The mountain did not change after Awakening Day.
Thunder still rolled at odd hours. The wind still smelled faintly of rain and metal. Disciples still rose before dawn and trained until their muscles trembled.
What changed was how they looked at him.
Yu Xiaogang noticed it the next morning.
He woke to the soft scrape of sandals outside his door and Lin'er's careful knock—three taps, spaced just so.
"Young master," she said, voice low. "It's time."
He sat up, hair a mess, Luo San Pao snoring against his calf like a small, warm stone. For a moment—just a moment—he forgot everything. Then the weight returned, settling behind his eyes.
"I'm awake," he said.
Lin'er entered with a basin of warm water. She kept her eyes lowered longer than usual, hands steady but a little too careful.
He washed in silence.
When she tied his sash, her fingers brushed his wrist and paused. "Does it hurt?" she asked quietly.
"What?"
"Your spirit," she said, as if the word itself might break. "Some children feel pain after awakening."
He considered the question. Thought of the pressure behind his sternum, the scarlet mark that felt like a sealed door, the pig that had not stopped oinking since yesterday.
"No," he said. "Not pain."
Lin'er nodded, relieved. Then she smiled—small and stubborn. "That's good."
Outside, the courtyard was already alive. Servants moved in practiced lines. Disciples gathered in groups, laughing too loudly or not at all. When Xiaogang stepped into the open, conversation dipped—just a fraction—then resumed.
Not silence.
Worse.
Politeness.
"Morning, young master."
"Good morning."
Bows that were a little deeper than before. Smiles that didn't reach the eyes. He could feel the question sitting between every exchange.
What do we do with him now?
The answer, apparently, was nothing.
His schedule remained unchanged. Basic cultivation at dawn. Theory lessons mid-morning. Physical conditioning in the afternoon.
No extra attention.
No punishment.
No indulgence.
A disappointment was easier to manage if you pretended it wasn't dangerous.
The training yard smelled of wet stone and old sweat. Children lined up under the watch of Instructor Qiao, a square-faced man whose patience was as thin as his voice was loud.
"Manifest," Qiao barked.
One by one, spirits appeared: flickers of scales, claws, a faint lightning aura that made the air crackle.
When it was Xiaogang's turn, a few heads turned despite themselves.
"Luo San Pao," he said.
The pig appeared with a soft pop and immediately trotted in a circle, tail wagging.
Someone snorted.
Instructor Qiao didn't. He only nodded once. "Dismiss."
Xiaogang dismissed the spirit cleanly.
Qiao's eyes narrowed. Not impressed. Not dismissive either.
They moved into stance training. Xiaogang followed the forms exactly—feet placed with care, back straight, breathing steady. His body remembered the motions from before Awakening Day. If anything, they felt easier now.
Too easy.
When Qiao called for soul power circulation, Xiaogang closed his eyes and did as he was taught.
Inhale. Draw in the ambient energy. Guide it through the channels.
The flow answered him instantly.
Clean. Smooth. Cooperative.
His heart thudded.
This is wrong.
He expected resistance. Everyone did, at the start. Beginners struggled. They overshot channels, lost focus, leaked power.
Xiaogang's energy behaved like it knew where to go.
Then it left.
Not dispersed.
Not lost.
Pulled inward.
Down.
The warmth that should have gathered in his limbs condensed somewhere deeper, somewhere he could not reach.
He opened his eyes.
Instructor Qiao was watching him closely now.
"Again," Qiao said.
Xiaogang tried again. Same result.
The power answered him—and vanished.
When the session ended, Qiao called him aside.
"You concentrate well," the instructor said. "Better than most at your age."
Xiaogang waited.
"But your output is poor," Qiao continued, frowning. "You do not push."
"I try," Xiaogang said truthfully.
Qiao studied him, then waved him off. "Try harder."
That was the end of it.
At lunch, Xiaogang ate with the other children. The food was the same as always—steamed grain, vegetables, a thin slice of meat. He noticed the taste again, how it grounded him. How his body accepted it readily.
A boy across from him leaned over. "Does your pig do anything?"
Xiaogang looked up. The boy's face was curious, not cruel.
"It eats," Xiaogang said.
