Tano was still gaping like a fish when I walked back into the courtyard.
The others had scattered a little—some pretending to train, some just staring. Mira stood with her arms crossed, sword resting on her shoulder like she was debating whether to smack me with it.
"You're really doing this?" she asked. "Training? Tomorrow? All of us?"
I didn't answer right away. Instead I looked at my hands again. Small. Thin. Calluses barely there. No storm in the veins. No echo of the Sovereign's power.
"Yeah," I said. "All of us. Starting at dawn."
Tano snorted. "Dawn? You can barely walk up the steps without wheezing, Lynch. Last week you passed out hauling one sack of herbs."
I shot him a look. "Last week was the old Lynch. This is me now."
Mira rolled her eyes. "Great. Another crazy day. Elder Goro already drinks enough for the whole sect—don't give him more reasons."
I ignored the jab and turned toward the overgrown bamboo grove at the edge of the compound. It used to be a proper training ground. Now it was just weeds and broken poles.
"Where, uh, going?" Tano yelled.
"To fix this shit body."
I needed space. Away from their stares. Away from the crumbling walls that screamed failure.
I found a flat rock under the biggest bamboo stalk and sat. Cross-legged. Back straight. The way I used to sit when the world still feared my name.
The body protested immediately. Knees ached. Spine felt like brittle twigs. Breathing came shallow, like the lungs were afraid to fill all the way.
Pathetic.
I closed my eyes.
In my old life, the Stormveil Core had been a furnace. Endless. Unbreakable. Qi rolled through me like typhoon winds—never tiring, never faltering. I could run for days, fight for nights, carve through rifts like they were paper.
This body?
This body would die if I tried to run for an hour.
I laughed under my breath. Short. Bitter.
"If I try to force the old techniques now, I'll burst every meridian like cheap plumbing."
Foundation.
That word kept hammering in my skull.
Back then, I hated foundation drills. Boring. Slow. Pointless when I could already outpace everyone. Masters nagged—Lirio especially—about building the core properly, about patience, about depth over flash.
I never listened.
Why would I? I was the Stormveil Sovereign. The lone blade. The one who didn't need anyone.
And look where that got everyone.
Dead.
I opened my eyes. The bamboo swayed gently. Fog rolled in from the city below, mixing with the neon glow.
No more rushing.
No masters to praise the flashy kids while ignoring the slow builders.
No one to compare me to.
Just me. And this broken sect. And twenty kids who didn't even know what real strength looked like.
I placed one palm on my abdomen. Right below the navel. Where the dantian should sit—weak, starved, barely flickering.
In my memories, the Equilibrium Method had been the first real technique I ever truly mastered. Not some flashy storm art.
Equilibrium of Six.
Simple name. Brutal execution.
Six breaths. Six directions. Balance internal and external. Draw qi from the world without forcing it. Let it settle. Let it grow. No greed. No shortcuts.
Most people failed because they chased power too fast. The dantian cracked. Meridians tore. They spat blood and gave up.
I never had that problem. Talent, they called it.
But talent without foundation is just a tall tower on sand.
I exhaled slowly.
First breath in—through the nose, down to the core.
Nothing happened.
Of course nothing happened. This body had zero conditioning. No qi pathways cleared. No habits built.
Second breath.
A faint tingle. Like static under the skin.
Third.
Warmer. A tiny spark in the lower abdomen.
Fourth.
The spark flickered. Hungry.
Fifth.
I felt it—thin, thread-like qi pulling from the air. Not much. Barely a sip. But it was there.
Sixth.
I held it. Let it circle once. Slow. Careful.
Then released.
My whole body shuddered. Not from power. From weakness. From how pitiful that tiny cycle felt compared to what I used to command.
I opened my eyes.
Sweat already beaded on my forehead. Breathing hard. Hands trembling.
And I laughed again.
Quiet at first. Then louder.
This was it.
This pathetic little spark was the start.
In my old life, I would've sneered at it. Called it trash. Moved on to bigger techniques.
Not this time.
This time I was going to build something unbreakable.
I stood up. Legs shaky. But steadier than before.
Back at the courtyard, the others were still milling around. Mira sharpening her sword again. Tano kicking pebbles. A couple of the younger kids whispering.
I walked straight to the center.
"Listen up."
They turned.
"Tomorrow. Dawn. Everyone here. No excuses. We start with basics."
Tano groaned. "Basics? Like what—push-ups?"
"Worse," I said. "Breathing. Stances. Circulation. The stuff you all skipped because it's boring."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "You're suddenly an expert now?"
I met her gaze. Steady.
"More than your pea-brain knows."
She stared back for a long moment. Then shrugged.
"Fine. But if you're just messing around, I'm walking."
"Deal."
I turned to leave.
Tano jogged up beside me. "You really serious? You look half-dead already."
I smirked.
"Half-dead is better than fully dead."
He blinked.
I kept walking.
Tomorrow I'd drag them through hell.
Breathing drills until their lungs burned.
Stances until their legs shook.
Circulation until they felt that first real spark.
And when they wanted to quit?
I'd be right there. Reminding them.
We weren't trash because we were weak.
We were weak because we'd forgotten how to build.
But I remembered.
And this time?
I wasn't building alone.
The Ashen Sovereign had returned.
And the first thing he was rebuilding…
Was himself.