Xuanye stood in the empty courtyard, a moonless night, faintly lit by lanterns in distant buildings. Every door that used to open was now closed—every safe step felt like a mistake.
He drew in the cold air and realized one thing: the world did not care about diligence that went in the wrong direction. It did not reward effort that followed a path the world did not desire.
With his notebook in hand, Xuanye walked into an old, rarely used corridor. Moss grew on the stone walls, long cracks stretched across them, yet no one repaired them. He smiled faintly. The cracks were harmless. Yet their presence lingered, even if ignored—much like himself.
He closed his eyes, inhaled, and began cultivating qi differently: slow, controlled, and deliberately inefficient. He let some qi leak, let his breathing falter, let his body weaken at points.
"If the world judges persistence," he murmured, "then imperfection is protection."
The night sky trembled faintly. Wind swept through the stone gaps, carrying the smell of burning wood and old dust. No correction. No supervisor. No ash-gray robes. The world remained silent.
For the first time, Xuanye felt free.
Free from the sect's judgment.
Free from the imposed path.
Free from a future determined by others.
But that freedom was cold. Silent. Like walking down a corridor with no end.
He wrote a new line in his notebook:
If the path given is not mine, then I will create my own—without the world's permission.
And with that, Xuanye stepped further into the night's darkness, toward something unnamed, something unrecognized.
He walked alone. And the world… let him.