The chill of the pre-dawn air clung to Wen Xuan’s thin robes, a damp shroud that seeped into his bones. He sat cross-legged on the packed earth at the far edge of the outer disciple training courtyard, tucked away behind a cluster of weather-beaten practice dummies whose surfaces bore the scars of countless clumsy strikes. Most other disciples preferred the central area, where the ambient spiritual energy was rumoured to be marginally thicker, or they waited for the first rays of sunlight, believing it aided Qi absorption. Wen Xuan preferred the quiet solitude, the relative anonymity offered by the deep shadows before the sun breached the jagged peaks surrounding the Falling Star Sect.

  He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the dilapidated courtyard walls and the distant, flickering lights from the inner sect quarters higher up the mountain. His focus turned inward, a familiar, often frustrating journey into the landscape of his own body and the imperceptible ocean of energy surrounding him. This was the foundation of all cultivation: sensing Qi, guiding it, refining it. For Wen Xuan, it felt less like swimming in an ocean and more like searching for moisture in a desert.

  The Falling Star Foundation Method, the basic technique taught to all outer disciples, instructed one to first quiet the mind, becoming receptive to the flow of ambient Heaven and Earth Qi. It spoke of feeling the energy like a gentle breeze or a flowing stream. For Wen Xuan, it was rarely more than a faint static against his spiritual senses, fleeting and difficult to grasp, like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. His Inferior Grade 9 roots acted like a faulty net, letting most of the energy slip past, catching only the thinnest, most elusive strands.

  He breathed deeply, slowly, matching the rhythm described in the manual – inhale for seven counts, hold for three, exhale for ten. He extended his spiritual sense outwards, straining to perceive the faint luminescence practitioners swore filled the air. After long minutes of intense concentration, he felt it: tiny, almost indiscernible threads of energy, cooler than the night air, drifting listlessly. They felt… distant, uninterested. Where the manual described a vibrant tapestry, he perceived only sparse, frayed threads.

  Focus. Guide. Draw it in. The instructions echoed in his mind. With painstaking effort, Wen Xuan attempted to latch onto one of these faint Qi threads with his spiritual sense, coaxing it towards him. It resisted, sluggish and ephemeral. It was like trying to pull a single strand of spider silk without breaking it. Finally, after several failed attempts that left his concentration wavering, he managed to draw a wisp of the cold, ambient Qi towards his body.

  The next step was absorption, guiding the Qi through the primary acupoints – the Baihui point at the crown of his head, the Yongquan points on the soles of his feet – and into his meridian network. This too was a struggle. His meridians felt narrow, constricted, like pathways choked with silt. The Qi didn't flow; it seeped, encountering resistance at every turn. He could feel it snagging, bunching up, causing dull aches and points of uncomfortable pressure. He visualized the pathways as described – rivers carrying starlight – but his reality was a hesitant trickle navigating a rocky, obstructed creek bed.

  He had to exert immense mental effort to keep the fragile Qi thread moving, pushing it through the designated 'Lesser Heavenly Cycle' path: down the Conception Vessel along the front, up the Governing Vessel along the back. Each inch felt like a victory hard-won. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the pre-dawn chill, a testament to the mental strain, not the physical exertion. He knew other disciples, those with Average or even just Inferior Grade 8 roots, could often complete a full cycle in the time it took him to nudge the Qi past a single major junction.

  After what felt like an eternity, the minuscule stream of Qi completed its tortuous journey, arriving at his dantian, the energy center located below his navel. The final step was refinement – using the established Qi within his dantian to purify the newly absorbed ambient Qi, shedding its chaotic impurities and integrating its essence into his own foundation. For Wen Xuan, this was perhaps the most disheartening part. His existing pool of refined Qi was so small, so weak, that the refinement process was incredibly inefficient. It felt like trying to filter muddy water through a sieve already clogged with grit.

  He focused, circulating the new Qi through the meagre pool in his dantian. He felt a faint warmth, a slight buzz of activity, but most of the energy seemed to dissipate, lost in the process. Only the tiniest fraction, a sliver almost too small to measure, merged successfully, adding an almost imperceptible weight to his foundation.

  He completed the cycle, exhaling slowly, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over him. Not the satisfying tiredness of progress, but the draining fatigue of immense effort yielding minimal results. He opened his eyes. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east, painting the clouds in faint shades of grey and purple. The air held the promise of dawn, but Wen Xuan felt only the familiar weight of his limitations. Three years, and this was the extent of his progress. Solidifying the First Stage meant he could reliably store a small amount of Qi, but controlling it, using it for techniques beyond the most basic reinforcement of his body, remained largely beyond him.

