The rumor spread before noon.
Not loudly.
Not openly.
But like moisture creeping through walls, it reached every corner of Beijing No. 3 High School.
"Someone collapsed during P.E. yesterday."
"I heard it wasn't heatstroke."
"They say the teachers were told not to talk about it."
Whispers followed Fang Ze as he walked through the corridor. Not suspicion—yet—but curiosity edged with instinct. Humans, even ordinary ones, sensed when something beneath the surface shifted.
Zhang rui scratched his head during lunch. "Strange days, huh? Feels like stuff keeps happening, but nobody wants to explain."
Liu Wenhao lowered his voice. "My cousin works near Chaoyang. He said some gyms closed overnight. No explanation."
He Yun glanced at Fang Ze. Just once. Sharp. Measuring.
Fang Ze met her gaze calmly, then looked away.
She stiffened slightly.
So it wasn't my imagination, she thought.
After school, Fang Ze didn't head home immediately.
He took a detour.
The alley behind an old mixed-use complex near Haidian district buzzed faintly with restless Qi. A private combat gym—unregistered—operated there, catering to people who had "noticed changes" but lacked official channels.
Inside, the air smelled of iron and sweat.
Three young men sparred clumsily, movements exaggerated, Qi leaking wildly with each strike. Their techniques were half-remembered fragments copied from short videos and forums.
Dangerous.
A man leaning against the wall noticed Fang Ze first.
Late twenties. Scar on his chin. Breath steady.
"Who are you?" the man asked casually.
Fang Ze didn't answer immediately.
He stepped forward, eyes scanning the room.
"You're wasting time," Fang Ze said instead.
The sparring stopped.
The man's smile faded slightly. "Careful, kid."
Fang Ze finally looked at him. Calm. Clear.
"Your Qi circulation is reversed every third breath. Keep forcing it and you'll rupture something permanent within a month."
Silence fell.
The man's pupils contracted.
"…Who taught you?"
"No one," Fang Ze replied. "That's why I know."
He turned and walked out before anyone could say more.
Behind him, the man swallowed hard, cold sweat forming on his back.
That wasn't arrogance, he realized.
That was certainty.
That night, Fang Ze refined.
Not to advance—but to compress.
His Qi cycled cleanly through his meridians, layers smoothing, density increasing. The 7th layer of Qi Gathering stabilized fully, his control now sharp enough to influence external fields without ripple.
On the balcony, Su Qingxue joined him quietly.
"You went out," she said.
"Yes."
"Dangerous?"
He shook his head. "Not yet."
She nodded, accepting it without pressing further. Standing beside him, her breathing unconsciously aligned with his—subtle, natural. A faint warmth stirred deep within her, then settled again.
Unawakened.
But listening.
Far across the city, a report crossed an internal HSBA desk.
"Multiple civilian groups displaying early-stage instability."
"One unidentified individual correcting circulation errors verbally."
"No confrontation. No trace left."
The analyst paused.
"Again," he murmured.
Back in his room, Fang Ze closed his eyes.
The city had begun to notice the current.
Soon, it would start choosing sides.
And when it did—
He would already be standing upstream.