Morning bell rang before the sky fully lightened.
Yan Xuan rose with the others, movements smooth, unhurried. Around him, outer disciples groaned softly, some rubbing stiff shoulders, others already breathing hard as if they had run before waking.
He felt none of that.
His body held the night's cultivation quietly, Qi settled deep and stable. There was no urge to circulate further, no pressure demanding release.
He left it alone.
The outer training grounds were broad but worn smooth by years of repetition. Wooden posts stood in rows. Stone weights lay scattered near the edges. An outer disciple instructor waited near the center, arms crossed, eyes sharp but uninterested.
"Basic forms," the instructor said. "One hundred repetitions. Those who finish early, do not stop."
Groans rippled through the group.
Yan Xuan took his place.
The first form was simple—step, strike, withdraw. No Qi required. Pure movement.
Yan Xuan executed it once.
Then again.
Then again.
His body adjusted automatically, refining angle and timing without conscious thought. Each repetition reinforced joints and tendons exactly where strain occurred. Breath matched motion naturally.
Around him, differences became obvious.
Some disciples forced Qi into their strikes, chasing power. Their movements grew sloppy by the thirtieth repetition. Others relied on raw strength, muscles tightening until speed bled away.
Yan Xuan did neither.
By the fiftieth repetition, sweat beaded lightly on his brow.
By the hundredth, several disciples had collapsed to one knee.
Yan Xuan continued.
The instructor's gaze flicked toward him briefly, then away.
Unimpressive.
Later, stone weights were distributed.
Each disciple chose one according to confidence. Heavy stones drew prideful glances. Lighter ones earned quiet mockery.
Yan Xuan picked a medium weight.
He lifted.
The stone felt solid but manageable. His grip adjusted instantly, distributing load through wrist, forearm, shoulder, spine—no single point bearing excess strain.
He began walking.
Around him, others strained visibly. Qi flared and sputtered as bodies fought imbalance. One disciple dropped his stone with a curse, foot narrowly spared.
Yan Xuan completed the circuit without incident.
No cheers.
No acknowledgment.
Which meant something else instead.
That evening, resource tokens were distributed.
Low-grade spirit stones. Basic pills.
Yan Xuan received the standard allotment.
No bonus.
No reduction.
Perfectly average.
He returned to the dormitory and sat on his bed, turning the spirit stone over in his hand.
Its Qi was thin and impure.
Using it now would accelerate progress—but introduce flaws.
He set it aside.
Across the room, a disciple scoffed. "You're really not using it?"
Yan Xuan looked up. "Not yet."
The disciple laughed. "Suit yourself. Don't complain when others leave you behind."
Yan Xuan did not respond.
That night, voices outside the dormitory carried further than usual.
Two outer disciples argued in low tones near the path, frustration sharp in their words. A breakthrough attempt had failed. Someone blamed stolen resources. Someone else blamed bad Qi.
Yan Xuan listened briefly.
Then he lay back and closed his eyes.
He focused inward.
Not on power.
On structure.
His Body Tempering had reached a point where further progress would slow without refined Qi input. He knew this instinctively now. Pushing without preparation would only thicken resistance.
So he waited.
The world did not punish him for it.
Days passed.
Yan Xuan's reputation formed quietly.
Not talented.
Not ambitious.
Not troublesome.
Just… there.
But among the outer disciples, a pattern emerged.
Those who rushed advanced quickly—and then stalled. Injuries accumulated. Circulation errors appeared. Confidence cracked.
Yan Xuan advanced almost not at all.
Yet his form never degraded.
His breath never faltered.
His body never betrayed him.
One evening, as he finished his duties, he noticed something new.
When he moved, Qi followed.
Not drawn.
Not forced.
Simply… aligned.
Yan Xuan paused, eyes narrowing slightly.
So this was the cost of being average.
No one watched closely.
No one interfered.
And no one noticed as the foundation beneath his cultivation quietly surpassed theirs.
Cloudfall Sect believed they were measuring his limits.
In truth, they had given him something far more valuable:
Time.
And time, when compounded correctly, became power.