The training yard lay behind the outer halls, tucked into a corner of the sect that sunlight seemed to avoid out of habit.
Weeds pushed through cracks in the stone tiles, stubborn and thin, like cultivators who refused to give up despite knowing better. The wooden weapon racks leaned at awkward angles, their surfaces gray with age. A single practice dummy stood in the center, its straw stuffing spilling out like exposed intestines.
Lin Mo stopped at the entrance and stared.
Fitting, he thought. A place forgotten by everyone. Including fate.
A lone figure stood inside.
The boy was thin, but not sickly. His clothes were clean, if badly mended, and his posture—straight-backed, hands folded behind him—was far too formal for an outer disciple training yard.
He wasn't practicing.
He was waiting.
When Lin Mo's footsteps crunched against the gravel, the boy turned instantly, eyes lighting up as if someone had struck flint in his chest.
He hurried forward and bowed deeply.
"This disciple greets Elder Lin!"
The bow was crisp. Earnest. Too earnest.
Lin Mo winced internally.
Don't look at me like that, he thought. You're making this harder.
"Mm," Lin Mo replied aloud, keeping his tone neutral. "You're Zhao Fan."
"Yes!" the boy said quickly. "This disciple is Zhao Fan."
He straightened, eyes bright, lips pressed together in an expression that tried very hard to be calm and respectful… and failed completely.
Excitement leaked out of him like steam through cracks.
Lin Mo took him in with a professional eye—one honed not by cultivation, but by years of reading people in meeting rooms and break areas.
Zhao Fan wasn't pretending.
He really was happy.
Happy to have an elder.
Happy to be acknowledged.
Happy to be… assigned.
Lin Mo felt a faint, uncomfortable tug in his chest and immediately ignored it.
Don't get attached.
Attachment led to expectations.
Expectations led to disappointment.
And disappointment, in this world, came with consequences.
"Follow me," Lin Mo said, turning away before the boy could speak again.
Zhao Fan hurried after him, footsteps light.
They walked to the center of the yard. Lin Mo stopped near the cracked practice dummy and folded his sleeves behind his back, adopting what he hoped looked like an elder's dignified posture.
Inwardly, he was calculating.
I'm on probation.
That fact had become painfully clear once the memories settled.
An elder without contribution was an elder waiting to be erased.
Teaching a disciple counted.
Failing to teach a disciple was proof of uselessness.
And worse—disciples had rights.
Outer disciples could request reassignment.
If Zhao Fan submitted such a request, it would be recorded.
If enough time passed without improvement…
Lin Mo exhaled slowly.
So I need him to stay. But I don't need him to succeed.
A delicate balance.
"Zhao Fan," Lin Mo said, "how long have you been cultivating?"
The boy thought for a moment. "Four years, Elder."
"And your current realm?"
Zhao Fan hesitated. "The… early stage of Body Refinement. Still."
Lin Mo nodded as if this were expected.
Because it was.
Four years. Early Body Refinement.
In this sect, that was… not even embarrassing anymore. It was normal.
Thin spiritual energy punished everyone equally.
A few passing disciples walked along the edge of the yard. When they noticed the pairing, their steps slowed.
Whispers followed.
"That's Elder Lin."
"The useless one?"
"And that's Zhao Fan… ah, now it makes sense."
"Perfect match."
A few chuckles.
Zhao Fan's shoulders stiffened. His ears reddened, but he said nothing. He stood straighter instead, chin lifted a fraction, as if daring himself not to react.
Lin Mo watched this quietly.
He hears everything, Lin Mo noted. And he pretends not to.
That took effort.
More effort than most people were willing to spend on dignity.
A cultivator with no talent but a spine.
Interesting—but irrelevant.
Lin Mo turned slightly, positioning himself so his body blocked some of the sightlines from the path. Not intentionally. He realized it only after he did it.
Annoyed with himself, he spoke quickly.
"You should know something," Lin Mo said. "I'm not a… hands-on elder."
Zhao Fan blinked. "Yes, Elder?"
"I won't supervise you constantly. I won't correct every mistake. Cultivation is your own responsibility."
Zhao Fan nodded immediately. "Of course! That's how it should be!"
Lin Mo paused.
Too easy, he thought.
"I also don't have special techniques," Lin Mo continued. "Nor rare resources. No pills. No secret manuals."
"That's fine!" Zhao Fan said earnestly. "As long as Elder is willing to guide me, that's more than enough."
Lin Mo stared at him.
The boy met his gaze without flinching.
Not challenging.
Not pleading.
Just… trusting.
Lin Mo looked away.
