Dinner, sleep, and breakfast passed without incident. Even Bao Feng was calmer than usual. He actually came to breakfast with us. Maybe it was the crisps, maybe he just wanted company… I decided not to ask unnecessary questions for now.
The cafeteria buzzed with tense anticipation. Almost every other cadet was fidgeting in their seat. With each passing minute, the atmosphere felt more and more like the moments before an exam—or something even worse. Some tried to act indifferent, while others openly discussed rumours and traded advice, most of it clearly second-hand. The reason was obvious—Flow Chambers.
"They say you just have to endure it," I overheard from the next table. "Just grit your teeth and push through."
That made me look up.
"What?" Denis asked in a much lower voice. "Not true?" He must have heard the same advice.
"Half true," I said. "I wouldn’t recommend gritting your teeth. Or tensing up in any way—it’ll only make it worse. Much worse. But yeah, you’ll have to endure it."
I kept my voice as quiet as Denis had, but nearby cadets still overheard. At least no one dared to ask where I got my information. They had plenty of other voices to listen to anyway.
"Some second-period cadet told me the record for a first session is forty minutes. So what?"
"That’s a lie, they only give you fifteen!"
"I also heard that if you pass out, you get penalty points."
"For real?"
"Swear on it! I’ve got a friend who—"
I listened to their chatter, chewing another spoonful of food, and realised… I wasn’t really nervous.
I was way more concerned about the fact that my chocolate cereal tasted salty. Maybe it was because I had already been in a Flow Chamber? Even though my session lasted barely ten minutes, I didn’t just imagine what was coming—I knew exactly what to expect. And then there was Bao Feng, looking dead serious. He kept zoning out, staring into space, eyes darting along invisible lines. He was terrible at hiding his nerves.
"Looking up how not to pass out?" I teased.
"I’m reading how to maximise the effects of the first session," Bao replied smugly, giving me a look that practically screamed: I know more than you.
I didn’t push the topic further. Doc hadn’t sent me any kind of ‘how to maximise’ manual, but that didn’t mean one didn’t exist.
After breakfast, we—like the rest of the first-years—headed back to the dorms. But as we approached the corridor, I heard raised voices.
"Watch where you’re going, idiot!"
"Me?! You stepped on my foot, imbecile!"
"I’ll step on your throat next!"
"Oh yeah? Try me!"
I spotted two cadets standing chest to chest, their backs arched like fighting cocks. A small crowd was already forming around them, eager for some entertainment and a way to shake off the stress.
It hadn’t escalated into an actual fight yet, but their faces were tense, and their fists were already clenched. And that was the moment Bao suddenly detached from our group and marched straight into the scene, shoving through the crowd with his elbows.
Two more cadets followed him—both among those assigned yesterday as Liang Shi’s assistants.
Bao, of course, struck the most condescending pose he could manage and loudly declared:
"Enough! One more move, one more word—and you both get penalty points!"
His tone was authoritative, but the cadets didn’t budge. They were still locked in a stare-down.
"You’re not a supervisor," one of them muttered, still glaring at his opponent.
Oh. That was a familiar voice.
Tariq.
Guy sure had a habit of picking fights out of nowhere.
"I’m his assistant, imbecile!" Bao snapped—and kicked him.
Tariq actually jumped like a startled rooster and spun towards Bao, but the other two assistants had already closed in from the sides.
The Arab-looking cadet shook his head. "Don’t even think about it."
"He probably doesn’t even know what penalty points are," other assistant added dryly.
"Disperse!" Bao ordered.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
The other guy in the confrontation turned on his heel and walked away, but Tariq? He just stood there, fists still clenched.
"Penalty point!" Bao announced, tapping at the air as if typing something.
"Where?" Tariq spread his arms wide, grinning mockingly. "Where’s the point?"
"It’ll be logged as soon as Liang Shi reads the report," Bao explained, though he suddenly didn’t sound so sure of himself.
"Uh-huh. Sure it will…" Tariq’s face changed. Looked like he did get that penalty point.
Bao, pleased with himself, held his head high.
"Anything else you’d like to add?" he pressed.
Tariq’s face reddened.
"Get to your room, imbecile! And I don’t want to hear a word from you until lining up!"
Tariq clenched his fists, clenched his jaw, spun around sharply, and stormed off—bumping shoulders with everyone he could reach. But no one took the bait.
Both Tariq and the rest of us made it back to our rooms just in time for the interface to chime again—assembly order. Like yesterday, we lined up in two rows outside our rooms.
Liang Shi once again paced the corridor, checking something on his tablet. He didn’t talk much—just explained that today, we’d be escorted to the Meditation Hall, where the Flow Chambers were located.
"You’ll be accompanied by supervisors and instructors. You’ll move in formation. Maintain order. If anyone falls behind or starts talking—penalty points. You’ve already had an example!" He looked straight at a still-red-faced Tariq. "So don’t cause trouble!" Liang raised a hand toward another supervisor at the front of the corridor. "Follow cadet Johnson—march!"