A few kids laughed.
The boy grinned. "That's something."
Xiaogang smiled back, faintly. It was the first real smile he'd seen all day.
In the afternoon, he went to the library.
It was smaller than Spirit Hall's, according to the memories he hadn't lost yet—but it was still vast. Shelves carved into stone, scrolls and bound volumes stacked with reverent care.
He climbed a ladder and pulled down a thin book on early-stage cultivation.
Soul Power Accumulation: Common Errors and Corrections.
He read slowly.
By the time the lanterns were lit, he had read three books—and realized something that made his stomach sink.
The descriptions didn't match his experience.
Beginners complained of turbulence. Leakage. Fatigue.
He felt none of that.
Instead, he felt like he was pouring water into a sealed jar with no opening.
That night, he lay awake and listened to Luo San Pao breathe.
Great Red, he thought, careful.
The pressure stirred, distant and patient.
"You are observing," the presence murmured.
"Yes," Xiaogang thought back. And I don't like what I see.
A pause.
"Dislike is irrelevant."
Is my power being taken? he asked.
"Being prepared," came the reply.
Xiaogang clenched his fists under the blanket. Prepared for what?
Silence.
The next days followed the same rhythm.
Training. Lessons. Polite distance.
His father did not summon him.
The elders did not comment.
Only Lin'er seemed unchanged. She still scolded him gently for skipping vegetables, still brought him warm water when it rained, still pretended not to notice when he stared too long at nothing.
On the fifth day, Xiaogang began testing himself.
He woke before dawn and went to the empty yard. Manifested Luo San Pao. Dismissed it. Manifested again. Faster this time. Cleaner.
He timed his breathing. His stance. His focus.
The pig responded perfectly.
That was the problem.
A martial soul this weak should not be this obedient.
On the tenth day, he tried something reckless.
He gathered soul power and did not let it go.
He held it.
Forced it to stay.
Pain lanced through his chest like a sudden cold. His vision dimmed. He staggered, dropping to one knee.
Luo San Pao squealed and vanished.
Xiaogang coughed, gasping, palms pressed to the stone.
After a long moment, the pain eased.
He sat there until the sun rose, shaking.
There's a limit, he realized. And I just touched it.
Later that morning, Yu Yuanzhen summoned him.
The sect master stood by the window when Xiaogang entered, hands clasped behind his back.
"Sit," his father said.
Xiaogang obeyed.
Yu Yuanzhen did not turn around immediately. "Your instructor says you are diligent."
"Yes."
"And inefficient."
Xiaogang hesitated. "I don't think that's the right word."
Yu Yuanzhen turned then, eyes sharp. "Explain."
Xiaogang chose his words carefully. "My cultivation is… smooth. Too smooth. But the results don't show."
A pause.
"You think the problem is not effort," Yu Yuanzhen said slowly. "But structure."
"Yes."
Yu Yuanzhen studied him as if seeing him for the first time. "You speak like a scholar."
"I read," Xiaogang said. "And I pay attention."
Another pause.
"Continue," Yu Yuanzhen said.
Xiaogang felt a strange tightness in his chest—not fear, but something like resolve. "I don't think Luo San Pao can carry me very far."
The words landed heavily in the quiet room.
Yu Yuanzhen's jaw tightened. "You are six."
"Yes."
"And you already speak of limits."
Xiaogang met his father's gaze. "Someone has to."
Silence stretched.
Finally, Yu Yuanzhen looked away. "Do not make conclusions yet."
"I won't," Xiaogang said. "Without proof."
Yu Yuanzhen nodded once. "Good."
The dismissal was clear.
That night, Xiaogang lay awake again, staring at the ceiling.
I'm expected to fail quietly, he thought. And smile while doing it.
Luo San Pao shifted in its sleep, snorted, and pressed closer to his leg.
Xiaogang reached out and rested a hand on its warm, round side.
"I won't throw you away," he whispered. "Even if everyone else already has."
The pig oinked softly.
Deep inside, the scarlet mark stirred—not approving, not disapproving.
Just watching.
And Yu Xiaogang, six years old and already out of step with his world, began to understand something dangerous:
If the path did not exist for him—
He would have to make one.