Spring bled into summer without ceremony.
In the Qingyun Sect, seasons changed the way everything else did—quietly, inefficiently, as if the world itself had lost the will to make a spectacle out of anything.
Three months passed.
And nothing happened.
At least, that was how it looked.
Zhao Fan continued to walk.
Every morning, while other outer disciples gathered in the training yards—sweating, grimacing, forcing their breath into rigid cycles—he wandered the sect grounds like a ghost that had forgotten its purpose.
Sometimes he walked along the outer walls, tracing the uneven stone with his fingers.
Sometimes he circled the old library, whose doors had been sealed for years due to "structural instability" and lack of funds.
Sometimes he simply followed the wind, letting it push him down paths he'd never bothered to notice before.
He did not meditate.
He did not practice techniques.
He did not even try to cultivate.
He rested when tired.
He ate when hungry.
He slept when night fell.
And because of that—
He became a spectacle.
"Look, it's Zhao Fan again."
"What's he doing today? Inspecting ants?"
"Maybe he thinks walking will turn him immortal."
Laughter followed him like a shadow.
At first, Zhao Fan's ears would redden. His steps would falter.
Then he would remember Elder Lin's voice—lazy, indifferent, almost bored.
Stop forcing it.
And he would keep walking.
By the end of the first month, the ridicule sharpened.
"Didn't he get assigned to Elder Lin?"
"Of course. Useless elder, useless disciple."
"I heard disciples can request reassignment if their elder is incompetent."
"Really? Then why hasn't he?"
Someone snorted. "Probably because no one else wants him."
Zhao Fan heard every word.
He never responded.
He simply walked.
—
Lin Mo noticed everything.
He pretended not to.
But it was impossible not to notice when Zhao Fan passed his quarters every morning, steps steady, expression calm, not even glancing toward the training yards.
At first, Lin Mo told himself it was fine.
This is good, he thought. No progress means no misunderstanding payoff. No backlash. Just… nothing.
Nothing was safe.
Nothing meant survival.
But after the first month passed with no change—
A faint unease crept in.
After the second month—
The unease grew teeth.
Lin Mo stood near the edge of the outer disciple grounds one afternoon, watching Zhao Fan wander past with his usual unhurried gait.
No aura.
No qi fluctuations.
No signs of cultivation at all.
And yet—
Lin Mo frowned.
Why does his breathing look… smoother?
It wasn't obvious.
Not something a normal cultivator would notice.
But Lin Mo wasn't watching with a cultivator's eyes.
He was watching with the eyes of someone who had once managed teams of overworked employees and recognized the difference between exhaustion and balance.
Zhao Fan moved like someone who had stopped fighting himself.
That was dangerous.
Not for Zhao Fan.
For Lin Mo.
Because three months had passed.
And nothing had happened to him, either.
No reward.
No backlash.
No sign of the strange force that had twisted his words that morning.
Just silence.
At night, Lin Mo lay awake, staring at the ceiling, counting cracks in the beams.
The system needs time, he reasoned.
He didn't know why he called it "the system." The name had simply… appeared in his thoughts one night and refused to leave.
Time.
Success.
Misunderstanding.
Those were the conditions—vague, but present.
No instant gratification.
No cheap miracles.
Which meant only one thing.
If this actually works… it will come later.
And when it came—
Lin Mo's jaw tightened.
What if it fails?
The rules were clear enough.
If misunderstanding failed…
The backlash would be on him.
He pictured it too easily.
A sudden collapse.
Cultivation deviation.
His already-mediocre foundation shattering because of a disciple's failed path.
Being carried out of the sect on a stretcher.
Quietly erased.
Lin Mo sat up abruptly one night, breath shallow.
"This is stupid," he muttered. "I should cut this off."
He considered it seriously.
Abandon Zhao Fan.
Not officially—that would draw attention.
But emotionally.
Stop giving advice.
Stop answering questions.
Let the boy request reassignment on his own.
That would end the probation cleanly.
The thought brought relief.
And then—
The next morning, Lin Mo saw Zhao Fan sitting beneath an old tree near the storage sheds.
Not meditating.
Just sitting.
Eyes open.
Watching the way sunlight filtered through leaves.
Something twisted in Lin Mo's chest.
He turned away.
Don't be an idiot, he scolded himself. This isn't your world. You don't get to save people.
He resolved it then.
If nothing changed by the end of the third month—
He would distance himself completely.
—
On the final day of that third month, the sky was heavy with clouds.
The air felt thick, pressing down on everything.
Zhao Fan walked as usual.
But near dusk, something felt… wrong.
His steps slowed.
His chest felt tight—not painful, just unfamiliar.
He stopped near the neglected training yard and frowned slightly.
Strange, he thought. I'm not tired.
He took another step.
A sharp crack echoed from his body.
Zhao Fan froze.
The sound hadn't come from the ground.
It had come from him.
A heat bloomed beneath his skin, spreading from his spine outward, like something stretching after a very long sleep.
Zhao Fan staggered, grabbing the practice dummy to steady himself.
His breath hitched.
Another crack.
Then another.
Not bones breaking.
Something… releasing.
Across the sect, Lin Mo paused mid-step.
His heart skipped.
A chill raced up his spine, sharp and sudden.
That's—
He didn't finish the thought.
In the neglected training yard, Zhao Fan gasped as his skin flushed red, veins standing out briefly before sinking back down.
His muscles tightened.
Then relaxed.
Then tightened again.
He fell to one knee, hands pressed to the ground, breath coming in ragged bursts.
"What… is happening…?" he whispered.
Deep within his body, something long stagnant—
Moved.
And for the first time in three months—
The silence broke.