Morning came for my legs like a personal insult.

  The sun wasn’t even up yet, but someone’s broom was already scraping the courtyard stones in that aggressively productive way that only lifelong morning people manage. I groaned and tried to sit up.

  My thighs immediately filed a complaint with the universe.

  “Oh good,” I whispered to no one. “Paralysis. Very on-brand.”

  My bunkmate rolled over and mumbled something that sounded like “shut up.” Fair enough.

  It took three attempts to swing my legs off the pallet without crying. Everything below my hips felt like it had been replaced by badly forged iron—stiff, unyielding, aggressively uncooperative. The stance had been a physical workout in the dream-realm mist, but apparently my real body had been doing all the same damage.

  Which raised some questions I absolutely didn’t have the brain cells to contemplate right now.

  Flow Cycle, the System suggested gently.

  “Already on it,” I muttered.

  I inhaled, guiding the sluggish warmth along the opened meridian. The movement was tiny—more like coaxing a shy cat out from under furniture—but the response was immediate. The ache in my legs softened at the edges, and circulation picked up. Not healing, exactly, but a smoothing-over that made standing slightly less like a death wish.

  I wobbled out of the dormitory just as the sky lightened from black to blue-gray.

  Chores waited.

  They always waited.

  My first task was hauling water from the well—a deceptively simple activity that required pretending I hadn’t been crushed by an angry ghost elder twelve hours ago. Normally I would brace my legs, hoist the buckets, and pray I didn’t spill on myself.

  Today?

  Iron Root Stance.

  Or rather, Iron Root Stance Lite?—the version where I didn’t immediately collapse.

  Feet apart. Knees bent. Tailbone tucked. My thighs screamed. I tried to pretend they were just saying good morning.

  I lifted the shoulder pole.

  The weight hit my legs instantly, pulling me downward. For a terrifying second I thought my knees would buckle. But then something inside me—something sore and stubborn—held. Not strength, just… alignment. Roots sliding into place.

  Oh.

  I took one step.

  My entire body trembled, but I didn’t fall. The buckets sloshed, water brushing the rims, but I recovered before disaster struck.

  Spirit Anchor whispered through my thoughts, quiet and steady.

  Alright, breathe. Flow Cycle. Keep things moving. Not too fast—don’t burst anything. Again.

  Step. Tremble. Breathe. Flow.

  People watched me. Or rather, they glanced at me, frowned at my weird stance, and then politely concluded I was an idiot and went back to their lives.

  Fine by me.

  Halfway to the kitchens, a voice drifted from behind.

  “You’re walking funny.”

  I froze.

  A girl carrying a basket of vegetables approached with careful steps. She was maybe a year older than me—dark hair tied in a little knot, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, eyes bright in the sleepy dawn light. I’d seen her before in passing. Quiet. Efficient. Never caused trouble.

  She peered at my bent knees and tilted head. “Are you… injured?”

  “Just practicing,” I said, which was technically true.

  She blinked. “Practicing what? Pain?”

  “…Yes.”

  A small smile tugged at her lips before she schooled it back into something polite. “I’m Mei.” She hesitated, then added, “You’re the new one, right? The one who got assigned laundry duty last week?”

  Ah. My legacy: being injured in a pit and then immediately given laundry.

  “That’s me,” I said. “Unfortunately.”

  Her gaze softened, taking in the dark circles under my eyes, my trembling stance, the buckets cutting into my shoulders.

  “You look like you haven’t eaten enough,” she said quietly. “If you help me carry the vegetables after this, I can… maybe get you an extra ladle of rice at breakfast.”

  A bribe.

  A beautiful, life-sustaining bribe.

  “I accept,” I said immediately.

  She laughed under her breath—a soft, surprised sound—then turned toward the kitchens. “Come on, before Senior Cook wakes up. He takes rice counts very seriously.”

  I followed her, trying not to look like I was dying one controlled step at a time.

  After breakfast—two ladles of rice, bless Mei forever—the rest of the chores dissolved into a blur of sweeping, carrying, scrubbing, and pretending my legs weren’t slowly dissolving into jelly.

