Zhao Zhiyu instinctively narrowed his eyes. Even this mild light felt bright after so much darkness, and he paused at the threshold, letting his senses adjust.
He could feel the vibrations inside the room... soft footsteps, shifting bodies, low voices, each movement sending faint ripples through the air that brushed against his skin and hair.
Inside, the room was wider than the corridors, its ceiling low but open enough to gather people. A few crude tables had been dragged together in the center, surrounded by uneven stools and stone blocks used as seats.
Bowls and cups were scattered across the surfaces, some chipped, some stained dark from long use. Steam rose lazily from a large pot in the corner, the only source of warmth and sound besides breathing.
Several youths were already inside.
Conversations slowed as the door fully opened. A few heads turned. Some eyes lingered on Zhao Zhiyu longer than necessary, measuring, curious, wary. Others simply glanced once and went back to their bowls, conserving energy.
Zhao Zhiyu stepped in after Xi Sheng, his footsteps nearly silent out of habit now. The door slid shut behind them with a muted thud, sealing them inside the dim, enclosed space.
For a brief moment, he stood there, letting the room settle around him.
This was not a place of comfort or safety.
Zhao Zhiyu was exhausted. The long days of cultivation, pain, and constant alertness had left him with little patience for talking.
He exhaled quietly and sat down on an empty stone stool near the edge of the table, keeping his posture relaxed but his senses half-awake.
There were six of them in total.
Xi Sheng naturally stood at the center of the small group. He did not sit right away. Instead, he picked up a bowl and handed it to Zhao Zhiyu first.
The food inside was the same bland, grayish mixture they were all used to, but it was warm. Zhao Zhiyu accepted it with a small nod and did not speak.
Once everyone had settled, Xi Sheng cleared his throat.
"Ahem!"
"We all know this," Xi Sheng said calmly, his voice low but steady. "If we stay here forever, we will not last. This place is not meant to keep us alive. It is meant to use us."
The word escape followed soon after.
"We need a way out," Xi Sheng said. "Sooner rather than later."
The room grew quieter.
The others reacted almost immediately. One boy stiffened, another swallowed hard, and a girl clenched her hands around her bowl.
They nodded, some eagerly, some hesitantly. The idea clearly frightened them, but it also ignited something desperate in their eyes.
Zhao Zhiyu did not nod.
The word escape did not stir hope in him the way it did in the others. Instead, it left him empty.
Even if he managed to leave this place, where would he go? This was not his world. He had no home, no family, no past waiting for him outside these walls.
Still, he listened.
Xi Sheng reached into his clothes and carefully unfolded a piece of thin, dark material.
He laid it flat on the table. Under the torchlight, fine lines and markings became visible, scratched and inked with painstaking effort.
It was a map.
"This is as much as I could record in a month," Xi Sheng said. "Tunnels, guard paths, places with heavier patrols, and places where no one goes for days."
The others leaned closer, eyes wide.
Xi Sheng pointed at different sections, explaining quietly how he had timed footsteps, counted torch rotations, and memorized turns while pretending to be lost.
He spoke about blind corners, locked areas, and places he suspected led deeper underground rather than outside.
"There are too many variables," he admitted.
"Guard strength, formations we cannot see, and those masked people. One mistake and we die."
No one interrupted him.
Zhao Zhiyu ate slowly, his expression calm but distant. He understood the logic. He also understood the risk. Talking about escape alone was dangerous. If the wrong person overheard them, punishment—or worse—would follow.
'They are serious,' he thought. 'And desperate.'
He sighed quietly, lowering his bowl once he was done.
He might not care about escape in the same way they did, but he knew one thing clearly.
This place was far more dangerous than the world outside—wherever that world might be.
And listening, for now, cost him nothing.
Xi Sheng let the map rest on the table and looked around at each of them in turn, as if weighing their reactions.
"This is not the plan yet," he said. "This is only the foundation."
He straightened slightly and continued, his tone becoming more deliberate. "Escaping without strength is suicide. Even if we somehow leave this place, we will be hunted, starve, or die to the first thing stronger than us. So before anything else, we need to survive here and grow stronger."
