The twelfth night in Evernight Pavilion was colder than usual. Aaryan sat in his dimly lit chamber, legs folded in meditation. The oil lamp beside him flickered, its glow weak but persistent—much like his progress.

Nearly two weeks had passed, yet despite hours of daily practice, Internal Flow Regulation still eluded him. The technique demanded perfect control over breath and awareness, yet his body remained unresponsive. He had followed the sutra’s instructions exactly—slow, steady breathing, complete stillness, the mind turned inward—but nothing changed. No warmth, no energy shifting, nothing.

Yet tonight, he sat once more, unwavering. If it were easy, everyone would have mastered it already.

He exhaled, emptying his lungs before drawing in a slow, measured breath.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold.

Maybe his body wasn’t broken—maybe he simply wasn’t meant to cultivate. The thought slithered into his mind, unwanted, undeniable. But if he accepted it… what was left?

So he inhaled again.

He repeated the cycle, sinking deeper into his breath. His awareness stretched inward, seeking—anything.

Nothing.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. The oil lamp burned lower, shadows stretching across the stone walls.

hen—a flicker. His fingertips tingled, a strange but unmistakable sensation trickling through his veins. But there it was—a ripple beneath his skin. Not the overwhelming surge he had imagined, but a delicate thread of warmth stirring deep within.

His breath hitched. Don't lose it.

But the warmth faded, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

Yet this time, it had been there.

Aaryan opened his eyes slowly, the lamp’s flickering light reflected in his gaze. Barely anything at all.

But it was proof.

A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Finally.

He adjusted his posture and closed his eyes again. He would try again. And again.

Until that flicker became something greater.

Days blurred into a cycle of breath and motion.

Each morning, Aaryan refined his control over the Purification Sutra. Though progress was slow, the warmth no longer felt like an accident. It was something he could reach with effort, something he could cultivate.

It wasn’t easy. Some days, he would sit for hours and feel nothing. Other times, the warmth appeared for mere seconds before vanishing. Frustrating—but expected. If this were easy, everyone would have a strong foundation.

At first, the warmth disappeared as soon as it emerged. But over time, it lingered. Seconds stretched into minutes. It wasn’t enough—but it was something.

Yet, when he switched to Coiling Serpent Bind, that progress disappeared. His body was listening now. So why did the technique still feel lifeless?

Purification Sutra had taught him patience. But Coiling Serpent Bind required rhythm. Flow. An opponent’s strength to work with. Right now, he had nothing to feel.

Each night, he practiced the forms—precise but rigid. The serpent in the illustrations coiled, slithered, flowed—his own movements felt forced, stiff, unnatural. How could he learn a technique that relied on adaptation when there was nothing to adapt to?

He struck again, twisting his wrist mid-motion, trying to redirect an invisible force. It felt wrong. Forced. His movements lacked flow. With a frustrated breath, he lashed out, the strike hitting the dummy too hard, too direct. Like forcing a river to bend with sheer will. Impossible.

Aaryan unrolled the scroll, eyes tracing the passage he had read countless times:

"The serpent does not fight strength with strength. It coils, adapts, and constricts. Its fangs are secondary—its patience is its true weapon."

No rigid stance. No fixed movements. Only adaptation.

The scroll detailed three core principles:

1. Reading Momentum – Understanding an opponent’s flow before they even strike.

2. Redirection – Using their own strength against them.

3. Instinct – Making the technique part of oneself.

Something was missing. He had mirrored every movement, but nothing was clicking.

He clenched his fist. How was he supposed to adapt when there was no opponent?

Each strike landed hollow—a ghost of a technique with no force to shape it. His grip tightened. Maybe this technique was useless alone. But even that thought irritated him. No. He wouldn’t let this beat him before he even began.

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His arms burned from repetition, fingers stiff from countless strikes. His breaths came sharp, each exhale edged with frustration.

Not perfect. But it would do.

Aaryan struck—not with force, but with flow. His wrist twisted, wrapping around the dummy, guiding its nonexistent energy as if it were real. Sloppy at first, hands fumbling to maintain flow. But with each attempt, the motion grew smoother.

Minutes passed. Then an hour.

His strikes landed, but they meant nothing. A hollow rhythm against an unyielding dummy.

Had he been forcing the technique instead of understanding it?

Then, as his frustration peaked, a thought surfaced.

He had been treating Coiling Serpent Bind like a rigid form, but it wasn’t one. It wasn’t something to be memorized—it was something to be felt. It wasn’t in the pages of the scroll, but in movement itself.

Had he been chasing something that wasn’t there? Was it the technique itself, or the way he had approached it?

The scroll’s words repeated in his mind, but they weren’t enough. His hands curled at his sides, then loosened. He exhaled slowly, shifting his stance—his body adjusting, mirroring the fluidity he had been chasing all along.

He needed more.

Watching others fight—seeing the flow of battle in real time—that was how he would understand.

Aaryan stepped out into the night, his hood drawn low. The sect was never truly silent. Even at this hour, distant echoes of battle techniques being practiced rang out from different training areas.