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  I had to be careful. Iron Root twice in one night had pushed me right to the edge. But Jian hadn’t given me a choice: practice in secret wasn’t enough; the stance had to seep into daily life.

  So I rooted myself while sweeping floors, keeping my center low and weight centered. I bent my knees while hauling baskets. I lowered my hips when hanging laundry.

  Every motion burned. But the burning became familiar. A background hum.

  Like the meridian ache—constant, dull, but not frightening anymore.

  Flow Cycle ran in the background, as much a part of me now as breathing. It wasn’t perfect—sometimes the energy stuttered, sometimes the meridian tightened and forced me to slow down—but compared to the first day, it was like night and dawn.

  Not day. Dawn. Let’s stay humble.

  Around midday I passed two servants whispering by the laundry basin.

  “…tournament’s soon…”

  “…Elder Xun’s prodigy—five meridians…”

  “…no one else stands a chance.”

  Five meridians.

  Again.

  It hit harder today, probably because my legs were already in agony and my pride was fragile enough to snap in half.

  Five meridians versus my one wobbly root.

  I exhaled slowly. Spirit Anchor steadied the sharp twist of anxiety before it could spiral.

  Three days.

  Jian hadn’t lied: without this stance, without stretching the first channel, the second would be impossible. I needed these roots. Weak and trembling and ridiculous as they currently were—I needed them.

  Mei found me near the laundry lines, still stuck in an overly dramatic bent-knee posture.

  “You’re doing it again,” she said softly.

  “Doing what?”

  “Looking like you’re preparing for battle with the mop.”

  I straightened too fast and immediately regretted it. Mei raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on the grimace I tried to hide.

  “You really are practicing something,” she said, studying me. “But not the usual drills the outer disciples do.”

  “It’s… for the tournament.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re entering? But servants aren’t allowed unless—”

  I pointed to my chest vaguely. “I’m… borderline allowed.”

  Mei blinked, then seemed to decide she didn’t want to know the details. “Well… then I hope you win.”

  I opened my mouth to say something self-deprecating, but she cut in first.

  “I mean it,” she said. “Everyone deserves one moment where people have to look at them. Really look. Not past them.”

  That silence afterward wasn’t painful.

  Just warm.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She offered a tiny nod, almost embarrassed, and left with her laundry basket.

  I watched her go, feeling something unexpected settle in my chest—a small, solid thing, like the beginning of a stone at the base of a foundation.

  Roots.

  Maybe Jian was onto something.

  Night fell fast.

  The soreness in my legs had migrated from “burn” to “deep ache” to “if this continues I will saw my thighs off with a soup spoon.” But as the compound quieted and the sky darkened, the pull toward the ancient pine became stronger than exhaustion.

  My hands shook slightly as I retrieved the jade token from its hiding spot under my shirt.

  It pulsed once, faint and warm.

  “Round three,” I whispered. “Let’s hope my legs survive this divorce.”

  I glanced around. No watchers. No senior disciples. No nosy servants.

  I pressed the token to my palm.

  Mist swallowed me whole.

  Master Jian didn’t wait for greetings.

  The moment his shape solidified, he said:

  “Show me your stance.”

  I groaned out loud, but my body moved automatically into position. Feet out. Knees bent. Hips aligned. Back straight.

  Iron Root Stance.

  The pain flared instantly, as if the mist itself remembered where I hurt.

  Jian paced around me, hands clasped behind his back.

  “You practiced,” he said.

  “Was it the trembling or the screaming that gave it away?”

  “You do not tremble as much,” he corrected. “Your alignment is improved. And your first meridian—”

  He stopped in front of me, eyes reflecting faint green light from the mist.

  “It has softened. Good.”

  Softened. Wonderful. I was becoming an overcooked noodle internally.

  “Tonight,” he said, “you will deepen your root.”

  That sounded promising.

  Terrible, but promising.

  He raised a hand.

  Wind—real, sharp, cutting wind—formed out of the mist and slammed into me from the side. My stance skidded. My shoulder lurched. My knee buckled.

  Spirit Anchor snapped into place, holding my thoughts steady even as my body wavered.

