The Bai Martial Hall was no sanctuary.
It was a crucible.
Li Yuan Tian woke each morning before the sun. His body ached from the previous day's drills. Even simple movements—raising his arm, curling his fingers—sent dull fire up his nerves. But the pain was clean. It meant he was still moving forward.
Old Bai was merciless.
"Lower."
"Strike again."
"Faster."
"Get up."
"No, again."
"Hit the post until your hands bleed. Then hit it more."
The old instructor didn't explain things. He expected results. Those who couldn't endure left within days. Yuan Tian stayed.
---
The training was brutal.
The body tempering stages weren't just names—they were thresholds of pain.
Early Stage Body Tempering focused on flesh: endurance, blood circulation, strengthening muscles and skin through constant exertion.
Mid Stage Body Tempering, which Yuan Tian chased, required the tempering of bone and marrow. A deeper internal transformation. One that hurt more than any spar.
Old Bai prepared a regimen:
Iron sand striking.
Weighted running with 50 jin bags.
Breathing exercises before sunrise, while submerged waist-deep in ice water.
Daily tea boiled from bitter root and centipede bark. It tasted like poison—and felt worse going down.
Yuan Tian never complained. Not even once.
That alone earned Old Bai's silence and respect.
---
One night, after a grueling day of spear form repetition, Yuan Tian lay on the courtyard stone, chest heaving, staring at the stars. The bruises along his ribs throbbed with each breath. His hands were blistered raw.
He whispered to himself, "This is nothing. This is nothing."
Then it happened.
A tremor passed through his limbs—not external, but deep, marrow-deep. His blood felt hot, molten, as if stirred by unseen fire. His spine arched involuntarily. His breath slowed. His bones cracked with soft pops. Not breaking—reforming.
He gritted his teeth until blood ran down his lip.
When he sat up, sweat soaking his shirt, something had shifted.
Not just strength.
Stability.
Old Bai, who had been watching silently from the shadows, walked over.
"Stand."
Yuan Tian did.
Bai struck him in the chest—hard.
Yuan Tian slid back, feet skidding across stone, but he did not fall.
The old man grunted. "Mid Stage. Took you less than a season."
He handed the boy a canteen.
"Drink. Don't get cocky. You've just started."
---
Over the next few weeks, things changed.
His footwork improved. No longer stumbling, he moved like a shadow with weight.
His strikes cracked stone posts.
The other disciples—many older, some stronger—began to watch him with new eyes. Not friendly. Not yet.
One tried to trip him during drills. Yuan Tian didn't retaliate. He endured. He remembered his father's words.
> "Kindness is for when you have power. Until then, be sharp. Never waver."
Old Bai said nothing of the incident. But the next day, that disciple found himself paired with Yuan Tian in sparring. Yuan Tian didn't hold back. When the match ended, the other boy couldn't stand without help.
Old Bai just sipped tea and muttered, "Lesson learned."
---
On the fifth full moon since his arrival, Yuan Tian stood alone in the training yard long after the others slept.
He practiced silently—fist, blade, spear, and movement. Each strike sharper than the last.
Each breath deeper.
Each moment a step closer to something he could not yet name.
And in his robe, the token his father gave him pulsed—once.
Soft. Silent. A heartbeat beneath the stone.