The third day began with blood.
Not dramatic blood.
Not the kind that sprays or spills in battle.
But the quiet, persistent kind that stains cloth and dries along knuckles.
Shen An stood waist-deep in the western stream before sunrise, the water biting cold even in early autumn. Mist coiled over the surface. His breath left his mouth in steady, measured clouds.
"Your body temperature is dropping," Qingyu observed from the rock where she had been placed carefully.
"I know."
"You are not circulating qi."
"I know."
"You may lose consciousness."
"I know."
"…You are difficult."
He exhaled slowly through his nose and sank lower until the water touched his ribs.
"I endured worse winters."
"That was before you began compressing your bones daily."
He did not answer.
Instead, he closed his eyes and began the breathing cycle.
Inhale — down the spine.
Hold — compress.
Redirect pressure toward the tenth vertebra.
Release — slowly.
The cold sharpened everything.
Pain was clearer in the cold.
Less blurred.
He felt each contraction distinctly — muscle tightening around bone, blood forcing through vessels, marrow aching under strain.
The Origin Pulse flickered faintly behind his heart.
Small.
Weak.
But present.
"Again," Qingyu instructed.
He obeyed.
On the sixth compression, something inside his left forearm throbbed sharply.
"Radius," she noted. "Microfracture."
He gritted his teeth.
"Will it break fully?"
"If you misalign, yes."
"Then I will not misalign."
He adjusted his stance underwater.
The stream current pressed against him, destabilizing balance.
Good.
He leaned into it.
Compressed again.
The pulse answered stronger this time — not louder, not brighter — but heavier.
Like a drumbeat heard through thick walls.
He exhaled slowly.
When he stepped out of the stream, his legs shook.
But not from weakness alone.
Something was changing.
By midday, Shen An hunted.
His movements were different now.
Less hurried.
More economical.
He crouched behind a fallen cedar trunk, watching a young stag graze near a clearing.
The wind direction favored him.
He did not rush.
He matched his heartbeat to breath.
Slowed it.
Then raised it — without altering the breath.
Blood rhythm alignment.
He felt the subtle tightening in his limbs.
The pulse at his spine responded.
Tiny vibration.
He moved.
Not fast.
Not explosive.
But precise.
Three silent steps.
One throw.
The spear struck true.
The stag stumbled.
Collapsed.
He approached without triumph.
He knelt beside the animal, placing a hand briefly over its side as its life faded.
"Cleaner than before," Qingyu observed from where she had been tied securely at his waist with cloth.
"I adjusted my step weight."
"Yes."
"You are watching carefully."
"That is my function."
He began the familiar work of skinning and preparation.
But even here—
He noticed the difference.
When he bent, his spine alignment remained stable without conscious correction.
When he lifted, his shoulders bore weight more evenly.
The Canon was not dramatic.
It was structural.
Later, as he roasted meat over a controlled flame inside the cave entrance, Qingyu spoke again.
"You are improving."
"You sound surprised."
"I am."
He smirked faintly.
"You expected failure."
"I expected hesitation."
He shrugged.
"I have nothing to hesitate for."
Silence lingered between them.
Then she asked,
"Why do you not resent heaven?"
He turned the meat slowly over the flame.
"I did."
"And now?"
"I do not need to."
"That is contradictory."
He shook his head slightly.
"Resentment still acknowledges authority."
She was quiet.
"I do not ask heaven to explain itself," he continued. "I simply refuse to rely on it."
The jade bowl glowed faintly.
"That is why this Canon fits you."
He tore a piece of meat and ate calmly.
"You speak as if you chose me."
"I did not."
"But you approve."
"…Yes."
He chewed thoughtfully.
"Then do not complain when I speak too much."
"You speak excessively."
"I stored nine years of silence."
"Yes. You have mentioned that."
He chuckled softly.
The sound was easier now.
Less foreign.
That night, after the final compression cycles left his limbs trembling, Qingyu's voice changed subtly.
"I remember something."
He did not open his eyes.
"Speak."
"The Heaven-Defying Mortal Ascension Canon was created by those who failed heavenly tribulation."
He stilled.
"Failed… and survived?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Erasure was incomplete."
A faint hum resonated through her jade surface.
"They were marked for nonexistence."
"And yet?"
"They refused."
He opened his eyes slowly.