  “Resist,” Jian said simply.

  Another blast hit—stronger, from the other side. My feet slid again, scraping through mist that felt like smooth stone.

  “Your stance must withstand external force,” Jian said. “A tree does not remain upright by will alone. Its roots dig deep. Its trunk aligns. Its weight settles. Again—sink.”

  I tried.

  The wind struck harder.

  My arms flew outward on instinct as my balance teetered toward tipping—but something inside me responded. That faint impression of roots, weak and thin though they were, clung a little deeper.

  My legs shook like deer in an earthquake.

  But I did not fall.

  Flow Cycle surged, straining at the edges of my meridian. Qitan Flesh scattered unevenly through my thighs. Spirit Anchor held my mind steady through the rising panic.

  Another gust hit.

  And another.

  And another.

  Each one tried to uproot me. Each one forced me to dig deeper—not physically, but in posture, in focus, in the internal “shape” of how I held myself.

  My breath grew ragged.

  My muscles twitched violently.

  Pain blurred into something colder, sharper, almost electric.

  And then—

  A faint flicker.

  Not inside the first meridian.

  Near it.

  Like a thin thread of warmth brushing against the far edge of my awareness, trying to find a path but losing itself before it could open.

  My heart lurched.

  Second meridian?

  No. Not open. Not even close. But the pathway—just the ghost of it—had appeared for an instant.

  Jian, of course, noticed immediately.

  His voice lowered. “Good. You are beginning to sense the next channel.”

  “I… felt something.” I swallowed hard. “It wasn’t clear. Just a… flicker.”

  “That is correct. A flicker is enough.” He stepped back. “Do not chase it. Let it approach as your roots strengthen.”

  Easier said than done.

  My legs screamed again.

  My vision swam.

  I couldn’t hold the stance any longer—

  “Stop,” Jian commanded.

  Everything went still.

  The mist wind faded.

  I collapsed forward onto my hands, gasping.

  “You improved,” Jian said, tone neutral but somehow approving. “The stance held under pressure. The meridian widened a fraction further. You sensed the second path. This is progress.”

  Progress felt like death, but okay.

  He continued, “Tomorrow, you will face real strain. Tonight’s work lays the foundation. Remember—the body changes slower than the Will. Be patient.”

  “I’m trying,” I rasped.

  “Try harder.”

  Of course.

  Mist drifted around us, settling like snowfall.

  Jian inclined his head.

  “Return to your world. Gather strength. And do not neglect the ally you found today.”

  I blinked. “You mean Mei?”

  “She is observant,” he said. “Kindness is a rare resource. Accept it wisely.”

  Before I could respond, the world folded inward—

  And the jade mist vanished.

  Cold night air filled my lungs.

  The pine tree’s branches rustled overhead, scattering needles that landed in my hair. I sat slumped against its trunk, legs completely numb.

  But something was different.

  Even exhausted, even shaking—the pain in my meridian held a new undertone: expansion, not damage. And beneath my navel, somewhere deep inside the dark of my torso, I could still faintly feel that flicker. The whisper of a second channel.

  Not open.

  Not ready.

  But real.

  I pushed myself upright, gripping the bark for balance. My knees nearly gave out again, but I steadied myself.

  One step.

  Two.

  Step. Breathe. Flow.

  Roots.

  The tournament loomed, impossibly close.

  The prodigy with five meridians walked around the clan shining like a miniature sun.

  But tonight—painful, humiliating, exhausting as it had been—I felt it:

  I wasn’t standing still.

  I wasn’t fading into the background.

  I was growing.

  Slowly.

  Stubbornly.

  Quietly pushing through the soil, one burning inch at a time.

  And someday soon, someone would notice.

  Not because I wanted glory.

  But because they’d trip over the roots I’d been planting all along.

  I limped back toward the dormitory, jade token warm against my chest, whispering like a heartbeat that wasn’t mine.

  Tomorrow: more pain.

  More stance.

  More growth.

  Three days left.

  Plenty of time to make history.

  Or at least avoid catastrophic public humiliation.

  For now, I’d take either.