Han Lei did not answer right away.
He stayed by the wall for a few breaths, looking at Gu Yan, the open booklet, and the poor materials spread across the table. Then he let out a slow breath through his nose.
"If you figure it out first," Han Lei said, "tell me before it reaches my throat."
Gu Yan looked up from the table.
"If I figure it out first," Gu Yan replied, "it will already be at everyone's throat."
Han Lei gave a short laugh, though there was no real humor in it.
"Fair enough," Han Lei said.
The room fell quiet again.
Outside, the outer court had settled into the thinner sounds of night. Fewer footsteps. Fewer voices. Somewhere far off, a bucket was set down. A door closed. Then stillness again.
Han Lei pushed himself off the wall.
"I'm going to sleep before morning finds a new way to get worse," Han Lei said.
He stopped at the door and looked back once.
"If you're going to the medicinal sheds tomorrow," Han Lei added, "go early. The cheap stock will be gone first."
Then he left.
Gu Yan remained where he was for a while after the door closed.
The advice mattered.
Not because it was clever. Because it was true.
The outer court did not panic all at once. It wore itself thin first. When medicine ran short, the fastest hands took it. When hall access tightened, the better-connected lines took the slots. When mission payouts worsened, the weak sold something else instead—time, labor, pride, sometimes blood.
Gu Yan lowered his eyes to the table.
He had enough frost moss left for one poor mixture.
The ironroot bark Han Lei had given him was nearly gone.
The common medicinal powder at the edge of the bowl would not last two more nights.
If the cheap stock disappeared tomorrow, then this path would become harder immediately.
That meant tomorrow morning already had shape.
Gu Yan covered the bowl, wrapped the booklet again, and slid it beneath the bedroll. Then he lay down without undressing, one arm under his head, the soreness in his ribs still present but no longer sharp enough to keep him awake.
Sleep came slowly, but it came.
When he opened his eyes again, the sky outside the narrow window was still dark.
The first outer bell had not yet rung.
Gu Yan rose at once.
He washed with cold water, changed the cloth around the scrape on his knuckle, and checked his ribs with careful fingers. Still sore. Still usable.
Good enough.
He took the empty basket and left the dormitory row before most of the outer court had fully woken.
The medicinal sheds stood on the eastern side of the valley, close enough to the Tempering Hall that the drifting steam could sometimes be smelled when the air turned. Even this early, there were already people there.
That told him enough.
By the time Gu Yan reached the main counter, a short line had formed at the storage window. Outer disciples stood with wooden slips, cloth pouches, and the same guarded look poor men wore when they knew there would not be enough for everyone.
The shelves behind the window were not empty yet, but they were thinner than they had been a few days ago.
That mattered too.
A thin steward with a tired face sat behind the counter, sorting small wrapped bundles into separate stacks. Cooling leaves in one pile. Wound powder in another. Small clay cups of strengthening paste in the back row. None of it was good medicine, but it was the kind outer disciples could still afford sometimes.
A paste like that was meant to be rubbed over bruises, strained muscle, and shallow tears in the flesh. Thick, bitter-smelling, weak, and cheap—but better than nothing.
Gu Yan joined the line and waited.
Two places ahead, a broad-shouldered disciple was arguing in a low voice.
"You raised the price again," the disciple said.
The steward did not look offended.
"The stock is lower," the steward replied.
"It was lower yesterday too."
"And it's even lower today."
The broad-shouldered disciple stared at him with a tight jaw, then dropped two extra contribution slips onto the counter with obvious reluctance.
The steward took them without comment.
By the time Gu Yan reached the window, he already knew what he could and could not afford.
"Three packets of cooling leaf," Gu Yan said. "One cup of strengthening paste. Two strips of dried bitterroot."
The steward looked up for the first time.
"You can afford two packets of cooling leaf," the steward said. "Not three."
Gu Yan did the count again in his head.
The steward was right. Barely.
"The paste went up?" Gu Yan asked.
The steward began wrapping the herbs.
"Everything went up," the steward replied.
"Because stock is lower?" Gu Yan asked.
This time the steward gave him a flat look.
"Because people are buying more," the steward said.
That was answer enough.
Gu Yan changed the order without wasting time. Two packets of cooling leaf. One small cup of paste. One strip of bitterroot instead of two.
The steward slid the items across the counter.
Gu Yan took them, weighed the purchase in his hand, and stepped aside.
The amounts were poor.
But still enough to matter if he stretched them carefully.
A familiar voice sounded behind him.
