Lin Chen set a rule for himself.
If he couldn't repeat something safely three times, it didn't count.
Power that only worked once wasn't power—it was an accident.
The morning after his recovery, he cleared a space in his room. Not dramatically. He pushed the chair under the desk, moved the laundry basket aside, and wiped the floor with a damp towel until the wood was clean.
Clean space. Clean variables.
He stood barefoot at the center and relaxed his shoulders.
No formations.
Just awareness.
The faint lines surfaced slowly, like an image coming into focus. They were weaker than before, less insistent. That was good. It meant his body wasn't already leaning into them.
Lin inhaled and chose a single point on the floor.
Not an anchor.
A reference.
In the game, novices made the mistake of *building* first. Veterans started by *listening*. They observed how energy already wanted to move before trying to redirect it.
He did the same.
The air above the floor felt marginally warmer. Not heat—movement. A preference. He followed it with his attention, letting it guide him instead of forcing alignment.
No headache.
Encouraged, Lin traced the idea of a line—not a shape, not a structure. Just a direction.
The sensation sharpened slightly.
The dust near the floor shifted.
Barely.
Lin stopped immediately.
He waited.
Nothing rebounded. No pain. No pressure.
His breath came out in a quiet laugh.
"That's one."
He wrote it down.
**Micro-influence possible**
**Direction only**
**No anchoring = minimal strain**
He rested for ten minutes before trying again.
Same result.
Then a third time.
Same again.
By the end of the session, his head felt tired—but stable. The difference mattered. Fatigue was something he could work with.
This was control.
---
Over the next week, Lin treated his ability like physical therapy.
Short sessions. Clear goals. Long breaks.
He practiced *release* more than construction—learning how to disengage cleanly, how to let awareness fade without snapping it shut. He practiced recognizing the early signs of strain: the tightening behind his eyes, the subtle slowing of thought.
Most importantly, he practiced stopping.
Not when it hurt.
But before.
One evening, he tested something new.
He placed a coin on the desk and sat across from it, elbows resting on his knees. He didn't try to move it. He didn't even try to affect it.
He simply observed how the space around it behaved.
Metal drew lines differently than wood.
Sharper. More defined.
He imagined—not commanded—a slight imbalance.
The coin trembled.
Once.
Then went still.
Lin leaned back, heart pounding, and waited.
No backlash.
No headache.
No lingering pressure.
He picked up the coin and weighed it in his palm.
"So it's not about force," he murmured. "It's about suggestion."
That realization felt important, though he didn't yet know why.
---
Life outside his room remained stubbornly normal.
Classes. Homework. Conversations that felt oddly distant now, as if he were listening through a thin wall. He laughed when appropriate, answered questions, nodded along.
But he was more careful with his body.
He didn't rush. Didn't overexert. Didn't let adrenaline spike unnecessarily.
Once, during a group project, someone bumped into him in the hallway. Lin caught himself instinctively—
And stopped.
He relaxed instead of bracing.
Good thing he did.
Later, alone, he replayed the moment and felt a faint echo of pressure in his shoulder.
*Reflexes form habits,* he thought. *Habits form structures.*
That scared him enough to reinforce the rule.
No unconscious use.
Ever.
---
At the end of the week, Lin reviewed his notes.
They filled only a few pages, but each line had been earned.
No grand breakthroughs.
No dramatic leaps.
Just consistency.
He closed the notebook and sat quietly, letting the lines fade from view.
For the first time since this began, he didn't feel like he was standing on the edge of a cliff.
He felt like he was learning to walk.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Safely.
Lin didn't know where this path led yet.
But he was certain of one thing now:
If power was built from understanding, then recklessness was ignorance in disguise.
And he had no intention of being ignorant again.