Chapter 6:– The First Slip

Day 6 of Exponential Growth

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The broom was too light in his hands.

He stood in one of the lower meditation courtyards—one of dozens scattered across the outer sect like weathered tiles in a forgotten mosaic. Lined with cracked gray flagstones and edged by small stone lanterns, this one sloped slightly downhill toward a thin pond fed by runoff from the cliffside above.

Mist clung to the grass and settled on the tips of old moss. Beyond the trees that framed the clearing, rooftops poked into the gray morning light—rows and rows of them, stretching far beyond sight. Courtyard huts, open training yards, storage houses, herb gardens, and discipline halls—all carved into the mountainside like a cold, quiet town that never fully woke up.

The Clear Spring Sect's outer sect wasn't a single building or camp. It was a sprawl of stone paths and tightly-packed living quarters, a place with **more than fifteen thousand disciples**, most of them forgotten the moment they joined.

He was one of them.

And now he was pretending to be weaker than all of them.

Lin Xun hunched forward and dragged the broom across the slick stone surface again. He forced uneven rhythm into his arms, bending his wrist wrong on purpose. The broom's head bumped against an old sandal print caked with dry dirt. He didn't correct it.

Behind him, he could feel the open sky pressing in. This courtyard was built on the northern end of the outer sect—a less-trafficked corner lined with quiet trees, shrines, and unused meditation alcoves. A wide stone railing bordered one side, and beyond that: mist, mountains, and a view of the forest ridge far below.

To a passerby, it was peaceful.

To Lin Xun, it was exposure.

Every scrape of the broom felt like an invitation to be watched.

He adjusted his pace, stopped to cough once, and rubbed his lower back in slow circles. He made sure his shoulders looked stiff. His steps unbalanced.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an older outer disciple loitering nearby, leaning casually against one of the courtyard's cracked columns. He held a dull iron garden blade and pretended to inspect the rust near the handle. But his eyes kept drifting to Lin Xun.

Lin Xun didn't react. He couldn't afford to.

He dragged the broom again, forced it to rattle across a bump it should've glided over. He winced. Coughed once more.

The older disciple lingered, adjusted his grip, then finally turned and walked back toward the lower path—a winding stair that led to one of the side dormitories built into the cliffs.

Gone.

Lin Xun exhaled slowly.

His body was growing hard to control.

Every step he took was too stable. His breathing too smooth. Even with uneven shoes and forced imbalance, his movements tried to return to perfect form.

That was the danger.

He finished sweeping that section of the courtyard, then turned to the next. The stone here was old and cracked, covered in frost-stiffened moss. He bent, pushed the broom again.

The cool morning breeze carried the smell of steamed rice from the canteen pavilions somewhere below. He could hear footsteps echoing from stone walkways layered down the mountainside—disciples laughing, sparring, hauling water, chasing deliveries.

The outer sect was alive.

And he was fading into it, quietly.

That was the plan.

That was the mask.

Even if it chafed against everything inside him now.

He turned again, careful to let his foot drag slightly, and continued his performance.

—-

By midmorning, the fog had thinned, burned off by the slow rise of sunlight spilling over the eastern peaks. What remained of it drifted in strands along the rooftops of the outer sect like loose spirit smoke, softening the edges of the world.

Lin Xun adjusted the wooden yoke on his shoulders, its weight digging in slightly despite his efforts to seem strained. Two buckets sloshed gently at either end, filled with cold well water that should've dragged at his spine.

They didn't.

They barely registered.

The well he'd drawn from lay near the herb storage quarter—an overgrown corner of the outer sect built more for function than beauty. Half-crumbled stone walls circled racks of drying roots, bundles of string-bound flowers, and damp troughs where low-ranked disciples rinsed off grime. Spirit-repelling glyphs glowed faintly at the base of a few fence posts, keeping pests at bay.

He walked a narrow dirt trail between two sheds, boots deliberately scuffing the earth. His shoulders hunched forward just enough to appear burdened, breath released through clenched teeth. Everything about his posture whispered fatigue.

Just another weak disciple doing his share of menial work.

The trick was in the timing—how long to pause, how often to stumble. How to make strength look like exhaustion.

Lin Xun had grown up learning how to avoid being noticed.

But now, he had to avoid being *suspected*.

As he passed behind a small dormitory wing—an open-walled stone building where some outer disciples shared sleeping space—he turned sharply around a corner and nearly collided with someone.

