Three years passed without ceremony or declaration, not marked by celebration or visible turning points, but buried beneath a routine so relentless that it erased anticipation itself, shaping Wang Yan from the age of six to nine through repetition alone, until effort ceased to feel like exertion and became instinct.
Within Green Pearl Junior Soul Master Academy, his days unfolded with unchanging order, beginning before sunrise and ending only when fatigue settled deep into the body, as training, lectures, sparring, and labor followed one another without interruption, leaving no room for indulgence and no allowance for haste.
When Wang Yan first arrived, his silence and measured movements had drawn little attention among students with louder confidence and more vivid martial souls, yet as months accumulated into years, instructors began slowing unconsciously when observing him, noticing not brilliance but stability — a cultivation that never wavered, posture that never collapsed, and progress that neither surged nor stalled.
Chen Yu grew stronger and faster, though his habit of expending energy too early remained, while Zhao Qing's lightning matured into something controlled and deliberate, and Liu Ming, whose initial talent had already been high, refined his spear until precision replaced excess.
They trained together often enough that separation felt unnatural, their bond shaped by shared fatigue rather than words.
On an afternoon that appeared ordinary in every way, that routine finally ended.
Wang Yan finished his circulation cycle and remained seated, waiting for the familiar sense of continuation that had accompanied every prior effort, only to find nothing responding, his soul power settled and complete, offering no path forward.
He rose to his feet.
Chen Yu noticed first, not because of any visible change, but because Wang Yan did not immediately resume training.
"You're stopping early," Chen Yu said, wiping sweat from his brow. "That usually means something went wrong."
"Nothing went wrong," Wang Yan replied. "There's simply nowhere further to go."
Liu Ming turned fully toward him.
"Be precise," Liu Ming said, his tone calm but direct. "Are you saying you've reached the limit of your current cultivation?"
"Yes," Wang Yan answered without hesitation. "I just broke through to level ten."
The words shifted the air between them.
Chen Yu let out a slow breath and straightened.
"So that's it," he said after a moment. "Three years of the same grind, and now the path closes whether you're ready or not."
Zhao Qing spoke next, his voice steady.
"At this stage, stagnation isn't a failure. It's confirmation that your foundation is complete."
Liu Ming nodded once.
"And once that happens," he said, "continuing here achieves nothing. You'll need approval from the elders."
"I intend to report immediately," Wang Yan said.
Chen Yu frowned slightly.
"That means the academy will organize a hunt."
"Yes."
Silence followed, brief but heavy, not from uncertainty but from understanding.
Liu Ming broke it first.
"We'll accompany you to the elders," he said. "Not to interfere, but because this concerns all of us."
Zhao Qing added, "We should hear the decision directly."
Chen Yu exhaled and shook his head.
"I always thought we'd have more time before someone crossed this line," he said. "Looks like tomorrow won't be routine anymore."
Wang Yan looked at them and inclined his head.
"Then we go together."
The elders' hall was quiet in a way that discouraged unnecessary speech.
Stone pillars lined the chamber, their surfaces worn smooth by time rather than neglect, and the long wooden table at its center bore countless marks left behind by years of decisions that had shaped students' lives without ceremony or apology. The air carried neither pressure nor warmth, only a calm heaviness that reminded those who entered that this was not a place for ambition, but for assessment.
Wang Yan stood before the table with his back straight, hands at his sides, his expression composed. Liu Ming, Zhao Qing, and Chen Yu stood a half step behind him, none of them speaking, all of them attentive.
An elderly elder leafed slowly through a thin record booklet, his fingers unhurried as his eyes traced each line.
"Wang Yan," the elder said at last, his voice dry but steady. "Innate soul power three. Enrollment at age six. No disciplinary issues. No forced breakthroughs. Consistent attendance."
He closed the booklet.
"You are nine years old," he continued, lifting his gaze. "And you have reached level ten."
"Yes," Wang Yan replied.
Another elder leaned back slightly, folding his hands across his stomach.
"Most students with your starting conditions require five years to reach this stage, often longer," he said. "Some never reach it at all. Tell me—did you employ any external assistance?"
"No," Wang Yan answered evenly. "I followed the academy's instruction and my own discipline."
The elder studied him for a moment, then nodded once.
"Your cultivation shows no instability. That alone answers the question."
A third elder glanced toward the three students behind Wang Yan.
"These are your regular training companions?"
"Yes," Wang Yan said. "We have trained together since enrollment."
Chen Yu straightened slightly, then spoke with restraint.
"We are aware that the absorption itself is his responsibility alone," he said carefully. "We are only here to accompany him to receive instruction."
The elder's gaze softened marginally.
"Knowing where you do not belong is also a form of discipline," he said.
Silence followed, not uncomfortable, but expectant.
At last, the elder turned his head slightly.
"Instructor Qiu."
A man who had been standing near one of the pillars stepped forward.
He was neither tall nor imposing in appearance, his movements economical and grounded, but the moment he shifted his weight, the room seemed to settle around him, as though something solid had taken its place. His presence was calm rather than oppressive, the composure of someone who had learned restraint through experience rather than caution.
"Instructor Qiu," the elder said, "you will oversee this hunt."
Qiu inclined his head slightly.
"Understood."
The elder looked back at Wang Yan.
"The recommended age limit for a first soul ring is conservative for a reason," he said. "It exists to ensure survival, not to reward ambition. We will not push you beyond what your foundation can bear."
"I understand," Wang Yan replied.
Qiu's gaze settled on him then, direct and steady.
"Your records show no reckless advancement," Qiu said. "That matters more than numbers. The forest does not care about talent, only judgment."
He turned briefly toward the others.
"You will accompany us," he continued, "but you will follow instructions precisely. You are not here to prove yourselves."
Liu Ming nodded immediately.
"We will not interfere."
Chen Yu hesitated for half a breath, then added more quietly, "We'll do exactly what we're told."
Zhao Qing simply inclined his head.
The elder tapped the table once.
"Then it is decided," he said. "Preparation begins immediately. Departure at first light tomorrow."
Wang Yan bowed respectfully.
"Thank you."
They exited the hall without further words, the weight of what had been set into motion settling over them not as excitement, but as certainty.
Tomorrow, the path forward would demand proof.
End of chapter.