He moved through the pathways, keeping his steps light. His destination: the outer training arenas.

If he couldn’t practice Coiling Serpent Bind properly, he would watch.

He reached a secluded vantage point near the wooden walkways surrounding one of the sparring grounds, carefully positioning himself within the shadows. Below, disciples trained beneath dim lantern light, their figures shifting rapidly as they clashed.

He narrowed his eyes, focusing on those who countered rather than attacked.

A lean, sharp-eyed disciple stood against a heavier opponent. The larger fighter launched a powerful strike. A dull thud echoed as the larger disciple’s fist met empty air. His opponent had already moved, a ghost against the lantern light. Then—a single shift, a sharp pivot, and the balance was stolen before the blow could even land. The heavier man stumbled, the crack of gravel beneath his feet the only sound before he fell onto one knee, breath ragged from wasted strength.

Aaryan’s pulse quickened. That.

Further down the courtyard, another match—two disciples sparred with wooden weapons. One held firm, swinging powerfully. The other, instead of blocking, let his blade slide just enough to redirect the force, tilting the strike away instead of meeting it head-on. The wood scraped together with a sharp hiss before parting, the redirected force causing the first disciple to stagger back, blinking in frustration.

A distant shout rang out as another pair clashed. The scent of sweat and damp earth filled the air, mixing with the faint scent of burning oil from the lanterns. The ground trembled slightly beneath the force of repeated strikes, each impact vibrating through the wooden walkways where Aaryan crouched. He felt the faint pulse of movement in his fingertips as he steadied himself against the railing.

A short distance away, another match unfolded. One disciple weaved effortlessly between strikes, his movements like flowing water. His opponent swung with brute force, but each blow missed its mark, slicing through empty air. Aaryan could hear the sharp exhalations of effort, the barely audible shuffle of feet adjusting on the dirt floor. Then, with a sudden burst, the smaller disciple twisted, using his opponent’s momentum to flip him over. The heavy impact rattled through the ground, sending dust into the air.

Aaryan's breath slowed as he studied another fight—this one different. Two disciples circled each other, their eyes locked in silent calculation. One darted in, delivering a series of swift, precise strikes. The other, instead of blocking, merely shifted his weight ever so slightly, letting each attack slide past his body like wind passing through reeds. It was effortless, controlled—like the very essence of Coiling Serpent Bind.

He clenched his fists. His breath caught. A sharp pang of realization coiled in his gut. How had he not seen it before?

Coiling Serpent Bind wasn’t just a technique—it was a mindset.

He had been trying to memorize movements when he should have been understanding momentum. He had been forcing the forms when he should have been feeling the flow.

The realization sent a surge of energy through him. He stayed longer, observing different fighters, breaking down the way they moved, the way they reacted.

Some were rigid, predictable. Others were more fluid, adjusting to their opponent’s actions with ease. Those were the ones he paid the most attention to.

Each fighter had their own flow—some like rushing waves, others like shifting wind. He had spent nights memorizing movements when what he needed was to find his own rhythm. His own flow.

Flow wasn’t just movement—it was reaction. It was balance, knowing when to yield and when to press forward. He had spent days memorizing forms, when all along, he should have been listening to the battle itself.

His body tensed, then relaxed as if something had unlocked within him. The stiffness in his movements suddenly felt unnatural—wrong.

He stayed well into the night, unnoticed and unseen. Tomorrow, he would return. And the day after that. Until he could read movements like words on a scroll.

The next night, Aaryan found himself in the same place. Watching, studying.

During the day, he practiced. His footwork changed first. He no longer focused on strict forms but on reacting. If he stepped forward, how quickly could he pull back? If he pivoted, how much force did he naturally generate?

At first, his body resisted. His stance faltered, ankles sore from shifting weight. Each movement carried hesitation, his reflexes half a beat too slow, too rigid.

But slowly—painstakingly—he improved.

By the fifth night of observation, he had begun anticipating attacks before they landed.

By the seventh, he felt the difference in weight when an opponent shifted their stance.

The shift was effortless, like slipping into a river’s current instead of fighting against it. For the first time, his body responded not with thought, but with instinct. A thrill ran through him—not of excitement, but of understanding.

It had taken days, yet now, in a single moment, his body understood what his mind had struggled to grasp. If learning was this slow… how long until he was truly ready?

Despite his progress, something still gnawed at Aaryan.

He was slow.

In the courtyard, a few disciples exchanged words about tomorrow. Some were confident, laughing. Others were sharpening weapons in silence. Aaryan exhaled. He was nowhere near their level. Not yet

The first month had been guaranteed.

From now on, only those strong enough to hold their place would keep receiving resources.

Aaryan exhaled slowly, controlling his breath.

His progress was slow.

But he wasn’t stopping.

They had been training for years. He had been here for weeks. Yet for the first time, he didn’t feel lost—he felt prepared.

Tomorrow, he would stand among them—not as their equal, but as someone who refused to be left behind. He wasn't strong enough. Not yet. But neither was he the boy who sat in stillness, waiting for power to come to him. Strength wasn’t given—it was taken. And he was ready to take his first step.