This time, no one ran. Which meant the walk took much longer than when we were first shown around the dorms. Maybe there were medical reasons for that. Even my own heartbeat felt slightly elevated, and I hadn’t been running at all. I walked in the middle of the first-years, feeling the tension thicken in the air. Ahead of us was the first real trial, and no one truly knew how it would affect them. No one except me.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Turned out—I was wrong.
The Meditation Hall was far more crowded than when I’d been here with Doc. Back then, it was already busy. Now? It was like a mix between a tightly regimented military outpost and Tokyo Metro during rush hour.
And the induction process? Pure conveyor-belt efficiency.
Around a hundred first-years stood in two rows at the entrance. Like sheepdogs, senior-period cadets circled around us, keeping us in line, while black-clad staff members directed the flow.
A makeshift checkpoint had been set up at the entrance. The moment another group of cadets exited the hall, the curators ushered the next batch inside.
And inside? Organised chaos. At least five times as many cadets as outside, with the air humming with qi. Just before my group was sent in, a team in lab coats carried out a first-year on a stretcher.
Denis and Bao Feng had already gone ahead. I was first in my row, which gave me a good view of the process.
Each chamber had two supervisors stationed nearby—one managing the Chamber door and what happened inside, the other overseeing the queue of three to four cadets.
The supervisors guiding us into the hall spread cadets out among the shorter queues. Some lines moved faster than others—few cadets lasted the full fifteen minutes, while in other queues, one after another they barely managed a single minute inside. And that wasn’t even the worst outcome.
Somewhere near the tenth chamber on the right, a supervisor suddenly shouted, "Medic!"
Together with his colleague, he pulled an unconscious cadet into the middle of the corridor. A doctor in a white coat rushed over, checked the cadet’s pulse and breathing, then waved his hands. A gust of wind swept through the hall, and a soft, milky-white glow of qi enveloped his palms.
An Air technique.
There were plenty of people in white coats inside—medics and thinhorns, most of whom weren’t even paying attention to what was happening. Because while one of them was treating the downed cadet… the others were cultivating. I recognised the movements immediately—that was definitely a palm-based qi gathering technique.
The medic treating the cadet placed one hand on his chest, then pushed a current of air straight into his nose. The cadet jerked, exhaled sharply, his body tensed—and then he rolled onto his side, breaking into a fit of heavy coughing. The supervisor beside him wiped sweat from his brow, shook his head in irritation, and checked his tablet.
"Next," he called, pointing at someone hidden in the crowd.
The injured cadet was carried off on a stretcher, and the moment they were clear, the instructor signalled for our group to move forward.
The concentration of qi thickened immediately. It felt like stepping into an open field during a thunderstorm—static tingling on my skin, pressure settling in my chest. Since I was at the front, the instructor clapped a hand on my shoulder first.
"Chamber Twelve," he said, pointing to a queue with only three cadets. "Move!"
The second-stage curator at the end of the line gave me a quick glance, tapped something into his tablet, and said nothing. The third-stage curator by the door wasn’t paying attention to me at all—he was staring through the chamber’s window. A few seconds later, he slammed a large button beside the door and, with a slight delay, pulled the handle. A residual qi wave rolled out all the way to me.
So that’s where the concentration in the hall was coming from. No one here waited for the energy to dissipate, the way Doc had done during my test.
"Can you stand?" the curator asked.
"Yes."
"Can you leave on your own?"
"Yes."
"Good. Thirteen-forty-two," he muttered, letting the girl out.
I knew her. Tattoo-painting girl. Our eyes met, and she froze in the doorway.
"Problem?" the curator asked.
"No."
"Then stop blocking the entrance!" he snapped.
I gave her a small nod of recognition. She nodded back, but neither of us said a word. The curator was already pushing another cadet inside.
"You go in, sit down, endure. Don’t tense up. The moment the pain’s too much—drop. That’s the signal to shut off the flow."
That cadet lasted ten minutes. "The girl in the chamber next to mine? One minute." Then a thinhorn in a lab coat spent two more minutes trying to pry her clenched jaw open.
They all had to sit…
"Excuse me," I said, addressing the curator at the back of the queue so I wouldn’t distract the one monitoring the door. "A doctor prescribed me cultivation in the Chamber lying down."
The cadet frowned in obvious doubt.
"Come up with a better excuse," he scoffed, clearly thinking I was just trying to milk more time inside. "Did you see the ones they had to drag out? Not worth it."
"I did see," I shot back. "That’s exactly why I don’t want to do it sitting down."
"And how am I supposed to know when you’re done?" the curator by the door called over without turning around.
"Doc had a way of knowing…"
And he had to be here somewhere, mixed in with the staff. For a second, I was tempted to message him—no, call him. But then I remembered the other doctor, the one who had been cultivating while his colleague treated the injured cadet.
I’d bet ten credits Doc was doing the same thing right now.
The senior supervisor hit the button next to the door and turned to me.
"Doc’s not here, and I’m not here to wipe your arse." He opened the Chamber door and repeated the same routine. "Can you stand? Can you leave on your own?" And then—my turn. No excuses. No negotiations. "Get in and sit."