The final circulation continued beneath Yan’s ribs. The soul light spread through the shrine chamber, gathering around the intention he had chosen. His Golden Core was opening, but he remained seated and aware of the room.
Qinghe watched the slate. “Is the pressure painful?”
“The method itself isn’t hurting me.” He took a slow breath. “I feel the concentration, but the sequence is easy. My emotions are clear.”
She wrote down his answer. The scripture’s ordinary dulling had reversed into sharper distinctions. He could remember his mother’s hands, Ning’s voice, and the red barrier lamps without reducing grief, pride, and fear to one emotion. He did not lose any memory. The concentration benefit remained while the harmful effect became a clearer grasp of what each memory meant to him.
A sound came from the doorway. One of the ward stones had shifted where the chamber’s light reached the threshold. It slid toward the clinic roof outside, its lower edge scraping against the limestone.
“Clear the passage,” Gu called.
The shrine custodians moved back from the doorway. Qinghe stepped outside with Mera, away from the falling line. Yan kept the circulation steady and sent a thin extension of his soul toward the stone. It was not a full projection, only a narrow reach from his forming inner structure. He guided it against the stone’s side and slowed its slide.