The other boy—maybe fifteen, thin and distracted—was carrying a bundle of firewood too wide for his grip. His eyes weren't on the path.

They bumped lightly.

One of Lin Xun's water buckets tipped from its hook.

It should've crashed.

But his arm moved.

Too fast.

His hand caught the falling bucket mid-air in perfect rhythm—grip clean, motion effortless. The water inside didn't even splash.

The boy blinked. "Whoa—nice catch."

Lin Xun froze.

His hand remained extended, still holding the bucket upright. His stance hadn't shifted, breath steady, body unbothered.

It had happened too naturally.

He hesitated just a second too long before feigning a wobble and letting his shoulders sag. "Ah… I've been carrying these all morning. Got lucky."

The boy didn't notice. He mumbled a quick apology and walked past, wood still sliding awkwardly under his arms.

Lin Xun watched him disappear down the path toward the back shed.

Then looked at his hand.

It didn't shake.

His heart wasn't racing. His muscles hadn't tensed. There'd been no panic, no fear. Just a reaction—fast, clean, silent. Not thought, not instinct.

Something deeper.

He clenched the handle of the bucket and turned toward the troughs by the herb racks. No one watched him now. He poured the water slowly, deliberately, even letting some splash over the rim to make it seem like the weight challenged him.

But inside, his thoughts pressed in like a rising tide.

**Sixteen.**

Just five days ago, he turned sixteen.

And the day after, his body stopped being his own.

Now, every muscle obeyed him too well. Every motion smoothed itself out before he could feign fatigue. His very instincts betrayed the act.

The sect expected nothing from him.

They thought he was useless.

He was supposed to be invisible.

But if someone truly saw him—saw the way his reflexes moved like coiled spirit threads, saw the way his gaze tracked motion faster than most could blink—they'd start asking questions.

And questions, in the outer sect, were dangerous.

He wiped his hands against his robe. The water had cooled his palms, but the sensation was fleeting. The bucket yoke no longer cut into his shoulders—it felt like it belonged there.

Too much was changing.

And he was running out of space to hide it. 

---

That evening, Lin Xun sat cross-legged on the floor of his hut, the air inside still and heavy.

The scent of damp wood and mold lingered in the walls. Cracked beams overhead creaked now and then, shifting under the slow night wind, but otherwise, silence ruled.

His eyes were open.

Not wide—just open. Alert.

He hadn't lit a lamp.

Only the thinnest thread of moonlight cut in through the warped wooden slats in the wall, sketching pale lines across the floorboards. He didn't need more. His senses told him more than light could now.

Something was off.

He had returned from chores without event. No one had spoken to him. No one had followed.

But something had changed.

Not outside.

Inside him.

It was as if a string had been pulled tight within his body, then left trembling.

He hadn't noticed it immediately.

It came slowly—after the meal hall, after he slunk past the laughter of outer disciples trading gossip in their clusters. After he returned to his tiny hut on the fringes of the outer sector.

Then it hit him.

**He felt watched.**

No footfalls. No breathing. No shadows under his door. But the silence had a shape now. The night had weight.

Something—or someone—was paying attention.

And the worst part?

It didn't feel foreign.

It felt… familiar.

He didn't move. Didn't shift his posture. His back remained straight, legs folded, hands resting loosely on his knees. Not tensed, not readied.

He let his breath slow until it matched the stillness in the room.

Half an hour passed. Maybe more.

Nothing stirred.

And still—he waited.

Then, as if the tension had never existed, the air eased. Whatever presence he had sensed—or imagined—was gone.

Or hiding better than he could feel.

But Lin Xun knew himself well enough now to trust one thing:

**His body didn't lie.**

Something had noticed him today.

Maybe it was the boy who'd seen the catch. Maybe the older disciple who watched him sweep. Maybe neither.

But someone… knew.

And that meant he needed to move more carefully.

He stood quietly and stretched his legs. His muscles unfurled too smoothly—another reminder that the pace of his doubling was not slowing. By tomorrow, even faking weakness would be a delicate art.

He moved to the broken window panel, glanced out at the starless sky, then slowly returned to the center of the room.

This time, when he sat down, he adjusted his limbs with sharp intention. Every motion sloppy. Every breath staggered just enough.

He couldn't slip again.

Not once.

He whispered into the dark:

*"They can't see what I am. Not yet."*

Then he closed his eyes and waited for dawn.