"So you're buying medicine instead of hall access," Zhou Ren said.
Gu Yan turned.
Zhou Ren stood a few steps away, not alone. Two disciples from Qiu Wen's line stood behind him. One already had a hall token tied at his waist. The other carried a wrapped training bundle. Neither looked poor enough to be there for cheap supplies.
That already said something.
Gu Yan kept his expression flat.
"I'm buying what I can still use," Gu Yan replied.
Zhou Ren's gaze dropped once to the small bundles in Gu Yan's hand.
"For now," Zhou Ren said.
The words were mild. That made them worse.
Gu Yan had crossed paths with Zhou Ren more than once before. Not in any open clash worth naming, but enough to understand the pattern. Zhou Ren disliked people he could not sort quickly. Most outer disciples either yielded, flattered, envied, or hated in obvious ways. Gu Yan did none of those things. He kept his distance, refused to attach himself to the wrong people, and had a habit of enduring quietly instead of bending in public.
Men like Zhou Ren noticed that.
Not because it threatened them immediately.
Because it refused to fit.
Zhou Ren took one step closer, enough to lower his voice without making the exchange private.
"The outer court is changing," Zhou Ren said. "The people who fail to understand that early usually pay more later."
Gu Yan met his eyes.
"And the ones who do understand it early?" Gu Yan asked.
The corner of Zhou Ren's mouth moved slightly.
"That depends on whether they know where to stand," Zhou Ren replied.
There it was.
Not an open threat.
Something quieter.
An offer shaped like a warning.
Or a warning shaped like an offer.
Gu Yan did not answer at once.
Behind Zhou Ren, one of the other disciples shifted his weight with faint impatience, as if he already expected the conversation to end in the obvious way. That helped.
It reminded Gu Yan that this was not only about him and Zhou Ren.
It was being watched.
So he gave the answer that fit.
"I've stood where I can afford to stand," Gu Yan said.
For the first time, some of the ease left Zhou Ren's face.
Not much.
But enough.
That answer would have sounded harmless to most listeners. To Zhou Ren, it did not.
It meant: I know what you're implying, and I'm refusing it without kneeling.
"You may want to think more carefully," Zhou Ren said.
"I usually do," Gu Yan replied.
That ended it.
Or rather, it ended what Zhou Ren was willing to do in public.
He held Gu Yan's gaze for one more breath, then looked away as if the matter had already become too small for more time.
"Enjoy your morning," Zhou Ren said.
Then he walked toward the side door that led to the inner storeroom, and the two disciples with him followed.
Gu Yan watched the door close behind them.
So Zhou Ren's line had access there as well.
That mattered.
Gu Yan tucked the bundles into his sleeve and left the sheds without looking back.
The sky had lightened by then. The first bell of the morning rang across the valley, and movement began to spread through the outer grounds. Some disciples headed toward the Tempering Hall. Others went to their assigned labor. Others moved toward the training yards before the better spots were taken.
Gu Yan did not go to the hall.
Not this morning.
The bamboo slip Han Lei had shown him the night before had already made that clear. Even if he reached the line in time, the changing access rules meant too much now depended on line approval rather than patience.
That was exactly the point.
So Gu Yan took the path behind the old laundry wall and returned to his room before the valley fully filled with noise.
Once inside, he laid out what he had bought and compared it to what remained from yesterday.
Cooling leaf to reduce surface heat and swelling.
Strengthening paste to help bruised flesh and strained muscle hold together under repeated effort.
Bitterroot to keep his breathing steady and settle his stomach when the crude mixture struck too hard.
Simple things.
Poor things.
Things outer disciples relied on because there was rarely anything better.
Gu Yan prepared them carefully.
The strengthening paste was thick and grainy, dark green and bitter-smelling. It was not fine medicine. It was a cheap salve, something meant to be spread over bruises, overworked muscle, and shallow tears so the body would not come apart too quickly.
He used less than he wanted.
He had to.
Then he sat on the bedroll again and unwrapped the manual.
The first section looked exactly as it had last night. Broken lines. Missing parts. Enough to begin, not enough to trust.
Good.
That meant nothing had changed except what he could bring to it.
Gu Yan let out a slow breath and closed his eyes.
He would not push for more today.
That would be greed.
Instead, he would try for the same step again—cleaner, steadier, with less wasted strain.
If he could repeat the result, then the path was real.
If he could not, then yesterday might still have been accident dressed as progress.
That distinction mattered.
Gu Yan began.