At the center, Nael stood like a mountain clad in white. Motionless, his dark eyes fixed on some far-off point, he commanded the space without effort. His presence pressed down, a force felt in the bones before the mind could name it. Beside him, Elowen lifted her chin, her stance straight as a spear thrust into the earth. Her silver eyes gleamed—cold, cutting, like freshly honed blades catching the light.
Then a voice broke through, clear and delicate, tinkling like crystals clashing in a breeze.
— "I think I know you."
She stepped from the shadows, a slender figure draped in dark silks, a disciple of the Pink Cloud Peak's master. Her smile was a veiled dagger, too sharp to be kind. Her stride carried a subtle venom, like a serpent gliding before it strikes.
Elowen turned her head slowly, almost languidly. Her silver eyes met the girl's and held them, steady and glacial.
— "Maybe," — she said, her voice quiet but threaded with steel that made the air hum.
The disciple tilted her head, her smile stretching wider.
— "You're that maid who worked for young master Yang Ming, aren't you?"
Malice oozed from her words, thick as poisoned honey. The hall stilled, so silent the lamps' faint crackle rang loud. Every eye turned to them, ravenous for drama.
Elowen didn't blink.
— "In flesh and blood. Was I?" — she countered, her tone a honed edge, hurling the words back like stones.
The girl stepped closer, heedless of the weight in Elowen's gaze, that silent warning screaming stop.
— "How did you change so suddenly?" — she pressed, her voice wavering between cruel curiosity and mockery. — "You were just a talentless woman, barely able to stabilize your cultivation at the Foundation realm. If not for your name, I wouldn't even recognize you."
Elowen stood frozen, a statue carved from ice. But her eyes flared—a dangerous glint, like a storm brewing on the edge of sight. For a heartbeat, she was silent, her lips curling into a smile that never touched her eyes.
— "Things change, don't they?" — she said at last, her voice sweet as scorched sugar, leaving a bitter tang in the air.
Unease crept through the hall, a chill slithering up spines. But the girl pressed on. She turned, her gaze now piercing Nael, who stood untouched, a white shadow against the lamps' green glow.
— "Oh, now I see…" — she said, her tone dripping with theatrical taunting. — "Of course, it was young master Nael who helped you. I imagine the favors were quite generous."
The air thickened, heavy and stifling, as if the hall itself held its breath. Something shifted in Nael. The white strands of his hair bled red—a vivid, living hue that dripped from the tips like fresh ink. It was fleeting, gone in a blink, but those who saw it felt it. A pressure swelled, silent and crushing, like the moment before thunder cracks.
The girl didn't back down.
— "You're Yang Fei, aren't you?" — she pressed on, her eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. — "You lived in the outer section, unable to cultivate..."
Her smile cut like glass.
— "And you awakened just a few weeks ago... with a worthless physique, perhaps the most pathetic one there is: the Giver's Physique." — The word "Giver" landed like a slap. — "Whoever gets involved with you jumps an entire domain and gains an Innate Physique, but you? You get nothing. Not a thing."
Silence fell, heavy as lead, pressing down until the masters in the background shifted, their glances uneasy. Nael's face was stone, his eyes black voids that let nothing slip. Yet in the corner of the hall, Yang Ming watched. A thin, cold smile played on his lips, sharp and knowing, as if he held a secret no one else could grasp.
Elowen took a single step forward. Just one. But it was enough to make the air hiss around her.
— "Careful what you say," — she warned, her voice slicing like a blade against rock. — "You might end up burned trying to meddle with something you don't understand."
— "Understand what?" — The girl let out a laugh, short and brittle. — "A 'master' who doesn't speak, who hides behind indifference and..."
She stopped. The words caught in her throat—not from a gesture, not from a sound, but from Nael's shadow, which seemed to swell without him stirring. The red streaks in his hair flared brighter, pulsing like living veins. He was a volcano asleep, and everyone in the hall knew a single breath could set it off.
Then he spoke.
— "Are you done?"
His voice was low, flat—no anger, no warmth. A simple question that hit like a verdict. The girl's mouth opened, but nothing came out. That empty stare swallowed her whole, reducing her to an insect before something vast.
— "I think you are," — Nael said, his gaze locked on her. — "So shut up."