"And they created this."
"Yes."
"Why forbid it?"
"Because it proves heaven's judgment is not absolute."
He stared into the cave darkness.
"That would be inconvenient."
"Yes."
He nodded faintly.
"Good."
On the fifth day, Shen An collapsed fully.
Not dramatically.
Simply—
His body refused to stand after thirty-seven consecutive compression cycles.
He fell forward onto stone, breath ragged.
Blood dripped from his nose and lip.
His vision blurred.
"Stop," Qingyu said sharply.
He did not move.
The Origin Pulse flickered weakly.
"You are near structural overload."
He lay there.
Minutes passed.
Finally, he rolled onto his back and stared at the cave ceiling.
"I felt it expand," he murmured.
"Yes."
"For a moment."
"Yes."
"It hurt."
"Yes."
He turned his head slightly toward her.
"You enjoy affirming pain."
"It is evidence of growth."
He laughed weakly.
"You are merciless."
"I am efficient."
He closed his eyes.
Then, slowly—
He pushed himself upright.
"Again."
"No."
He blinked.
"No?"
"You will rest."
"I can continue."
"You will rest," she repeated.
His jaw tightened.
Silence stretched.
Then—
"…Very well."
He leaned back against the wall.
"I do not like stopping."
"I know."
He tilted his head.
"How?"
"You speak faster when frustrated."
He paused.
"…Do I?"
"Yes."
He exhaled softly.
He had not realized.
A week passed.
Then two.
His body changed subtly.
Not larger.
Not dramatically stronger.
But denser.
When he struck the cave wall lightly with his knuckles, the vibration felt different.
More internal.
Less surface shock.
During breath alignment, the Origin Pulse no longer flickered randomly.
It responded.
On command.
Small.
But obedient.
One evening, as sunset painted the horizon crimson, Shen An sat cross-legged before Qingyu.
"I will attempt stabilization."
"You are not fully prepared."
"I am aware."
"You may regress."
"I am aware."
She glowed faintly.
"…Proceed."
He inhaled slowly.
Compressed.
Redirected.
Instead of releasing immediately, he held the internal pressure and focused entirely on the spinal node.
The pain intensified sharply.
He did not move.
His heartbeat accelerated.
But his breathing remained slow.
Blood rhythm alignment.
Pressure built.
Built—
Then—
The pulse struck once.
Harder than before.
He nearly gasped but forced stillness.
Again.
A second beat.
Then a third.
Three steady internal pulses.
Not qi.
Not energy aura.
Not visible.
But solid.
He exhaled slowly.
The vibration did not vanish instantly.
It lingered.
Stabilized.
Weak.
But continuous.
He opened his eyes.
"I hear it," he whispered.
"Yes."
"It sounds like…"
"A beginning."
He smiled faintly.
"I am still mortal."
"Yes."
"But not empty."
"No."
He stood slowly.
His body ached as always.
But beneath it—
A quiet foundation.
He walked to the cave entrance and looked out over the forest canopy.
Clouds moved slowly across the darkening sky.
He did not feel small beneath them.
Not defiant.
Not arrogant.
Simply steady.
Qingyu's voice drifted softly from behind him.
"You no longer fear losing cultivation."
He considered that.
"No."
"You no longer chase it desperately."
"No."
"Then what do you chase?"
He was silent for several breaths.
Finally, he answered.
"Movement."
She waited.
"If the sky presses down," he said quietly, "I will not stand beneath it and beg."
The Origin Pulse beat once.
Strong.
"I will grow."
The forest wind shifted.
Leaves whispered.
He turned back toward the cave, picking Qingyu up carefully.
"You are smiling," she observed.
"Am I?"
"Yes."
He touched his cheek absently.
"…Strange."
"You are changing."
"Yes."
He stepped inside.
The cave no longer felt like isolation.
It felt like foundation.
A mortal cave.
A forbidden Canon.
A jade spirit with missing memories.
And a fifteen-year-old who no longer waited for heaven to decide his worth.
Deep behind his heart—
The Origin Pulse beat again.
Steady.
Small.
Unyielding.
And for the first time—
It did not flicker out.
The rain began before dawn.
Not violent. Not storming.
Just steady.
Persistent.
Like time.
