Shen Yan woke before the sparrows dared to be loud.
The courtyard was still gray, the sky a thin wash of ash over the tiled roofs, and the bamboo outside his window held its breath as if afraid to rustle. He sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, listening to the quiet. In the escort clan's manor, quiet was never truly empty—there were always guards swapping shifts, maids sweeping, someone in the kitchens waking a fire—but dawn quiet had a particular flavor. It made even a busy house feel like it was still dreaming.
He washed, dressed, and sat cross-legged on the mat near the window.
Lotus posture. Spine straight. Hands resting lightly on his knees.
He closed his eyes and reached inward.
The lower meridian responded almost immediately—like a jar he could still find in the dark, even if the lid refused to stay on. A thread of warmth gathered below his navel, tight and heavy, the way a muscle felt when it was about to move.
Good.
That part was real. That part had changed.
He guided the flow, coaxing it to hold. The qi pooled, grew denser, gathered like water collecting in a cup.
For a breath, two breaths, three… it stayed.
Then it overflowed.
Not upward. Not into the middle channels. It simply spilled out of itself, breaking apart into a scatter of warmth that vanished into his flesh and skin as if embarrassed to be caught.
Shen Yan's brows knit. He tried again.
Gather. Hold. Shape.
Same result. A small jar, filling and dumping, filling and dumping, a stubborn cycle that made him want to laugh and curse at the same time.
When he opened his eyes, he did it out of habit—like a man checking whether the enemy had moved while he was thinking.
His gaze drifted downward without meaning to.
He sighed.
Of course.
His cock was hard, thick under his trousers, more rigid than it had any right to be at this early hour. And if he listened to his body properly, he could feel it: the warmth that wouldn't flow upward was congregating lower and lower, drawn toward the thickest, most responsive part of him like a drunkard stumbling toward a tavern sign.
"So that's where you're storing it," Shen Yan muttered, half amused.
As if offended by being addressed, it twitched.
Shen Yan leaned his head back against the wall. A slow smile crept onto his mouth, equal parts irritation and disbelief.
In his past life, if someone told him his cultivation problems could be summarized as "all your qi goes to your cock," he would have killed them for insulting him.
Now he was living it.
His mind, unhelpfully, supplied an image: Lu Ruyin's flushed face, her lips parted on a breath that turned to faint mist, the way her eyes had gone glassy when he held her close and made her forget the cold.
The memory hit him low in the belly. His cock twitched again, almost eager.
Shen Yan snorted softly. "Fine," he whispered to the quiet room. "Even you want to go back."
He was still sitting there when the door slid open with the familiarity of someone who belonged in his space.
Xu Qingluan stepped in carrying his training gear.
The weights he'd had made. Leather straps. A bundle of cloth for wiping sweat. A small towel and a clean flask.
She entered like she always did—efficient, brisk, pretending she was unbothered by anything. She set the gear down neatly—
Then her eyes flicked to his lap.
Qingluan froze.
Her cheeks colored instantly, a bright, betrayed red, and she snapped her gaze away so fast it was almost a neck injury.
"Young Master," she said, voice strained with offended dignity, "it's morning."
Shen Yan blinked at her, as if he hadn't noticed the sun was climbing. "Yes."
She gestured helplessly toward his trousers without looking directly at them. "Why is it… like that?"
Shen Yan looked down and shrugged like a man discussing weather. "Because it's morning."
Qingluan's ears went red too. "That's not an answer!"
"It is," Shen Yan said, calm. "Just not the one you want."
Qingluan spun on her heel and marched toward the door, muttering. "Shameless. Shameless at dawn. The gods haven't even finished waking and you're already—"
"Qingluan," Shen Yan called, amused.
She stopped at the threshold, still facing away. "What?"
"Why are you shy now?" he asked lightly. "You've seen it before."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Qingluan's voice came from outside, furious and flustered at once. "That doesn't mean I have to like seeing it in the morning!"
The sound of her footsteps retreated down the corridor, still complaining under her breath like a kettle that refused to stop boiling.
Shen Yan let out a quiet laugh and finally stood. He adjusted himself with the practiced calm of a man who wasn't going to let his body run his day—no matter how loudly it voted.
The training ground waited.
