One hundred days remain until the martial arts exam. Shen Juan's qi-and-blood reading: 67 calories. Third-lowest in the class.
The homeroom teacher files him under “recommended for reassignment.” The star of the school team tells him to his face, “With numbers like yours, even a potted pothos is stronger than you.” Even the martial arts exam registration system pops up a notice: Your rating does not qualify for an appeal.
But Shen Juan can see things the testing equipment can't measure.
He can see the “original shape” of everyone's qi and blood. The standard answer says qi and blood should flow straight like water through a pipe, but what he sees is a river. Rivers take detours and bend. Where everyone says “the way is blocked,” they carve out a path of their own.
The grade director writes a line in Shen Juan's file. No one on the marking panel understands it. Not until the day of the martial arts exam, when that line finds its way into the hands of someone it was never meant to reach.
“If your qi-and-blood reading is always just a fraction of everyone else's, what makes you think you can pass the martial arts exam?”
Shen Juan looks at the unsigned note, turns it over, and writes a line on the back:
“Because what you measure was never the whole story.”
