The silence was sharp enough to cut. For a breath, no one moved. Disciples shifted, glancing between one another, none daring to rise. To face Long Aotian was no chance at glory—it was a sentence to be measured, broken, and discarded.
Then—
"I will."
A young man strode forward, shoulders taut, every step a battle against the weight pressing from Aotian's still aura. His name, murmured among the crowd, carried little renown. A competent disciple, yes. Talented, perhaps. But not a prodigy.
The elder's brow twitched, just slightly, as if recognizing both courage and futility. Still, he gave no protest.
The boy mounted the stage. His spear trembled once in his grip, then steadied. He inhaled, qi flaring, earth erupting beneath his feet in jagged spires—his intent to anchor himself, to weather the storm.
Aotian's gaze slid toward him at last. Cold. Unwavering.