He strapped the weights on first. The familiar pull of extra mass grounded him. He dropped into push-ups, slow and controlled, letting his breath match the rhythm. His arms burned. His shoulders warmed. Sweat came quick.
Then he ran.
Around the courtyard, past the carved stones and the trimmed bushes, along the path the escorts used when they drilled in formation. The weights made each step heavier, but his legs felt different now—less like stubborn meat, more like something that could be guided by intent.
On the third lap, he felt it clearly: the qi that refused to climb was still willing to move downward.
A faint warmth flowed from the lower jar into his thighs, into his calves, threading through muscle like oil on a blade. His steps smoothed. His footfalls became quieter, more efficient.
Shen Yan's eyes sharpened.
So that was the answer for now.
If his middle and upper channels were shattered bridges, then he'd stop trying to cross them. He'd run along the ground instead.
He remembered a movement art from his first life—something used in serious fights, a footwork technique that required precise control, delicate internal pressure, clean release. It had made him a ghost on the battlefield once.
He tried it now, mid-run.
He focused the warmth into his feet, attempted to compress and release in a single breath—
The qi surged.
Too much. Too crude. Too eager.
Shen Yan shot forward as if kicked by an invisible mule. The world lurched. His balance broke.
He hit the ground hard, rolling in a messy tumble that scraped his palm and filled his mouth with the taste of dust and humiliation.
He lay there for one heartbeat, staring at the sky.
Then he sat up and spat. "So… not that one."
A laugh bubbled in his chest despite himself. He pushed to his feet, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and started running again like nothing happened.
On the next lap, he chose something else.
A technique so basic it was taught to children who weren't trusted with real blades yet. Straight-line burst, no fancy turns, no mid-step feints. Just compress, release, go.
He gathered the warmth into his soles carefully—smaller amount, less ambition—and released.
This time, it worked.
His body snapped into motion in a clean line. Not as fast as his past self, not even close, but fast enough that the air changed around him. The weights on his legs felt lighter for a breath, as if momentum carried them rather than muscle.
Shen Yan's grin flashed.
Then he tried to stop.
He failed.
Momentum didn't care about new cultivators. He overshot, feet tangling, and rolled again—less dramatic than before, but still messy enough that if anyone had been watching, they would have laughed until they choked.
He sat up, dusted his robe, and muttered, "At least I'm improving."
He practiced it a few more times until his lungs burned and his palms were dirty and he could, at least, stop without turning into a wheel.
By the time he reached the common training ground, the sun had finally decided to be gold.
Rui Shanjin was already there with a few escorts, swords in hand. They were warming up, stretching arms, rotating wrists, talking in the easy way men did when they trusted each other with their backs.
When they saw Shen Yan, they paused.
Shen Yan looked… rough.
Dust on his sleeve. A faint scrape on his palm. Hair slightly loose from his tie. Sweat shining at his throat.
One escort let out a low whistle. "Young Master, did you lose a fight to the ground?"
Shen Yan picked up a wooden practice sword from the rack and tested its balance. "The ground always wins," he said flatly. "Now stop talking and step into the ring."
Shanjin's mouth curled. "Oh? Angry this morning?"
"Annoyed," Shen Yan corrected.
Shanjin's eyes flicked down toward Shen Yan's waist and then away quickly, as if he'd just remembered Qingluan's complaint. "I wonder why."
The escorts snickered.
Shen Yan's expression didn't change. "If you want to live longer, stop wondering."
Shanjin rolled his shoulders and stepped into the sparring circle with exaggerated confidence. "Come on, Third Young Master. Let me win once so the sisters don't think I'm useless."
"You want the sisters to pity you?" Shen Yan asked.
Shanjin raised his sword. "Pity is a kind of attention."
Shen Yan stepped in.
The first exchange was a blur of wood striking wood. Shen Yan's blade tapped Shanjin's guard aside and kissed his shoulder. Then his wrist. Then his ribs.
Shanjin grunted, trying to adjust.
Shen Yan's footwork was different.
Not flamboyant. Not showy. Just… cleaner. His distance control was sharper, his entries timed like he'd learned the rhythm of Shanjin's breath. He moved around Shanjin's guard with small steps that didn't waste motion, and each time he struck, it felt like the hit had been waiting there all along.
The escorts watching murmured.
