The days that followed passed with a quiet regularity that contrasted sharply with the intensity of Lin's first match.
The tournament bracket advanced steadily, names crossing off the posted boards each morning as eliminations narrowed the field. Lin's own position remained unchanged. His next match was scheduled a full week later. The elimination format was indifferent to momentum. Victory only purchased time, and time, Lin was learning, could be more dangerous than pressure.
He returned to his routine without deviation.
Cultivation resumed in measured sessions, never long enough to provoke instability, never shallow enough to feel wasteful. The sensation beneath his skin had changed since the fight. Where qi had once pressed outward, seeking reinforcement through repetition, it now circulated with a sense of belonging. Skin Tempering no longer required conscious maintenance. It responded instinctively, tightening and relaxing in accordance with breath and intent, as though it had always been meant to function this way.
That acceptance made the next step impossible to ignore.
When Lin guided his awareness inward, beyond muscle and sinew, he could sense the structure beneath. Bone was no longer a distant presence, inert and unresponsive. It felt closer now, not in sensation but in alignment. The qi that moved through his flesh brushed against it with increasing insistence, as though testing whether it might be invited further.
He did not allow it.
"You could step forward already," the Sword God observed one evening as Lin concluded a session and allowed his breathing to settle. "Your foundation would support it."
Lin remained seated, eyes closed, posture steady. "And if I do?"
"You would reach Bone Tempering faster than anyone here believes possible," the Sword God replied. "Which is precisely the problem."
Lin understood the implication without further explanation. His growth had already skirted the edge of plausibility. Skin Tempering completed in the midst of a sanctioned match was unusual but defensible. Advancement beyond that would not be.
"Men progress slowly or not at all," the Sword God continued, his tone shifting toward something more contemplative. "Nearly all women progress faster, but even among them, Bone Tempering demands time, unless they are exceptionally talented.. What you are doing compresses years into weeks for men. If you do not wish to become an object of interest, you must choose restraint."
Lin considered that quietly. "How far can I go?"
"For the duration of the whole tournament," the Sword God said, "early stage Bone Tempering is the limit. No further. Even that will raise questions, but questions can be managed. Anything beyond it cannot. You can always claim you were close to reaching it before joining."
"And if I focus elsewhere?"
A faint note of approval entered the Sword God's presence. "Then you do what cultivators rarely choose to do. You sharpen skill instead of power."
That answer settled something Lin had already been circling.
Martial practice intensified.
The scythe became the center of his days, its weight and balance dictating the rhythm of his movement. Lin practiced forms slowly at first, not to memorize patterns but to refine transitions. Every shift of grip, every turn of the wrist, every step that repositioned his center of gravity was examined and adjusted. Where his cultivation provided strength and resilience, martial discipline demanded efficiency.
"You rely on instinct too much," the Sword God remarked during one such session. "That will serve you until it fails you."
Lin adjusted his stance and repeated the motion. "Instinct is faster."
"And limited," the Sword God replied. "Skill and routine persist when instinct breaks."
They worked together in a way that felt increasingly natural. Corrections came without tension. Advice carried weight without coercion. Over time, the dynamic shifted subtly, no longer defined solely by instruction but by shared attention. The Sword God did not merely correct Lin's form. He anticipated it, guiding him toward refinements before errors fully manifested.
Lin noticed the change, though he did not comment on it.
When he cultivated, he did so with the same restraint he applied to his training. He allowed qi to brush against bone, tracing its contours without entering. The sensation was subtle but instructive. Bone Tempering was not simply reinforcement. It required circulation through a structure that resisted flow by nature. The Sword God emphasized this repeatedly.
"Bone does not yield," he explained. "You do not persuade it. You condition it to endure."
Lin absorbed that lesson carefully. He practiced guiding qi along the surface of his bones, never through, familiarizing himself with the resistance he would eventually need to overcome. The process was slow, but deliberate. He felt no frustration in the restraint. Progress was no longer measured solely by advancement.
It was measured by control.
Matches continued each day, the arena filling and emptying in predictable cycles. Rumors circulated, as they always did, about promising cultivators and unexpected upsets. Lin's own victory earned him a name whispered among the lower divisions, nothing more. Feng Yuan was noted as skilled, perhaps fortunate, perhaps dangerous. He did not linger in conversation long enough to become anything else.
On the sixth day, as the next round approached, the Sword God spoke again.
"You should watch a match of the higher realms," he said. "Not to compare yourself. To understand what lies ahead."
Lin paused mid-practice. "Should I watch the highest participating in the tournament?"
"Yes," the Sword God replied. "The Core Formation cultivators will show you exactly the difference between a Realm 1 and Realm 4.
Lin considered the suggestion carefully. Observing cultivators so far beyond his current realm carried risk. Even suppressed, their presence could overwhelm unprepared senses. But the Sword God would not offer the advice lightly.
"Could watching them pose any threat?" Lin asked just to be sure.
"In other situations maybe,," the Sword God replied dryly. "However, here everyone is protected by the governors own aura.."
That evening, Lin prepared to leave his quarters earlier than usual. He wrapped the scythe and secured the mask, though he did not plan to enter the arena floor. Habit and caution had merged too completely to separate now.
As he stepped into the street, the city felt unchanged. Vendors called out their wares. Cultivators moved through the crowd with varying degrees of presence, their qi restrained or absent according to regulation. Nothing in the environment acknowledged the path Lin had opened within himself.
That anonymity felt earned.
When the arena came into view, its upper tiers were already illuminated. The Core Formation matches were scheduled later, reserved for those whose presence alone warranted attention. Lin joined the gathering spectators, keeping his breathing steady, his awareness inward and contained.
The Sword God's presence sharpened slightly.
"Watch their feet," he advised. "Watch how little they move."
Lin lifted his gaze toward the arena entrance as the first Core Formation cultivator stepped onto the platform, their aura restrained but unmistakable. The air itself seemed to settle around them, as though acknowledging a higher order of control.
Lin did not feel envy.
He felt direction.
As the match began and the space between those combatants collapsed into something far more complex than intent, Lin watched closely, committing every detail to memory.
The next step would come soon enough.