Shen An woke to the sound of water sliding over stone. For a moment, he remained still, listening to its rhythm. His body no longer reacted to cold mornings with stiffness. The ache was still there — bone-deep, constant — but it was familiar now.
Beneath the ache—
A pulse.
Slow.
Stable.
Present.
He did not need to check for it anymore.
It was simply there.
Behind his heart.
At the spine.
An internal drumbeat that belonged to no heaven and no sect.
He sat up slowly.
Qingyu rested on a flat rock near his sleeping platform, her jade surface faintly luminous in the dim light.
"You are awake," she said.
"Yes."
"You slept longer."
"Three hours more than usual."
"That is inefficient."
He stretched his shoulders.
"It is recovery."
She hummed quietly.
"You are adapting."
"Yes."
The rain continued.
He stood and stepped outside the cave.
The forest was grey and silver beneath the downpour. Water ran in small rivulets down the slope near the entrance. Mist clung low between tree trunks.
He stepped into the rain.
Cold droplets struck his skin.
He closed his eyes.
Inhale.
Down the spine.
Hold.
Compress.
Release.
The Origin Pulse responded immediately.
Steady.
Not flickering.
Not trembling.
Steady.
He exhaled.
"Today," Qingyu said from inside the cave, "you will test structural integration."
"That sounds unpleasant."
"It will be."
He almost smiled.
He returned inside and stood in the center of the cave.
"Remove distractions," Qingyu instructed.
"I live in a cave."
"Focus."
He inhaled once.
"Compression cycle. Thirty repetitions."
He began.
One.
Two.
Three.
By ten, his ribs protested sharply.
By fifteen, sweat slid down his back despite the cool air.
By twenty, the pulse intensified, spreading faint tremors along his spine.
"Continue," Qingyu said calmly.
Twenty-one.
Twenty-two.
At twenty-seven, pain flared violently in his lower back.
He did not stop.
Thirty.
He held the final compression longer than before.
Redirected pressure inward.
Toward the Origin Pulse.
The internal beat quickened.
Not chaotic.
Accelerated.
"Stabilize," Qingyu commanded.
He slowed his breath without lowering pressure.
Heart rhythm alignment.
Blood forced upward along the spine.
His vision narrowed.
The cave walls seemed to tilt.
"Now," she said.
"Release — but do not disperse."
He exhaled carefully.
Instead of letting the pressure collapse outward—
He held awareness tight around the spinal node.
The Origin Pulse struck hard.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then—
It did not weaken.
It expanded.
Not outward.
Inward.
A deeper resonance.
He gasped despite himself.
Pain lanced through his entire torso.
Every microfracture flared.
His knees buckled.
He dropped to one hand.
"Hold it," Qingyu said sharply.
He gritted his teeth.
The pulse beat again.
Stronger.
Not large.
Not explosive.
But anchored.
Like a nail driven into stone.
Then—
Silence.
Not absence.
Stillness.
The vibration did not vanish.
It settled.
Quiet.
Stable.
He remained kneeling for several breaths.
Rain pattered softly outside.
His heartbeat slowed.
Breath evened.
He looked down at his hands.
They trembled.
But not from weakness.
From integration.
"Report," Qingyu said.
He swallowed.
"It is not just at one point anymore."
She glowed faintly.
"Explain."
"It connects."
"Where?"
"Ribs."
"Shoulders."
"Lower spine."
She was silent for a long moment.
Then—
"You have formed the First Mortal Frame."
He exhaled slowly.
"That sounds significant."
"It is."
He sat back on his heels.
"What does it mean?"
"It means your body is no longer merely flesh adapting to injury."
She paused.
"It is now a cultivation structure."
He stared at her.
"Without qi."
"Yes."
"Without a dantian."
"Yes."
He leaned back slightly.
"So this is the beginning."
"No," she corrected quietly.
"This is the end of being only mortal."
He did not respond immediately.
Instead, he stood slowly.
Walked toward the cave entrance.
Rain washed the world in grey.
He stepped outside again.
This time—
When he planted his feet on the wet earth—
He felt it.
The ground beneath him did not feel like something he stood upon.
It felt like something he pressed against.
Subtly.
Naturally.
He inhaled.
Compressed lightly.
The Origin Pulse responded.
The earth did not tremble dramatically.
But a faint vibration traveled through the mud beneath his soles.
He lifted one foot.
Then set it down again.
