:
Yan Xuan's Qi did not disperse when he stopped.
It settled.
Stable.
As if waiting.
Yan Xuan opened his eyes.
Cloudfall Sect had accepted him as an outer disciple.
They believed they were measuring his potential.
In truth, he was measuring them.
And so far—
They were predictable.