No one disagreed.
They all knew it was true. The training, the experiments, the techniques—they were brutal, but they were also the only reason any of them were still alive.
Xi Sheng tapped the table lightly. "That is why this group exists. We are being forced into this organization whether we like it or not. We cannot refuse. We cannot hide. And we cannot adapt alone."
He gestured to the five of them. "Information keeps people alive. Who is watching whom. What techniques are being taught. Who disappears. What changes in the patrols. Even small things matter!"
One of the boys frowned. "So this is… mutual help?"
"Yes," Xi Sheng replied. "And mutual caution. No blind trust. If someone notices something, they share it. If someone gets stronger, they do not hide it completely. We survive longer together than alone."
Zhao Zhiyu listened quietly, his gaze fixed on the map but his thoughts drifting.
'A survival network,' he thought. 'Not an alliance of loyalty, just practicality.'
It made sense.
There was no talk of heroics or rebellion, only preparation and patience. That alone made Xi Sheng more dangerous than most people here.
Xi Sheng finally looked at Zhao Zhiyu. "You do not have to speak much," he said evenly. "But if you learn something useful, we expect you to share it. In return, you will receive what we know."
Zhao Zhiyu nodded once. "That's fair."
It was a simple answer, but it was enough.
Zhao Zhiyu spoke after a brief pause, his voice calm and even.
"I won't be joining gatherings like this often," he said. "I don't like talking much. I'll give information when I have it, but I won't share everything, and I won't explain myself every time. Call it selfish if you want, but gathering people under the idea of rebellion is already dangerous. Don't expect too much from me."
The room went quiet.
Xi Sheng looked at him for a moment, then nodded. There was no anger on his face, only acceptance.
"That alone is enough, Brother Zhao," he said.
"Thank you for coming."
Another person stepped forward. It was Mei Ling. She stood straight, her expression composed but firm.
"I feel the same," she said.
"I'll help when I can, but I won't tie myself too tightly to this group."
Xi Sheng nodded again.
"Understood. Thank you."
The meeting ended soon after. No one lingered longer than necessary.
When Zhao Zhiyu returned to his room, he closed the metal door behind him and leaned against it for a second. He let out a long breath.
'Talking to people really drains me,' he thought.
He walked to his bed and sat down, his shoulders relaxing little by little. The room was silent again, familiar and safe in its own way.
Compared to that tense gathering, this empty space felt easier to breathe in.
After resting for a short while, Zhao Zhiyu stood up again. His body still ached, but he ignored it.
This time, he chose to focus on the Po Cultivation Technique.
He had thought about it carefully. Techniques were useful, but they all had limits.
Most of them needed to be activated consciously. If he failed to react in time, if someone struck faster than his thoughts, he would still die like anyone else!
A stronger body, on the other hand, did not need permission to work. Tough flesh and bones were always there.
He sighed.
Then he started again.
He followed the posture described in the book, tightened his muscles, and struck himself in controlled places.
His fists landed on his ribs, his thighs, his arms.
The pain was immediate and sharp, sending heat through his nerves. His breathing grew uneven, teeth clenched as he endured it.
'I fucking hate this,' he thought.
Each strike felt wrong, unnatural. His instincts screamed at him to stop, to protect himself, but the technique demanded the opposite.
Bruises formed quickly, skin turning red and purple. His arms trembled, but he forced them to keep moving.
Time passed slowly.
Minutes felt like hours.
Sweat soaked his clothes, and his vision blurred at the edges. Sometimes he missed the proper rhythm and had to stop, gasping, before correcting himself and continuing.
The pain was constant, dull in some places and sharp in others, piling up instead of fading.
When the panel finally appeared to confirm progress, he almost laughed. Almost.
He collapsed onto the floor afterward, chest rising and falling heavily. His body hurt everywhere, but beneath the pain, he could feel something different.
His muscles felt denser, tighter, as if they were slowly learning how to endure.
He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling.
'Defense first,' he thought. 'If I can't survive a hit, nothing else matters.'