"Is it me," one whispered, "or is Young Master faster?"
"Not just faster," another muttered. "He's… smoother."
Shanjin tried to press with a flurry, hoping to overwhelm.
Shen Yan slid back, then burst forward in a straight line—child's technique, refined by stubborn practice—and Shanjin's eyes widened as the distance vanished.
Tap.
The practice sword struck Shanjin's forehead lightly, right between his brows.
Shanjin staggered back. "What the—!"
Tap. Tap.
Two more light hits, both on his face.
Shanjin's pride finally caught up. "Stop aiming at my face!"
Shen Yan's mouth curled. "Your face is the biggest target. Train it."
Shanjin's ears went red. "That's not training, that's bullying!"
Shen Yan stepped in again, blade pressing Shanjin's guard aside like it wasn't even there. He leaned close enough to speak softly. "Besides," he murmured, "a bruised face makes you look pitiful. Sisters love a man with tragedy."
Shanjin made a strangled sound and tried to retreat.
Too late.
Shen Yan's blade tapped his cheek. Not hard. Just enough to sting.
The match ended with Shanjin panting, sweaty, and furious, and Shen Yan barely breathing hard at all.
Shanjin lowered his sword and glared. "You're worse than usual," he accused.
One escort laughed. "He's better than usual. You're just slower than usual."
Shanjin snapped, "Shut up!"
Shen Yan stepped out of the circle and wiped his palm on his robe. "If you don't want face hits," he said calmly, "move your feet."
Shanjin opened his mouth to argue—
A heavy footstep sounded behind them.
Guo Dalu arrived, arms folded, expression flat with captain authority. He looked at Shanjin's flushed face and the faint red marks on his forehead and cheek.
He didn't ask what happened. He didn't need to.
Dalu's mouth twitched. "You got beaten again."
Shanjin threw his hands up. "Captain, he's cheating."
Shen Yan lifted his brows. "By… moving?"
Dalu snorted. "Then you should cheat too."
Shen Yan leaned his sword against the rack. "His basics are bad," he said casually, as if discussing weather again. "And his lower waist is weak."
The escorts erupted into jeers.
"OHHH!"
"Lower waist!"
"No wonder he can't satisfy anyone!"
Shanjin's face turned the color of a ripe crab. "You animals!"
Shen Yan continued shamelessly, "I'm just saying. If he goes to Plum Rain Pavilion at night like that, sisters will be disappointed."
The escorts howled.
Shanjin pointed his sword at Shen Yan like it was a real blade. "You—!"
Dalu raised a hand. Silence fell, grudging but immediate.
Dalu's gaze shifted to Shen Yan. "Enough," he said, then his tone turned businesslike. "Your father is looking for you. Main hall."
The words landed with a different weight than jokes and bruises.
Shen Yan's expression sobered slightly. "Now?"
"Now," Dalu confirmed. "He said to bring you when you're done training."
Shen Yan glanced at the sun. Morning was barely half born. If Shen Guangyao called a meeting this early, it wasn't for family warmth.
Shen Yan nodded. "I'll go."
Shanjin, still sulking, muttered, "Tell him I died honorably."
Shen Yan picked up his towel and tossed it at Shanjin's face. "Train. Your tragedy won't feed you."
---
The main hall of the Shen manor felt cooler than the courtyard, even with sunlight spilling through carved windows. Sandalwood and old ink hung in the air—authority smells, meant to keep sons mindful of whose roof sheltered them.
Shen Yan entered, smoothed his robe, and bowed.
At the head sat Shen Guangyao, the patriarch. He carried himself like a man who'd led caravans through roads where politeness could get you killed—stern face, clear eyes, hands calm as stone.
To his right sat the main wife, Xu Lanying—Shen Zhaoming's mother, Shen Yan's mother, and the mother of the Fifth Young Miss. Her expression was composed, warmth measured, gaze steady enough to silence a room without raising her voice.
On the other side sat the concubine, Qiao Yunmei—mother of Shen Yuanliang and the Fourth Young Miss. Her posture was elegant, her eyes soft in a way that invited sympathy, but Shen Yan had lived long enough to know softness could be sharpened when needed.
Near the side stood Shen Zhaoming, the first son. Calm, measured, his presence tidy as a folded blade—heir composure worn like armor.