This is bad, he thought. This is exactly the type that makes things complicated.
"Good," Lin Mo said curtly. "Then expectations are clear."
He walked toward the practice dummy and tapped it once with his knuckle. Straw fluttered out.
"Show me how you cultivate."
Zhao Fan's eyes lit up again. "Yes!"
He stepped back, took a stance, and closed his eyes.
Lin Mo watched.
Zhao Fan inhaled.
Then he frowned.
Then he inhaled again.
His brow furrowed deeper and deeper as seconds passed.
Lin Mo waited.
A minute passed.
Two.
A bead of sweat slid down Zhao Fan's temple.
Lin Mo sighed. "You can breathe."
Zhao Fan opened his eyes, startled. "I—I was aligning my breathing with the flow of spiritual energy."
"There is no flow," Lin Mo said flatly.
Zhao Fan froze.
Lin Mo gestured around them. "This land barely has enough spiritual energy to sustain weeds. Trying to 'sense the flow' here is like trying to hear music in a storm."
Zhao Fan's face flushed. "B-but the manual says—"
"The manual was written in a different region," Lin Mo interrupted. "Different conditions."
The boy fell silent.
For a moment, Lin Mo thought he might argue.
Instead, Zhao Fan bowed his head. "This disciple understands."
Lin Mo raised an eyebrow.
He accepted that too easily.
Zhao Fan tried again—this time simply breathing, slower, calmer.
Nothing happened.
No aura.
No ripple.
No reaction.
The passing disciples laughed openly now.
"He's still doing that?"
"Four years and nothing."
"Elder Lin must be proud."
Lin Mo felt a familiar irritation rise—not anger, exactly, but the same dull resentment he used to feel in meeting rooms when someone laughed at another person's failure just to feel taller.
He cut it off.
Not my problem.
"Stop," Lin Mo said.
Zhao Fan stopped immediately.
Lin Mo considered him for a long moment.
Minimal effort, he reminded himself. Just enough to keep the seat.
"Zhao Fan," Lin Mo said slowly, "what do you think cultivation is?"
The boy blinked. "Cultivation is… drawing in spiritual energy, refining the body, strengthening oneself to pursue the Dao."
A textbook answer.
Lin Mo nodded. "And what happens when there is no spiritual energy?"
Zhao Fan hesitated. "Then… cultivation becomes difficult."
"Wrong," Lin Mo said.
Zhao Fan stiffened.
"It becomes pointless," Lin Mo continued lazily. "At least, the way you're doing it."
The boy's eyes widened.
Lin Mo spoke as if thinking aloud. "Everyone here fights over scraps of spiritual energy. They cling to techniques meant for richer lands. They force their bodies to follow paths that no longer exist."
He shrugged.
"Maybe the problem isn't you."
Zhao Fan stared at him.
Lin Mo realized—too late—that he had slipped.
He had intended to dismiss the boy gently.
Instead, he had… reframed the entire issue.
Zhao Fan's breathing quickened.
"Elder," he asked carefully, "are you saying… the path itself is wrong?"
Lin Mo felt the danger immediately.
Careful.
He waved a hand. "I'm saying you shouldn't overthink it."
Zhao Fan's eyes shone.
"That's exactly what I've been doing," the boy whispered. "Overthinking…"
Lin Mo coughed. "Yes. That."
He turned away, pretending to examine the dummy. "For now, don't worry about drawing in energy."
Zhao Fan took a sharp breath. "Then what should I do?"
Lin Mo hesitated.
He needed something harmless.
Something vague.
Something that couldn't backfire.
"Just… maintain your state," Lin Mo said. "Don't force anything. Don't chase progress."
Zhao Fan absorbed every word like sacred scripture.
"I see," he murmured. "Maintain… without pursuit…"
Lin Mo frowned.
Why does that sound dangerous coming out of his mouth?
He straightened. "That's all for today."
Zhao Fan bowed deeply. "Thank you, Elder."
As Lin Mo walked away, the whispers followed him again.
"Did you hear that?"
"He told him not to cultivate."
"As expected of Elder Lin."
"Zhao Fan is doomed."
Lin Mo didn't respond.
He didn't look back.
Because he knew if he did, he'd see that boy standing there, eyes full of stubborn sincerity, trying to make sense of words that were never meant to mean anything.
That night, Lin Mo lay on his narrow bed in the elder quarters, staring at the ceiling.
Minimal effort, he reminded himself.
Just survive.
Outside, in the neglected training yard, Zhao Fan sat cross-legged under the stars.
He wasn't cultivating.
He was maintaining.
And for the first time in four years—
His breathing felt… calm.