Lin Xun stirred as the first light of morning crept into the room. He didn't feel any sudden surge of energy or unusual sensation, but the difference was still there—quiet, internal, and difficult to explain. His Qi moved more smoothly now, each breath aligned without needing correction. It felt like his body had fine-tuned itself while he slept.
He sat up slowly, taking a moment to center his mind. The memory wasn't vivid, but there was a lingering sense of motion in his chest, like his cultivation technique had continued after he had fallen asleep. The Anchored Flow Pattern had been running, and not just as a dream. His body remembered the sensation too well. It was subtle, but it was progress.
And this wasn't the first time.
Two nights in a row now, he had woken up more refined than the day before. It hadn't been dramatic either time. He hadn't pushed for a breakthrough, hadn't burned through a pile of spirit stones or forcefully compressed his meridians. And yet, something kept adjusting itself during rest—polishing his technique without his direct input.
It lined up perfectly with what happened in the old resonance wing.
His gaze drifted toward his folded school jacket, still hanging neatly on the chair by his desk. That pod… the one that wasn't supposed to be active, the one tucked behind warning signs and dust-streaked walls, had opened for him. The moment he stepped inside, something had changed.
He didn't see any screens or data overlays when it happened. There were no recorded logs, no system messages, and certainly no alerts sent to the school staff. But he remembered the faint glow in the chamber's interior. The sensation behind his sternum, like something brushing past his core and embedding itself deeper.
It hadn't hurt, and it didn't feel hostile. More like a resonance—something old that had found a match, however imperfect.
He hadn't told anyone about it. Not because he was trying to hide a secret, but because he didn't fully understand what had happened. And without any physical evidence, it would sound like nothing more than a dream. A decommissioned machine shouldn't have been active in the first place, let alone capable of syncing with a student.
Still, it was hard to ignore the results.
His breakthroughs weren't rapid, but they were stable. His spiritual flow no longer felt fragile or uneven. Techniques he had struggled to maintain during practice were now holding without effort. And most notably, his internal breath cycles picked up exactly where they left off the moment he sat down to begin again.
This wasn't a coincidence or a one-time shift. Something was refining his practice even while he slept.
Lin Xun stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders before starting his usual morning routine. He didn't plan to change anything just yet. The last thing he needed was to act out of sync with his classmates and draw attention. But the moment he had time, he would test it. Not by pushing his limits, but by observing how far the internal loop could carry him without interference.
[...]
By the time Lin Xun stepped onto the training field, the morning light had warmed the stone tiles underfoot. A light mist still lingered near the outer walls, but most of the class had already gathered, forming orderly rows as instructed. There was a quiet tension in the air—not urgent, but noticeable. The kind that settled in when the students realized something was expected of them today.
Teacher Rong stood at the front, his expression calm but never soft. His gaze moved across the formation as if weighing each student in turn, clipboard resting against one hand.
"Today we won't be reviewing your forms," he said. "We're looking at how well you control them."
He let the silence settle for a moment before continuing.
"The academy entrance exams begin in three months. If you plan to move beyond this school, that is the first wall you'll need to climb. Whether you're aiming for a cultivation-focused path or a general-track institution, the examiners won't care how long you've studied. Only how well you've internalized what you've learned."
A few heads lifted at that. The academy exams weren't mandatory, but everyone knew what they represented. A chance to move up. To enter one of the higher-tier universities. To avoid getting stuck at the local level, where advancement slowed to a crawl without access to better techniques, better resources, or connections.
"From today forward, you'll be paired based on your current ranking and recent assessment data. This is not a tournament, but consistency matters. Refinement matters. Sparring will reflect your current control under pressure."
He paused again, then called out the first pair.
"Zhou Ling. Chen Rui."
The class moved into rotations. No dramatic clashes or flared tempers—just steady palm exchanges, movement drills, and flow corrections under light pressure. Most students took the task seriously, quietly checking their form and adjusting where they could. Even those usually prone to flashier techniques held back.
Lin Xun waited near the back of the group, arms folded loosely. He wasn't nervous. Just observant. His breath was aligned without needing effort. His footing adjusted naturally as he stood. Even in stillness, there was a faint clarity running through him, like a technique holding shape on its own.
When his name was called, he stepped forward to face Feng Lian.
She didn't speak as they bowed. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes stayed fixed. She was the type to approach every match as a chance to refine herself, and she expected the same from whoever stood across from her.
Their exchange began without flair. The sequence was familiar: test the center line, control the flow, respond to pressure without overreacting. Lin Xun didn't push. He met her strikes evenly and let the rhythm settle.
It didn't feel forced.
His body adjusted each time she shifted her stance. When her angle changed, his frame compensated. When she pressed forward, he absorbed and redirected. He wasn't thinking about the corrections—they simply occurred, quiet and automatic, as if the patterns he had trained had settled deeper overnight.
She didn't falter, but she couldn't gain ground either.
By the time Teacher Rong called the set, neither had landed anything decisive, but Lin Xun had kept up with someone he'd never lasted more than thirty seconds against before.
"Better breath control this time," Teacher Rong said. "You've removed most of the excess movement from your anchors. Maintain it."
Lin Xun nodded and stepped back into the line. No one said anything. No one clapped or commented. But he knew what had changed.
Back in formation, Han Yiren, leaned slightly in his direction.
"You've refined something," he said quietly. "Guess you finally figured out how not to trip over yourself."
Lin Xun didn't turn, but he gave a brief reply. "Just reviewed the steps a bit more."
Han Yiren didn't press. "Doesn't look like just review. But fine. Keep your secrets."
He returned to standing posture with that same low, matter-of-fact tone he always carried. Calm, unbothered, but watching everything.