The vibration followed.
He frowned slightly.
"I feel heavier."
"You are denser."
"That is inefficient for speed."
"It is foundation."
He nodded once.
Then—
Without warning—
He struck the trunk of a nearby tree.
Not with rage.
Not with reckless force.
With alignment.
His fist connected.
The sound was deep.
The bark cracked.
Not splintered wildly—
Cracked in a clean line.
He withdrew his hand.
The skin reddened.
But did not split.
He stared at it.
"This would have broken my knuckles before."
"Yes."
"And now?"
"You redistributed force internally."
He looked at Qingyu.
"You sound satisfied."
"I am."
He tilted his head.
"You are learning to express that more clearly."
"…I am adjusting."
He smiled faintly.
"You are changing."
"Yes."
He remained standing in the rain for a long while.
Letting water soak into his hair.
His clothing.
His skin.
"I used to look at the sky differently," he said quietly.
"How?"
"As something above me."
"And now?"
He raised his head slightly.
The rain struck his face.
"It is simply there."
Qingyu's jade surface glowed faintly within the cave.
"You no longer measure yourself against it."
"No."
"You do not wish to defeat it?"
He considered that.
"No."
"Then what?"
He lowered his gaze slightly.
"If the sky falls," he said softly, "I will not beg it to rise."
The rain intensified briefly.
The forest rustled.
He placed his hand flat against his chest.
Over the spine.
Over the Origin Pulse.
"I will grow tall enough to hold it."
The pulse answered.
Strong.
Steady.
Unyielding.
Qingyu did not speak for several breaths.
When she did, her voice was different.
Less teasing.
Less sharp.
"…That is why this Canon chose you."
He shook his head slightly.
"I chose it."
She hummed faintly.
"…Yes."
By evening, the rain ceased.
The forest smelled of wet leaves and clean earth.
Shen An sat at the cave entrance with Qingyu beside him.
A small fire burned low.
He stared into it quietly.
"You speak less tonight," Qingyu observed.
"I am thinking."
"About?"
"Return."
She stilled.
"To where?"
He did not answer immediately.
Instead, he adjusted the firewood slightly.
The flames flickered.
"I have trained here for nine years," he said finally.
"Yes."
"I rebuilt myself here."
"Yes."
"But I did not begin here."
She was quiet.
"The sect," she said.
"Yes."
"Your dantian was destroyed there."
"Yes."
"You were cast out."
"Yes."
"Do you wish to return for revenge?"
He shook his head slowly.
"No."
"For acknowledgment?"
"No."
"For what, then?"
He stared at the flame.
"For movement."
She did not interrupt.
"I cannot remain in this forest forever."
"No."
"I am no longer surviving."
He looked down at his hands.
"I am cultivating."
Silence stretched between them.
Then—
"When?" she asked.
He inhaled slowly.
"Not tomorrow."
"Good."
"Not next week."
"Reasonable."
"But soon."
She glowed faintly.
"You are not yet stable beyond the First Mortal Frame."
"I know."
"You will require further reinforcement."
"I know."
"You will face cultivators with qi."
"I know."
He glanced sideways at her.
"You repeat yourself."
"You ignore risk."
He chuckled softly.
"Balanced partnership."
"Unfortunate contract."
He leaned back against the cave wall.
The firelight reflected faintly off Qingyu's jade surface.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then—
"Qingyu."
"Yes?"
"When I first woke you, I threw you against the wall."
"Yes."
"You complained."
"Yes."
"You said it hurt."
"Yes."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Does it still?"
There was a brief pause.
"…Less."
He smiled faintly.
"Good."
The Origin Pulse beat once.
Then again.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But steady.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Nine years alone.
Nine years silent.
Nine years surviving.
Now—
He was not alone.
He was not silent.
He was not waiting for heaven to decide his fate.
He opened his eyes.
The fire crackled softly.
The forest breathed.
And deep within his spine—
The pulse continued.
Small.
Mortal.
Unyielding.
He rose slowly, extinguished the fire, and stepped back into the cave.
"Tomorrow," Qingyu said.
"Yes?"
"We compress again."
He smirked faintly.
"Of course."
Outside, clouds drifted quietly across the night sky.
Inside, a mortal who no longer feared losing heaven lay down to rest.
And the Origin Pulse—
Did not fade.