CHAPTER 18

  Wind swept across the vast stone courtyard, carrying with it the lingering chill of early morning.

  Within that open expanse stood only two figures facing one another: one upright at the center of the courtyard, green robes unmoving; the other kneeling on one knee at the edge of the formation, both palms pressed against the stone, his chest rising and falling heavily.

  Yang Feng needed a long moment just to breathe.

  Not from pain.

  But because everything around him had become four times heavier than his body remembered.

  The air itself seemed to thicken. Each inhalation required his chest to expand wider than usual. His heart pounded, not from fear but because it was forced to drive blood that had once flowed under a different weight, now sluggish and heavy.

  Even the smallest movement demanded deliberate control. If he relaxed for even a fraction of a breath, his body would sag beneath the pressure.

  He did not try to stand at once.

  He remained kneeling, regulating his breathing, allowing his body to gradually adjust to this new environment.

  Fourfold gravity.

  Not a weight placed upon his back.

  But the entire world suddenly made heavier.

  Su Xueni stood at the center of the courtyard, observing quietly.

  She had assumed he would instinctively step back, withdraw from the range of the formation that sealed his spiritual power, steady himself, and then return. Any outer disciple with a trace of caution would have done so.

  But he did not retreat.

  He remained where he was.

  There was something… unusual.

  As he lowered his head, struggling to maintain balance, a thin thread of warmth spread silently from deep within his dantian. Not spiritual power. His spiritual power had been completely sealed. The warmth flowed along his blood vessels, weaving through the smallest capillaries, entering each strand of muscle and sinew, reaching all the way into the marrow of his bones.

  Origin Qi.

  For the first time, Yang Feng did not merely sense its existence. He felt its tangible effect.

  It did not increase his strength.

  It did not trigger any surge.

  It simply… sustained.

  It sustained the respiration of every cell, allowing his body to adapt to the crushing pressure without collapsing.

  Was that cheating?

  He asked himself.

  And answered in silence.

  No.

  Origin Qi was not Spiritual Qi. It did not belong to the system suppressed by this formation. It existed independently.

  If it existed within him, then it was part of him.

  After a long while, his knee no longer trembled as it had at the beginning. His hands lifted from the ground. Slowly, inch by inch, he straightened his back and rose to his feet.

  Not graceful.

  Not decisive.

  But he stood.

  He rotated his wrists, elbows, and shoulders. Twisted his waist. Rolled his hips. Lifted one foot slightly, testing his balance. Every movement was slow, but controlled.

  A faint curve touched Su Xueni’s lips.

  “Warm up properly,” she said in an even tone. “I have no interest in watching a fool injure himself simply because he cannot even stand steady.”

  She inclined her chin toward the wooden sword resting on the stone.

  “When you’re done, pick it up.”

  “Slash straight.”

  “That is all.”

  Yang Feng did not answer. After ten minutes allowing his muscles to adjust to the fourfold gravity, he stepped toward the wooden sword. When he bent down, his back still trembled faintly. Under this weight, even the smallest motion demanded absolute focus.

  He gripped the sword with both hands.

  Lifted it.

  Raised it high.

  Brought it down.

  The first slash was not fast, but it was straight.

  The air before him parted with a dull heaviness.

  Su Xueni watched, her gaze steady.

  Then

  A voice descended from above. Not loud, yet clear enough that even the wind seemed to pause for an instant.

  “Again.”

  “Your posture is incorrect.”

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  Yang Feng stilled for a fraction of a breath.

  Su Xueni did not look surprised.

  Both of them lifted their gazes.

  On the stone steps leading toward the summit, a solitary figure descended slowly. Her hands were clasped behind her back. Her steps were unhurried. Her robes stirred lightly in the wind.

  Leng Wuqing.

  A year ago, during the outer sect examination, Yang Feng had dared to look at her directly, filled with fervor and naive confidence.

  Today was different.

  He did not raise his eyes.

  Not out of fear.

  But out of shame.

  Su Xueni and Yang Feng immediately cupped their fists in salute.

  “Disciple greets Master.”

  “Disciple greets Peak Master.”

  Leng Wuqing’s gaze swept over them once before coming to rest on Yang Feng.

  Her voice was low and cool, as it always was.

  “One thousand slashes.”

  “Straight. Continuous.”

  “If you complete them, you may proceed upward.”

  She paused for a single breath.

  “One misaligned rhythm.”

  “One incorrect posture.”

  “Begin again from the start.”

  Without waiting for his reply, Leng Wuqing stepped down a few more stone steps and stopped at a position high enough to oversee the entire courtyard. She neither departed nor approached, simply standing there like an invisible boundary between the lower and upper halves of the peak.

  Yang Feng held the wooden sword before him, both hands tight around the hilt. In that brief moment, when his body had partially adapted to the fourfold gravity yet his mind still carried a faint ripple of unrest, a quiet thought passed through him.

  Why had he come to the Heavenly Sword Sect?

  Because six years ago, his life had been pulled back from the brink by Leng Wuqing?

  Because he had admired that cold, distant silhouette and chased after it with something he could not quite name?

  Or simply because he needed a place vast enough to stand within, a name sufficient to move forward under, and the Heavenly Sword Sect had happened to offer him one?

  The thought did not last.

  “Do not lose focus.”

  Su Xueni’s voice cut in. Not loud, but sharp.

  “Start counting.”

  Yang Feng tightened his grip on the hilt. He did not respond. He drew in a deep breath, letting it sink into his lower abdomen, then slowly raised the sword overhead.

  Under the crushing weight pressing down upon his entire body, every movement felt as though it dragged the rest of him along with it. His shoulders and wrists were no longer light, and his feet pressed firmly into the stone to keep his axis from tilting.

  The sword descended.

  “One.”

