The secret of the spatial ring and the jade slip became the new core of Li Chen's existence, a silent, humming center around which his entire life now orbited. He wore the ring on a leather thong under his robes, a constant, cool weight against his skin that reminded him of the vast, hidden world of knowledge that existed just beyond the sight of ordinary cultivators.
His days fell into a new, more intense rhythm. His mornings were for the "Verdant Sword Body Tempering Art," where he continued his patient, meticulous work on Flesh Tempering. His afternoons were for his duties in the herb garden, where Elder Guo would occasionally grunt a correction or offer a cryptic comment that Li Chen now understood were lessons in spiritual botany—the way plants interacted with and shaped the qi of their environment.
But his nights, and any other stolen moment, were for the jade slip.
He did not attempt to create a domain. That was a dream for a being far more powerful than he. Instead, he focused on the most basic, foundational principle the slip described: Spatial Anchoring. The ability to momentarily stabilize a point in space, making it slightly more "real" and resistant to change.
He practiced not with grand gestures, but with a single, dried pea he had taken from the Spirit Kitchen. He would place it on the stone floor of the abandoned toolshed he now used as a secret practice ground, and he would sit before it.
He would extend his awareness, not with his eyes, but with his spirit, feeling the space the pea occupied. He tried to impose his will upon that tiny, specific volume of air and matter, to make it "still." For days, nothing happened. The pea remained just a pea. Frustration, a foreign emotion, would sometimes bubble up. This was the painful moment of struggle—the gap between theoretical knowledge and practical application.
He realized his error. He was trying to force stability, like Zhang Fan forcing his fire qi. That was against his entire Dao. He recalled the lesson of the Earth Pulse Cave: one must become a filter, a conduit, not a hammer.
He changed his approach. He stopped trying to command the space. Instead, he would still his own heart-mind, making his spirit as calm and unmoving as the deep earth. He would then extend this quality of "stillness" outwards, allowing it to gently seep into the space around the pea, to harmonize with it.
One night, after nearly two weeks of failed attempts, it happened. He wasn't even consciously trying anymore, simply resting in a state of deep meditation. His awareness brushed the pea, and for a single, fleeting second, the space around it… hardened.
It was so subtle he almost missed it. The dust motes in the air seemed to hang perfectly still. The pea itself felt as immovable as a mountain peak. The effect lasted less than a heartbeat before vanishing, but the shock of it broke Li Chen's concentration.
He stared at the ordinary pea, his heart pounding not with excitement, but with a profound, reverent understanding. He had done it. Not through force, but through alignment. He had become so stable himself that he could briefly lend that stability to the world around him.
This was no combat technique. It couldn't stop a sword or block a spell. But in that moment, Li Chen understood its potential. What if he could anchor an opponent's foot to the ground for a split second? What if he could stabilize a crumbling wall? The applications were endless, limited only by his imagination and his depth of understanding.
This small, private triumph was contrasted by the growing tension in his public life. Luo's campaign of whispers was having an effect. Other disciples from Elder Feng's faction would "accidentally" jostle him in line or make snide comments about "spies who hide in the dirt" just loud enough for him to hear.
The emotional weight of this isolation was heavy. The only reprieves were his interactions with Bai Lian and Zhang Fan.
One afternoon, Bai Lian found him sorting herbs. "You've been quiet," she said, her voice gentle. "And you look tired. Is it the rumors? Don't listen to them. Everyone knows Luo is just a bully."
Li Chen looked at her, at the genuine worry in her eyes. The guilt of his secrecy warred with a deep appreciation for her friendship. "The rumors are like the wind," he said, using one of her metaphors. "They cannot move a rooted tree. But thank you."
It was the closest he had come to a personal acknowledgment of her care. A faint blush touched her cheeks, and she quickly looked down, a small, relaxing, heartwarming moment of shared understanding.
Zhang Fan's support was more practical. During a sparring session, when one of Luo's friends tried to "accidentally" strike Li Chen's leg with excessive force, Zhang Fan stepped in, blocking the blow with his own forearm.
"Watch your form," Zhang Fan growled at the other disciple. "The elder said controlled sparring, not a brawl." He didn't look at Li Chen, but the message was clear: he had drawn a line. He was, in his own gruff way, an ally.
But the pressure was building. Li Chen knew a confrontation was inevitable. He could feel it, a gathering storm in the sect's political sky. He had the secret knowledge, but he lacked the raw power to defend it openly. His only advantage was that no one could possibly suspect the true nature of his discovery.
As he left the herb garden that evening, he saw a group of inner disciples from the Law Enforcement Hall, led by Elder Feng's head disciple, questioning Elder Guo. The elder stood, stoic and unmoving as an old tree, but Li Chen saw the tension in his shoulders.
The storm was coming. And Li Chen, with his perfectly tempered body, his fragment of cosmic knowledge, and his handful of allies, would be at its center. His next move wouldn't be to fight, but to observe, to understand, and to prepare his foundation for the coming tempest.