It was already past morning when we stopped.

  We had been walking since before the sun came up, going deeper and deeper into the wilderness. The trees got so thick that barely any light came through. Chen Wei picked the spot — a small clearing surrounded by tall dark trees, their branches crossing above us like they were trying to keep the sky out. It felt off. The whole place felt off.

  We set up a small camp and they told me to rest for a bit. I didn't argue. But my body didn't really know what resting meant anymore.

  So I started my routine.

  It wasn't like the routine I had back in Oriethion. Back home there was a phone. An alarm. Mom's voice coming through the door — "Mu'er, you have class." Here there was none of that. Just trees, silence, and the sound of my own breathing.

  I hoped she was okay.

  I shook the thought off and started running. The ground was uneven — roots everywhere, rocks hiding under dead leaves. I kept going anyway. Then I found a tree — big and solid — and started hitting it. Fists first. Then elbows. Then whatever felt right.

  My knuckles hurt. I didn't stop.

  The deeper I went into the trees, the quieter it got. Not the good kind of quiet. The heavy kind. Like the whole forest was holding its breath.

  Then — soft, almost nothing — I heard it.

  I pushed harder without thinking. My legs moved quicker. My strikes felt sharper. It felt normal. It felt right.

  I gritted my teeth and kept moving. My fists hit the tree again and again, pieces of bark flying off. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I didn't wipe it away.

  "Shut up," I muttered, hitting harder.

  But my body didn't slow down. It sped up.

  The trees blurred around me. My breathing stayed even even as I pushed past everything I thought I could do. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew this wasn't just me anymore — but the line between me and whatever was whispering was getting harder to see.

  Then my legs gave out.

  No warning. No big moment. They just stopped.

  I hit the ground hard, arms too slow to catch myself. I lay there in the dirt, chest going up and down fast, staring up at the dark branches above me. The whisper faded. The forest went quiet again.

  I couldn't move. Couldn't think.

  Somewhere behind me, a branch snapped.

  I didn't have the energy to care.

  I could hear her before I could fully see her.

  Footsteps. Fast. Then her face appeared above me, looking down, and for just a second — just one — something crossed her expression. Something real. Then it was gone.

  "You." Her voice was low and steady. Somehow that was worse than shouting. "You left camp. Alone. Without saying a word to anyone."

  I opened my mouth.

  "Don't."

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I closed it.

  She crouched down and started checking me over — pulse, arms, the back of my neck. Quick, careful. Like she knew exactly what she was doing.

  Then she pulled me up, slipped my arm over her shoulder, and started walking. No complaint. No sigh. Just adjusted her grip and moved.

  I was dead weight and she didn't say a thing about it.

  I couldn't move much but I could see. And from this angle — her face close, the dark trees around us, the quiet between her steps — my brain finally decided to start working.

  The one who always walked with her head down. Never talked to anyone. Sat by the window like she was trying to disappear. I used to think she was just… there. Background. Like a character the story forgot to give lines to.

  But that bump. That one moment on the sidewalk — books everywhere, her eyes meeting mine — I never really forgot that either.

  And now she was here. In the middle realm. Carrying me through a dark forest. Scolding me like she had every right to.

  Her jaw was set. Her steps were steady. One hand gripped my arm firmly, the other kept me balanced without even looking.

  She glanced at me once, checking if I was still conscious.

  I was.

  She looked away.

  "Stop moving," she said quietly. "You'll make it worse."

  I hadn't even realized I moved. I went still. Kept my mouth shut.

  The forest passed around us in silence. Her steps never slowed. And somewhere between the pain and the exhaustion, I just… let her carry me.

  I could barely keep my eyes open when we reached camp.

  Liu Hao was already there. Standing. Arms crossed. And the second she saw us — saw Chen Wei holding me up, my arm over her shoulder — something flashed across her face. Fast. Gone just as quick.

  She covered it with a frown.

  "What happened?" she said, walking toward us. Her eyes went straight to me first — checking, scanning — then to Chen Wei.

  "He went into the forest alone," Chen Wei said simply. "Pushed too far."

  Liu Hao looked at me for a long second. Then she clicked her tongue. "Idiot."

  She said it the same way Chen Wei had. Almost exactly. I would've laughed if I had the energy.

  Liu Hao moved quickly to help, reaching for my other arm — but Chen Wei had already lowered me carefully onto the ground near the fire, her movements steady and practiced. Liu Hao stopped mid-step.

  She stood there for just a moment, watching Chen Wei arrange the blanket over him, check his breathing, brush the dirt from his face without even thinking about it.

  Liu Hao's jaw tightened.

  She looked away.

  "Young lady," she said, voice smooth, "you seem very comfortable doing that."

  Chen Wei's hand paused for just a fraction of a second. "Don't call me that."

  "Why not?" Liu Hao's lips curved. "It's what you are."

  "We're friends." Chen Wei's voice stayed flat but her ears had gone slightly pink. "Act like it."

  Liu Hao glanced at Qin Mu, then back at Chen Wei, and the curve of her lips grew just a little wider. "Of course. Friends." She sat down on the other side of the fire, pulling her knees up. "Is that why you carried him all the way back yourself? Because you're friends?"

  Chen Wei didn't answer.

  Liu Hao watched the fire. The smile didn't leave her face but her eyes were doing something else entirely — something quieter, something she wasn't going to say out loud.

  Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  I caught bits and pieces of it. Their voices. The fire crackling. Something about "young lady" and Chen Wei saying stop.

  I didn't have the energy to follow any of it.

  The last thing I felt was warm. The blanket. The fire. And somewhere close — the quiet sound of someone still watching over me.

  I didn't know which one.

  I didn't mind either way.

  Days passed.

  The routine stayed the same — running, striking, lifting — but something about the way I did it changed. Less forcing. Less trying to break through every wall at once. Chen Wei and Liu Hao had both said it enough times that it finally started to sink in.

  "Meditation is not extra," Chen Wei had told me one evening, her voice quiet but firm. "It is the foundation. Without it, everything else you build will collapse."

  Liu Hao had put it differently. "You can punch trees all day. But if your mind isn't trained, your body is just noise."

  So I started taking it seriously.

  Every morning before the run. Every evening after. I'd sit cross legged, close my eyes, and just… go inward. At first it felt like nothing. Just me sitting in the dirt listening to birds. But slowly — very slowly — something started to feel different. Deeper. Like I was learning to find a door I didn't know existed.

  I wasn't good at it yet. But I was getting less bad at it. That counted for something.

  This morning was the same. Camp quiet. Fire almost out. Chen Wei and Liu Hao still in their own meditation nearby. I closed my eyes, settled my breathing, and went in.

  The inner world opened up around me. Glowing patterns. That familiar heavy silence. The sealed sphere somewhere deep, pulsing slow and steady like always.

  I exhaled. Focused. Kept my mind still.

  Then —

  A sound. Low. Almost like a laugh.

  I stiffened.

  I didn't answer. Kept my breathing steady.

  A pause. The voice dripped with something cold. Something that felt like pity.

  My jaw tightened.

  Silence.

  Just silence.

  And somehow that was worse than anything it could have said.