The academy's southern training field stretched wide beneath the morning sun, bordered by flagstone paths and ornamental stone dragons that overlooked the students below.
Dozens of cultivators, from Grades 6 to 10, formed organized groups based on skill and affiliation.
Mel Long stood at the edge.
His robe was tied tighter today. Practical. Worn from the mountains but clean. Beside him stood Gu Jin, and just behind them, Chen Yi and the others—a growing circle who now watched Mel with the kind of attention reserved for someone who'd shown results.
Across the field, eyes turned.
Some curious. Some calculating.
And some—like those of Senior Instructor Zhen, who now strode into the field—cool and dismissive.
Instructor Zhen, a tall man with graying temples and a perpetually unreadable face, raised his voice.
"Today's session will focus on reactive cultivation techniques. You'll pair into groups based on current Grade. No exceptions."
Whispers stirred immediately.
"Did he say Grade-based groups?"
"Then Long's with the lower mid ranks…"
"Still only Grade 8? Guess he's been training, but he's got a ways to go."
Mel heard every word.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't react.
"Grades 6 to 8—east sector. Focus on breathing under pressure and Qi redirection drills," Instructor Zhen called out. "Grade 9 and 10—central circle. Combat refinement and joint formations."
Mel, Gu Jin, and a few dozen others walked east, settling into a wide open patch surrounded by training dummies and weighted platforms. The students murmured behind him.
"You think the rumors are real?"
"They say he broke through twice in a week."
"So what? Even now he's only Grade 8. Barely."
Mel stepped into a loose stance, ignoring the chatter. He already knew the truth:
Progress meant nothing when you started from behind.
A familiar voice cut through the hum.
"You walk like a master, Long. But you're still barely past the bottom rung."
Mel turned, meeting the gaze of Wu Sheng—a lean, smirking Grade 9 disciple from the Shu family. Well-respected. Technically skilled. And very, very smug.
Mel didn't smile. "You have something to say, or just noise to make?"
Wu Sheng stepped forward, eyes narrowed just enough to show he cared more than he wanted to.
"Just pointing out the obvious. You're climbing fast, but you're still two steps behind most of us. Don't expect everyone to pretend you're leading the pack."
Gu Jin stepped forward, but Mel held out a hand without looking.
"I don't need to lead," Mel said quietly. "I just need to make sure none of you are standing in my way when I get there."
Instructor Zhen clapped his hands once, silencing the muttering.
"Pairs of two. Cycle defensive Qi in unison. Focus on reflex and control. Swap partners every third cycle."
Mel was assigned a partner from another clan—an awkward boy named Tian who barely kept his energy flow steady. Mel didn't correct him directly. Just shifted his stance, adjusted his own output, and let Tian match him naturally.
By the second set, even Instructor Zhen had begun watching. Not praising. Not acknowledging.
But watching.
Later, when paired with Gu Jin, their movements were seamless.
No wasted breath. No forced energy. Just movement, timing, balance.
It was quiet dominance.
By the end of the session, Instructor Zhen gave only one comment:
"Mel Long. Your control has improved. Still behind where you should be, but… noted."
Mel gave a nod. "Thank you, Instructor."
As they dispersed, Wu Sheng passed close by.
"Catch up quickly, Long," he muttered. "Some of us won't wait forever."
Mel didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The courtyard was empty long before dawn.
The moon still clung to the sky, pale and low, its light casting silver along the stone tiles. The academy slept, its students lost in dreams or recovery.
But Mel Long was awake.
He stood alone at the edge of the sparring platform, his zither resting against the railing, untouched this time. The air was still, but his breath came in steady draws—deep, controlled, refined.
This was not the beginning of his day.
This was the continuation of every day before it.
Mel dropped into a low stance, one foot forward, arms loose at his sides. He inhaled once—deep into his dantian—then moved.
It was a slow, circular form.
Each motion flowed into the next, but there was tension beneath the grace. His strikes ended half an inch short, his palms slicing through the air with the weight of concentrated Qi.
"Anchor your body in stillness. Move with the world, not against it."
A lesson from a spirit monk he had once encountered in his past life—too late to save the sect, but early enough to save his soul.
Mel struck out, then exhaled slowly, shifting his stance.
His Grade 8 cultivation burned beneath the surface—stronger than it looked, but still far behind where he had once been.
He could feel the walls of Grade 9 in the distance. Not yet. But close.
He didn't rush.
Every move was refinement. Every breath, a correction.
He paused.
The night wind stirred the hem of his robe. In the silence, a memory rose.
Flames. Screams. The sound of rubble collapsing on jade tile. Blood on his hands—not from battle, but from pulling someone out too late.
He clenched his jaw. Adjusted his posture.
In his past life, he had tried to brute-force his way forward, driven by grief and desperation.
Now?
He cultivated with clarity.
He didn't have time to chase perfection. But he had enough to build stability—a foundation no one could shake.
Mel reached into his robe and retrieved three slips of spirit-forged bark, each etched with runes in silver thread.
Qi Compression Seals. They weren't valuable enough to interest most advanced students, but in the right hands, they could simulate the pressure of spiritual breakthroughs—useful for training reaction and endurance.
He affixed them to the ground around him and dropped into meditation.
As the seals activated, a pulsing wave of dense Qi pressed in from all sides. His breath slowed. Muscles tensed.
He didn't fight it.
He let it crush him. Let it test him.
The body must be tempered. The mind must be still.
The minutes passed.
Sweat formed on his brow.
His Qi began to stir. Not rising. Not surging. But deepening.
This wasn't a breakthrough.
It was preparation for one.
The first rays of morning stretched over the rooftops, casting the courtyard in gold.
Mel stood slowly, deactivating the seals. His breathing had returned to normal. His stance felt lighter.
He wasn't stronger than yesterday.
He was steadier. Sharper. More dangerous.
He picked up the zither on his way out, glancing once at the empty platform behind him.
Then he turned toward the academy's heart, where the world would meet him again.
And this time, he'd be ready.