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  A hollow ache resonated from his stomach, a reminder that his meagre cultivation gains did little to alleviate his constant hunger. The outer disciple rations were coarse grain porridge, steamed buns, and occasionally some tough, boiled vegetables – barely enough to sustain the body, let alone fuel the demanding process of cultivation, especially when progress was so slow. He knew inner disciples, and even some favoured outer disciples, received supplemental Spirit Gathering Pills, used special Qi-rich cultivation chambers, or had access to spirit stones to accelerate their progress. Such resources were unthinkable luxuries for someone like him, someone assigned to the Repository of Forgotten Things. His only resource was time, persistence, and the thin, reluctant Qi of the outer courtyard.

  He closed his eyes again, preparing to attempt another cycle, pushing down the frustration. Persistence was his only viable strategy. Perhaps the faint resonance he'd felt from the dummy core yesterday was just a hallucination born of dust and fatigue. Perhaps the subtle clues in the Repository were meaningless anomalies. His reality, harsh and unyielding, was this struggle, this slow, grinding effort.

  "Still here, Wen Xuan?"

  The voice, calm but carrying an edge of authority, startled him. He opened his eyes to see Assistant Instructor Rui standing a few paces away, observing him. Instructor Rui was a stern-faced man in his late twenties, his cultivation already at the peak of the Foundation Establishment realm, tasked with overseeing the basic training and discipline of the outer sect disciples. He wasn't unkind, but he valued effort and tangible results above all else.

  Wen Xuan quickly rose to his feet, bowing slightly. "Instructor Rui. I was… cultivating."

  Instructor Rui's gaze swept over him, taking in his still posture, the lack of any visible Qi fluctuation around him – the faint glow or subtle aura that sometimes accompanied successful cultivation in others. He frowned slightly. "Cultivating? Or contemplating the philosophical implications of that practice dummy?" He gestured vaguely towards the scarred wooden posts. "Your progress remains… deliberate, Wen Xuan. Stage One after three years. Some might mistake such deliberation for lack of effort. Or lack of ambition."

  Wen Xuan felt his cheeks flush slightly under the grime. He knew what Rui was implying. His quietness, his tendency towards introspection, his sheer lack of discernible progress – it all painted a picture of someone resigned, unambitious, perhaps even slow-witted. How could he explain the intense internal battle, the monumental effort required for him to achieve even the smallest gain? How could he convey the feeling of wrestling with smoke, of navigating choked pathways, when others seemed to glide effortlessly on rivers of Qi?

  "I assure you, Instructor, I am applying myself," Wen Xuan said, keeping his voice even, his gaze directed respectfully towards the ground a few feet in front of Rui's boots. "My aptitude is poor. Progress is… difficult."

  Instructor Rui sighed, a sound less of annoyance and more of weary resignation. "Aptitude is a factor, yes, but will can overcome much. The Sect invests resources, however meagre, in every disciple. We expect to see a return, some forward momentum. Sitting perfectly still does not necessarily equate to diligent cultivation. Sometimes, Wen Xuan, visible effort, even if clumsy, is more encouraging than silent contemplation." He paused, his gaze lingering on Wen Xuan for a moment longer. "Do not mistake patience for permission to stagnate. The outer sect has standards, even now."

  Without waiting for a reply, Instructor Rui continued his patrol, his footsteps crisp on the packed earth, leaving Wen Xuan standing alone in the growing light. The words, though not harsh, stung. Lack of effort. Lack of ambition. Silent contemplation. They saw his stillness, his quietness, and judged it as deficiency. They couldn't see the ferocious, focused battle being waged within, the sheer stubborn will required just to draw a single thread of Qi.

  He sank back down to his cross-legged position, the instructor's words echoing in his ears. Stagnation. Was that his fate? To forever struggle at the lowest rung, his potential capped by the accident of his birth, his efforts dismissed as daydreaming?

  A flicker of defiance sparked within him, surprising in its intensity. It wasn't directed at Instructor Rui, but at the perceived limitations, at the cosmic unfairness of it all. And intertwined with it was the memory of the Repository – the feel of the fractured core, the wear patterns on the floor, the scent of cared-for steel. Those faint whispers suggested a reality more complex, perhaps more accessible through means other than raw Qi cultivation. Observation. Perception. Understanding the echoes left behind by time and intention. Could that be a path?

  It was a fragile, uncertain thought, easily dismissed as wishful thinking born of desperation. Yet, it lingered.

  He took another deep breath, pushing aside both the instructor's critique and the nascent, strange hope. For now, he had only this: the chill air, the thin Qi threads, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach, and the long, arduous path of the Falling Star Foundation Method. He closed his eyes and reached out once more, searching for smoke in the desert, his quiet persistence his only true resource. The sun finally crested the peaks, bathing the courtyard in pale golden light, but Wen Xuan remained in the shadows, lost in his silent, internal struggle.