  His voice was hoarse, but clear.

  He lifted the blade again, half a beat slower this time, making certain its path aligned with the line of his spine, refusing to let his wrist drift by habit.

  “Two.”

  By the third slash, the pressure gathered distinctly in his shoulder joints and elbows. Not sharp pain, but compression, as though his muscles were being flattened beneath invisible stone.

  “Three.”

  His breathing was no longer as steady as at the beginning.

  At the fourth strike, when the blade came down, its path deviated by the slightest margin, small enough that, in the outer sect, no one would likely have noticed.

  “Again.”

  Su Xueni’s voice remained calm and decisive, leaving no room for negotiation.

  She did not shout.

  She did not emphasize.

  She merely spoke as though restating a law that had always existed.

  “The gravity does not change.”

  “You must.”

  Yang Feng stood still for a single breath. He did not argue, nor did he attempt to explain the deviation. Under fourfold gravity, every flaw was magnified, and every lapse carried consequence.

  He lowered the sword.

  Adjusted the distance between his feet.

  Aligned his hips.

  Straightened his spine along the direction of the strike.

  When he felt the balance settle, he lifted the blade once more.

  “One.”

  On the wind-swept courtyard, beneath an unchanging sky, the sound of wood cutting through dense air continued at a steady rhythm, unhurried and unadorned. Each slash was not merely a movement of the wrist, but the result of an entire body seeking stability beneath unrelenting weight.

  Leng Wuqing said nothing further.

  Su Xueni did not step closer.

  The distance between them and him remained unchanged, a silent examination.

  After an indeterminate stretch of time, Leng Wuqing turned and left. She offered no further words, no affirmation, no denial, no indication of approval or disappointment.

  Su Xueni remained a moment longer. Then, after a silence just long enough to settle into the stone beneath their feet, she stepped beyond the boundary of the formation as well, leaving the vast courtyard to him alone.

  The gravity did not lessen.

  The air did not change.

  There was only one person, and one motion repeated.

  The sword rose.

  Fell.

  “One.”

  Three days and three nights passed without announcement. No drum marked the hours. No one came to remind him to rest. Light shifted across the stone from east to west and back again. His shadow stretched long in the morning, shrank beneath the noon sun, then lengthened once more under dusk. The mountain wind rose and fell as it pleased, yet the rhythm of his slashes remained constant.

  He did only one thing.

  Maintain the axis.

  Maintain the rhythm.

  Maintain the straight line.

  At times he passed a hundred consecutive strikes without flaw. His shoulders felt as though burdened by invisible stone, his wrists trembled faintly beneath sustained pressure, yet the blade held to the centerline of his body. A single descent straying half an inch, so slight that an outer disciple might never have noticed, was enough for him to stop on his own. He drew the sword back to its starting position, corrected his footing, aligned his spine, and began again from the first number.

  “One.”

  No one forced him to do so.

  He forced himself.

  There were moments when the count climbed to nine hundred ninety-seven. Only three strikes remained to complete a cycle. A gust from the cliff brushed past, tugging lightly at his sleeve. His center of gravity shifted by a fraction. When the blade fell, it was no longer perfectly aligned.

  He stopped.

  Drew a slow breath.

  Lowered the sword.

  “One.”

  By the second day, his arms no longer shook from unfamiliar weight. They trembled from accumulated fatigue. Fourfold gravity was no longer a shock to endure; it had become the environment in which he existed. His heart beat hard but steady. His breathing was deep and heavy, no longer chaotic as it had been at the start.

  Origin Qi flowed quietly within him.

  It did not make him stronger.

  It did not hasten his strikes.

  It merely prevented his muscles from tearing further, prevented exhaustion from turning into injury. Beneath the dense pressure of space itself, it was like an underground current sustaining life, unseen, unboastful, enduring.

  Gradually, he realized something he had never considered before: the sword did not begin at the arm.

  If the body’s axis was off, the blade would be off.

  If the center of gravity was unstable, no correction at the wrist could redeem it.

  He stopped forcing the sword downward as though to cleave through the heavy air before him. Instead, he held his spine upright first, allowing the blade to follow naturally along the established line.

  On the third night, when moonlight slanted across the cliff face and spilled onto the courtyard in a pale wash of silver, he had reached his six-hundredth strike when his vision dimmed without warning. The sword stalled midair. His knee dipped half an inch.

  His body wanted to fall.

  But he regained clarity before his balance fully collapsed.

  No one called his name.

  No one reached to steady him.

  He tightened his grip himself and straightened his back.

  “One.”

  By the end of the third day, as dusk stained the edge of the clouds red, the thousandth slash descended in a complete and unbroken motion.

  No tremor.

  No deviation.

  No strain.

  He held the finishing posture for a long breath, feeling clearly that the gravity still pressed upon his shoulders, his hips, each joint of his knees just as it had three days before.

  Yet for the first time, it no longer made him stagger.

  The courtyard remained unchanged.

  The wind still passed through.

  The stone steps above continued in silent ascent toward the summit.

  Only the person standing at the center of the courtyard was no longer the same as the one who had first stepped into this place.

  He was not stronger.

  But he was steadier.

  Dusk slowly withdrew from the mountain’s edge, and the last light of day spread a deep crimson sheen across the cold stone of the courtyard.

  The thousandth slash descended in a complete, unbroken motion, neither hurried nor forced.

  The wooden sword came to rest exactly where it was meant to stop. No tremor. No deviation. No flaw that could be called into question.

  Yang Feng held the finishing stance for one measured breath, as though confirming that his body still stood upright beneath the unrelenting pressure that had weighed upon him for three days without change. Only then did he lower the sword slowly.

  In that quiet instant, when even the mountain wind seemed suspended between two fading bands of light, a voice sounded from behind him.

  “Again.”

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