Qi Condensation was supposed to take months. For a prodigy, weeks. For a once-in-a-generation genius, perhaps as little as ten days.

Meng Hao did it in three.

The old man — whose name, he'd learned, was Patriarch Reliance, which seemed too on-the-nose to be a real name — studied him with increased interest. 'Interesting,' the Patriarch said, circling Meng Hao like a farmer examining a prize pig. 'Very interesting. Your spiritual roots are average, your physical foundation is mediocre, and your understanding of the Dao is... well, you're a failed scholar, so let's not dwell on that. And yet.'

And yet Meng Hao could sense spiritual energy with a clarity that rivaled the Inner Sect disciples. He could absorb it faster than anyone in the Outer Sect. And when he circulated his Qi through the basic breathing technique that everyone learned on day one, the energy responded instantly — no resistance, no blockage, just a smooth flow that felt as natural as breathing.

He didn't know why. He was, frankly, too busy trying not to die to think about it.

Life in the Outer Sect was brutal. The disciples were divided into dormitories based on cultivation level, and those at the bottom received fewer spirit stones, worse food, and more dangerous assignments. Fights broke out daily over cultivation resources, and the sect elders did nothing to stop them — competition, they said, was the whetstone that sharpened the blade of talent.

Meng Hao avoided fights by the simple expedient of making himself useful. He could brew tea. He could copy texts — his calligraphy was, despite his examination failures, genuinely excellent. He could run errands, deliver messages, and perform small tasks for older disciples in exchange for protection. It was not noble. It was not heroic. But it kept him alive.

And every night, when the other disciples were sleeping or fighting, he cultivated. Not out of ambition — he had no grand dreams of immortality. He cultivated because he was terrified of what would happen if he stopped.