One seat remained empty.
Shen Guangyao spoke before anyone could fill the silence with greetings. "We're waiting for Yuanliang."
Shen Yan nodded once and took his place. The hall's quiet wasn't empty—just disciplined.
Footsteps approached—unhurried, confident.
Shen Yuanliang arrived with an easy bow that was polite enough to be correct and casual enough to be irritating, as if lateness were an indulgence the house would tolerate because he belonged to Qiao Yunmei's wing.
"Father," Yuanliang said. "Apologies. Affairs delayed me."
Qiao Yunmei's lashes lowered for a heartbeat—either a reprimand or a shield, depending on who was watching. Xu Lanying didn't move at all. That stillness carried more weight than any scolding.
Shen Guangyao didn't raise his voice. He didn't even frown. "Sit."
Yuanliang sat. His eyes were bright, restless, the kind that kept darting as if he wanted the meeting to turn into an opportunity he could grab with both hands.
A servant poured tea. Shen Guangyao waited until the cups stopped clinking.
Then he spoke.
"In the coming days, the noble families around Xiapi will gather."
Yuanliang's eyes lit immediately. "Gather? For what—banquet?"
Shen Zhaoming didn't react outwardly, but his attention sharpened; Xu Lanying watched her eldest the way a commander watched a vanguard—quietly, with expectations. Qiao Yunmei's mouth curved faintly, pleased at her son's instinct to lean forward.
"A new inspector will arrive," Shen Guangyao continued.
The word shifted the air.
Inspector meant scrutiny. Inspector meant leverage. Inspector meant knives hidden in polite sleeves.
Yuanliang blurted, "Who?" Then caught himself under his father's gaze and tried to refine the tone. "I mean… which lord?"
Shen Zhaoming spoke calmly, the first son's voice measured. "Whoever it is, they'll be looking to establish authority. People will be tempted to impress. That's how mistakes are made."
"And restraint will matter more than gifts," Shen Guangyao added, eyes sweeping the room.
His gaze landed on Shen Yan. "You look uninterested."
Shen Yan met his father's eyes evenly. "What must come will come," he said. "Interest won't change the weather."
A faint trace of approval flickered across Shen Guangyao's face—gone so quickly it could be denied. "Hmph." He leaned back slightly. "Then tell me, Third. What question should you be asking?"
The hall went quiet again—test quiet.
Yuanliang's jaw tightened a fraction; he didn't like being outpaced in front of both mothers. Zhaoming remained still, watching without showing it.
Shen Yan didn't rush.
"Who is the inspector?" he asked.
Shen Guangyao's eyes warmed a fraction. "Good."
Then he answered, voice clear.
"Tao Qian."
Yuanliang repeated it instantly, tasting the name like profit. "Tao Qian? Then the gathering will be huge. Families will send gifts, escorts, poems—anything—"
"Anything," Zhaoming echoed quietly, not mocking, just warning. "And some will overreach."
Shen Guangyao's tone hardened. "Listen carefully. This is a chance and a risk. An inspector does not travel to enjoy your flattery. He travels to see who is useful—and who is a problem."
He looked at Zhaoming first. "Zhaoming. You are measured. Keep it that way. Don't become arrogant."
Zhaoming bowed. "Yes, Father."
Then Shen Guangyao's gaze cut to Yuanliang. "Yuanliang. If you sprint toward opportunity like a dog chasing meat, you'll bite a hook and drag this whole family with you."
Qiao Yunmei's fingers tightened slightly on her sleeve—protective instinct, or annoyance at being corrected in front of Xu Lanying. Xu Lanying's expression didn't change; her stillness read as agreement without needing words.
Yuanliang smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Father worries too much."
Shen Guangyao's eyes stayed cold. "I worry because I've seen stupid men die smiling."
Yuanliang swallowed. His excitement dulled into something more cautious.
Finally, Shen Guangyao looked at Shen Yan again. "And you. Do not poke at wolves just because you think you've read their teeth in a book."
Shen Yan's posture stayed relaxed. His eyes sharpened slightly. "I don't poke wolves," he said. "I watch where they're walking."
Shen Guangyao studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Good. Watch. But remember—watching does not mean you're invisible."
Shen Yan bowed. "Understood."