Yu Xiaogang learned quickly which questions were allowed.
"How do I guide soul power more efficiently?" was allowed.
"How do I stabilize my breathing?" was allowed.
"Why does lightning circulate clockwise in our clan manuals?" was tolerated, so long as he asked it politely and accepted the first answer given.
"What happens when a martial soul reaches the end of its structure?" was not allowed.
He learned this on the twelfth day after Awakening.
The morning began like any other. Mist clung to the stone courtyards, and the mountain exhaled a low, distant rumble as if it were waking reluctantly. Xiaogang finished his drills early—too early—and Instructor Qiao noticed.
"You're done already?" Qiao asked, arms crossed.
"Yes."
Qiao's eyes flicked over him. "Again."
Xiaogang repeated the sequence. Every stance clean. Every transition precise. When he finished, he stood still, breathing evenly.
Qiao grunted. "You move like you're afraid to waste effort."
Xiaogang hesitated, then said, "I am."
That earned a short, humorless laugh. "That's not a strength."
Xiaogang did not argue.
He waited until Qiao dismissed the group, then approached the instructor with a book tucked under his arm.
"Teacher," he said.
Qiao sighed, already tired. "What is it now?"
"This text says martial souls grow stronger by harmonizing with the soul master's will," Xiaogang said, opening the book to a marked page. "But it doesn't explain what happens if the soul master grows faster than the spirit can follow."
Qiao stared at him.
"…What?"
Xiaogang swallowed. "Is there a point where a martial soul can no longer support further cultivation?"
Qiao's face hardened. "Where did you read that?"
"I didn't," Xiaogang said. "I thought about it."
That was the wrong answer.
Qiao closed the book with one sharp motion. "Stop thinking about useless things. Cultivation is not a puzzle to be solved by children."
"But—"
"Enough," Qiao snapped. "If you want to improve your spirit, train harder. If you can't, accept your limits."
Xiaogang bowed. "Yes, teacher."
He turned away, ears burning.
Accept your limits.
The words followed him into the afternoon.
The sect library was quieter than usual. A storm brewed outside, and most disciples preferred the training halls where lightning techniques were practiced with eager enthusiasm.
Xiaogang climbed the ladder to the upper shelves, where the older texts were kept. The spines here were worn smooth by time, titles etched faintly.
He pulled one down at random.
On Beast Spirits of Low Compatibility.
He read.
Then another.
Observed Failures in Martial Soul Advancement.
He read until his eyes ached.
Patterns began to form.
Weak beast spirits struggled early. Mutated spirits behaved unpredictably. In nearly every case, the soul master plateaued—and then stagnated.
There were no recorded cases of evolution without external intervention.
No one tried hard enough, Xiaogang thought. Or they didn't know how.
He closed the book and stared at the shelf.
He could feel Luo San Pao, dormant but present, like a small warmth at the edge of his awareness.
If you're the problem, he thought gently, then we'll figure it out together.
That night, he did something he knew was unwise.
He waited until Lin'er had finished her rounds and the guards had shifted to the outer corridors. He slipped out into the small inner courtyard, bare feet cold against the stone.
The moon hung low, pale and sharp.
"Luo San Pao," he whispered.
The pig appeared, blinking sleepily, then trotted in a circle.
Xiaogang sat cross-legged and placed both hands on the ground.
He gathered soul power slowly, carefully, the way he'd learned not from manuals but from listening to his own body. He did not force it into his limbs.
Instead, he guided it outward.
Toward the pig.
The sensation was immediate.
Luo San Pao squealed—not in pain, but surprise—and its body stiffened. The air around it rippled faintly.
Xiaogang's heart raced. It's working.
He focused harder.
The pig's outline blurred, just slightly, as if something beneath the surface were trying to push through.
Then the pressure spiked.
Not outward.
Inward.
A sharp, tearing pain tore through Xiaogang's chest, stealing his breath. He gasped, falling forward, palms slapping the stone.
Luo San Pao vanished with a distressed squeak.
Xiaogang retched, vision swimming. He curled onto his side, clutching his ribs as if something had cracked inside.
It took a long time for the pain to fade.
When it did, sweat soaked his hair and clothes. His hands trembled.
That was the wall, he realized shakily. Not mine. Yours.
"Stupid," he muttered aloud. "I should have stopped."
"You touched incompatibility," came the distant murmur inside him.
Xiaogang froze.
Great Red.
You knew this would happen, he thought, anger flaring weakly.
"You needed to feel it," the presence replied.
"Knowledge without consequence is fragile."
Xiaogang pressed his forehead to the stone. You could have warned me.
A pause.
"I did," Great Red said calmly.
"By being silent."
Xiaogang laughed weakly, then winced.
"Fine," he whispered. "Lesson learned."
Footsteps echoed nearby.
Xiaogang stiffened, scrambling upright just as a lantern's light spilled into the courtyard.
