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The elder's laughter was the worst of it. Not the public correction, not the demonstration performed on Kael's body like he was practice equipment, not even the forty students watching from the courtyard's edges. The laughter—bemused, almost fond, the way you'd laugh at a dog that kept sitting at the dinner table. "Two years at Ironroot Fourth," Master Deng said, releasing Kael's wrist. "The sect's longest stagnation in living memory. Perhaps cultivation simply isn't—" Kael stopped hearing him. Not from anger. That was the strange part. The anger had burned out somewhere around month eight; he knew its shape and limits. This was something else. This was the anger's skeleton, after the flesh was gone. Bare and structural and very, very cold. He felt his qi do something he had no framework for. Ironroot cultivation moved upward—everyone knew this, it was the first lesson, qi rising from the earth through the body's core, building pressure like groundwater finding a fissure. You climbed tiers by sustaining that pressure longer, harder, hotter. …