Three months.

  Ninety days of waking before dawn, of forms practiced until his legs screamed, of corrections delivered with bamboo canes and disappointed silences. Ninety days of being the worst student in the junior dormitory—the slowest, the weakest, the one everyone pitied or ignored.

  Ming learned to love the ache anyway. The honest kind. The kind that meant he was still there.

  "Your stance is still crooked." Senior Brother Liu stood with arms crossed, watching Ming struggle through Siu Nim Tao for the hundredth time that morning. "A child could push you over."

  "Yes, Senior Brother."

  "Your arms drift. Your breathing is uneven. Your focus wavers."

  "Yes, Senior Brother."

  "And yet you keep coming back." Liu's voice shifted, carrying something that wasn't quite approval but was far from contempt. "Most students give up by now. The ones who arrive with empty hands usually learn that want isn't enough."

  Ming held his stance, trembling. "Is it enough, Senior Brother?"

  "I don't know. We'll see."

  Liu walked away, leaving Ming to finish the form alone in the pre-dawn gray.

  The test came without warning.

  One morning, instead of the usual training, all junior students were gathered in the main courtyard. The master sat on a raised platform, flanked by senior instructors, watching with those river-stone eyes.

  "Today," he announced, "we separate those who will continue from those who will not."

  Ming's heart stuttered. His mouth went dry.

  "Each of you will demonstrate what you have learned," the master said. "Not to impress me. To show me what is real." The master's gaze swept over them. "Time does not matter. Depth does."

  One by one, students stepped forward.

  Some performed complex forms with flashy movements and aggressive energy. The master watched impassively and dismissed them with a wave.

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  Some demonstrated techniques with mechanical precision and no spirit. Same result.

  A few—the ones who had trained longest, worked hardest, understood something beyond mere movement—received nods of approval.

  Ming watched, trying to breathe quietly, trying not to let his hunger show.

  His turn came.

  He walked to the center of the courtyard on legs that didn't quite feel steady. The master's attention was like physical weight pressing down on him.

  "Huang Ming," the master said. "Three months. Show me what you've found."

  Ming began the first form.

  He was clumsy. His stance wavered. His arms traced paths that weren't quite right. Every flaw he'd been corrected on, every weakness Senior Brother Liu had catalogued—there for everyone to see.

  Somewhere in the middle of the form, Ming stopped trying to perform.

  His breathing found its own rhythm. His weight sank into the earth. His hands traced the patterns not because he'd memorized them, but because his body finally stopped fighting them.

  He didn't think. He just did it.

  He finished the form and stood still, breathing hard, waiting for the verdict.

  The master rose from his platform.

  The courtyard went silent.

  The master walked slowly toward Ming, each step deliberate, his robes swishing against the stone. He stopped an arm's length away.

  "Your technique is flawed," he said quietly.

  "Yes, Sifu."

  "Your stance is weak. Your arms drift. Your timing is off."

  "Yes, Sifu."

  "But when you move," the master said, "you stop reaching. Your shoulders drop. Your breath settles. The form shows itself. Do you understand what that means?"

  Ming didn't understand at all. "No, Sifu."

  "Good. If you'd said yes, I'd know you were lying or stupid." The master's eyes glinted with something that might have been humor. "It means you have touched the foundation. The rest—technique, power, strategy—can be built. But the foundation cannot be taught. It can only be found."

  He reached out and placed a hand on Ming's shoulder.

  "You will continue training. But not in the junior dormitory. From today, you will study with the intermediate class. You will have private instruction twice per week. You will fail more often and learn faster. Is this acceptable?"

  Ming's throat tightened. "I—yes. Yes, Sifu."

  "One more thing." The master's grip tightened, not painfully but with unmistakable emphasis. "This gift I have seen in you can become something extraordinary. It can also become something terrible. The choice will be yours. Do not make it lightly."

  "I don't understand, Sifu."

  "You will." The master released him and stepped back. "When power comes, remember this moment. Remember what you came in with." His gaze held Ming. "Not what you can take. What you can build."

  He walked back to his platform without another word.

  Ming stood in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by students who were looking at him differently now, feeling the wooden pendant warm against his skin.

  Something in him clicked into place.

  At night, in his new dormitory—smaller, more crowded with students who actually knew what they were doing—Ming lay awake and replayed the master's words.

  "This gift can become something extraordinary. It can also become something terrible."

  He touched the pendant.

  He made himself a promise he could actually keep: tomorrow, he would get up before the others and do the form again.

  Tonight, Huang Ming was just a boy in a dark dormitory, holding the beginning of everything in his hands.

  Breathe, he told himself. Focus. Feel where your weight is.

  He slept, and dreamed of flying.