An elder stood there.
Elder Mo.
He was old, thin as a reed, eyes sharp and unblinking. His gaze moved from Xiaogang's pale face to the faint scorch marks on the stone.
"What are you doing awake, young master?" Elder Mo asked softly.
Xiaogang bowed, chest aching. "I couldn't sleep."
Elder Mo stepped closer, peering at him. "You smell of soul power."
Xiaogang said nothing.
"Did you attempt to strengthen your martial soul?" the elder asked.
"…Yes."
Elder Mo's eyes narrowed. "Without guidance?"
"Yes."
The elder was quiet for a long moment.
Then he chuckled.
A dry, humorless sound. "Bold. Foolish. Predictable."
Xiaogang clenched his hands. "I wanted to know if it was possible."
"And now you do," Elder Mo said. His tone sharpened. "Do not repeat this."
"Why?" Xiaogang asked, before he could stop himself.
Elder Mo stared at him. "Because failure like yours spreads ideas. And ideas are harder to control than power."
Xiaogang swallowed.
Elder Mo straightened. "You are the sect master's son. That grants you protection. It does not grant you permission to experiment."
He turned to leave, then paused. "Curiosity is dangerous in the wrong hands, child. Decide which hands yours are."
When he was gone, the courtyard felt colder.
The next day, Xiaogang was summoned—not by his father, but by the elders' council.
The chamber was smaller than the Awakening Hall, circular, with low seats arranged around a stone table. Three elders were present. Elder Mo among them.
Xiaogang stood in the center.
"You attempted to evolve your martial soul," one elder said.
"Yes."
"Without approval."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Xiaogang lifted his head. "Because I believe Luo San Pao has a limit."
A murmur rippled through the elders.
"Every spirit has limits," another elder said dismissively.
"Yes," Xiaogang replied. "But most limits are gradual. This one is abrupt."
Elder Mo's eyes sharpened. "Explain."
Xiaogang took a breath. His chest still ached faintly. "My cultivation is smooth. Too smooth. My soul power does not resist me. But when I try to direct it outward—to my martial soul—it rebounds."
One elder scoffed. "You are six."
"I know," Xiaogang said. "That doesn't change what I feel."
Silence.
"You assume much," the first elder said coldly. "Do you think yourself wiser than centuries of doctrine?"
Xiaogang hesitated.
Then he said, carefully, "I think doctrine describes what works. Not everything that is possible."
That did it.
The air shifted.
Elder Mo leaned back slowly, studying him like a specimen. "You believe martial souls can be altered."
"I believe they can be studied," Xiaogang said. "And improved."
Another elder laughed outright. "Listen to him. He wants to fix pigs."
Xiaogang did not smile.
"I want to understand them," he said quietly.
The laughter died.
"Enough," Elder Mo said. "This discussion goes no further."
He turned his gaze to Xiaogang. "You will cease independent experimentation. You will follow instruction. You will not spread these ideas."
Xiaogang bowed. "Yes, Elder."
The council dismissed him.
As he left, Xiaogang realized something with cold clarity.
They weren't angry.
They were afraid.
That night, Yu Yuanzhen summoned him again.
This time, his father did not stand by the window.
He sat.
"You were seen in the courtyard last night," Yu Yuanzhen said.
"Yes."
"You questioned the elders today."
"Yes."
Yu Yuanzhen's fingers tapped once against the armrest. "Do you enjoy attracting attention?"
"No."
"Then stop."
Xiaogang looked up. "Father… if a martial soul has a hard limit—"
Yu Yuanzhen raised a hand. "You think too far ahead."
"I don't think far enough," Xiaogang said softly. "Everyone assumes Luo San Pao will fail slowly. What if it fails all at once?"
The tapping stopped.
Yu Yuanzhen studied him.
"How far do you think you can go?" his father asked.
Xiaogang swallowed. "I don't know. But I don't think it's very far."
A long silence followed.
Yu Yuanzhen finally sighed. The sound was quiet. Heavy. "Then learn," he said. "If you must question, do it properly. With proof."
Xiaogang's heart thudded.
"You're not forbidding me?" he asked.
"I'm warning you," Yu Yuanzhen replied. "And giving you time."
Xiaogang bowed deeply. "Thank you, father."
Yu Yuanzhen waved him away.
As Xiaogang left the hall, he felt something settle inside him—not relief, but resolve.
He was not wrong.
And if knowledge frightened elders—
Then knowledge was power.
Back in his room, Luo San Pao snorted sleepily.
Xiaogang sat beside the bed and rested his hand on the pig's warm back.
"We'll go slow," he whispered. "No more forcing."
The pig shifted closer.
Deep inside, the scarlet presence remained quiet.
Watching.
Waiting.
And Yu Xiaogang, six years old and already walking a line no one else had drawn, understood the truth at last:
The sect did not fear his weakness.
They feared what he might discover if he ever stopped accepting it.