The hall froze. No one dared breathe. The silence thickened until it stung. Yang Ming's smile lingered, but a new glint flickered in his eyes—caution, maybe fear. He knew Nael was a puzzle he'd only begun to piece together.
Elowen turned her head slowly. A cold smile curved her lips, satisfied, almost cruel. They have no idea, she thought, her silver eyes sweeping the room. Deep down, she was certain: no one here was safe. Not while she and Nael shared the same air.
The hall felt alive, but in a twisted way—like a beast poised to roar. Jade lamps cast trembling light across the walls, their glow spawning shadows that danced like restless ghosts. Faces hid behind forced smiles and stiff gestures, but the eyes betrayed them. They gleamed with naked hunger, sparked by the mention of Nael's "Giver's Physique." Even the old masters, with their white beards and granite auras, couldn't mask the greed flickering in their stares. They tried. They failed.
At the center, the disciple stood like a venomous peacock. Sweat beaded down her neck, unnoticed as she reveled in fanning the flames. Her lips parted for another jab, but I cut in first. My voice sliced through the air, sharp as a dagger.
— "So, you want to be his bedwarmer to get an Innate Physique too?" — Contempt dripped from every word, cold and biting.
She blinked, her smile faltering for a heartbeat. But she recovered fast, baring her teeth like a blade half-concealed.
— "Of course not," — she shot back, arms crossing. She aimed for defiance, but her hands clutched her elbows too hard. — "I'm not like you."
She paused. Malice lit her eyes, pure and bright, and she turned to the crowd, flinging her words like sparks onto tinder.
— "But you're all so foolish, thinking you can hide him forever. Thinking no one will notice what he is? That no one will hunt him for the benefits of his physique?"
A rough murmur rippled through the hall, slithering along the walls like starving rats. She'd hit a nerve. Even the masters in their heavy robes traded fleeting looks—veiled, but not well enough. The greed was loose now, raw and unashamed.
She stepped forward, her voice climbing, nearly a shout, as if rallying a pack.
— "Make up whatever story you want! Say he's the Holy Son, son of a goddess, or whatever. But deep down, we all know..." — She spun to face Nael, eyes wide with defiance and a touch of madness. — "...that he won't be left in peace for long."
Nael didn't flinch. He stood rooted, an ice-carved statue, his clear eyes fixed on her. No anger, no fear—just a void that drank the light around him. To the unfamiliar, it might seem like indifference, but I saw deeper. He's already sized you up, I thought. And you've lost before you even started. His presence was a quiet force, a shadow that smothered without trying.
The girl didn't see it. She didn't know when to quit.
— "What? Are you just going to stand there, saying nothing? Or are you waiting for someone here to decide what to do with you?"
The air grew thick, almost solid. Every breath held, every eye locked on Nael, waiting for the spark. But he stayed silent, staring at her as if she were a noisy bird—pesky, but no threat. His silence was a fortress, unyielding.
Enough. I leaned forward just a fraction and let my words drop like stones.
— "Funny," — I said, my tone thick with disdain. — "You talk as if you matter here. As if your opinion or your provocations could change anything."
She whipped her head toward me, eyes blazing with hate, but I pressed on.
— "But it seems you don't understand where you are. Or who you're dealing with."
My gaze flicked to Nael for a moment. The whole hall seemed to follow, hanging on that split second. The tension was a taut wire, ready to snap.
— "Do you really believe someone like him needs to worry about what others think? Or even what they try to do?"
Her mouth opened, but no sound escaped. The air pressed too hard, as if the hall itself wanted her silent. Even the masters shuffled now, uneasy, their calm facades splitting.
Nael moved at last. A tiny tilt of his head, barely there. Then he turned his back, dismissing her like a fading echo. That was all it took. She was nothing. Her face locked in shock, eyes wide, as the hall swallowed the blow in silence.
The stillness that followed was savage, heavy as mud, broken only by the sound of slow footsteps. An elder stepped from the shadows, his wide, oily smile glinting under the jade-green light. I knew him. I knew the rot he hid behind those teeth. You don't fool anyone, I thought, my fists tightening unseen.
Have you ever felt a place weigh on you before you could name why? That hall, where it all began, was like that—a living thing, exhaling suspicion. Jade lamps dangled from the ceiling like watchful eyes, spilling cold, accusing light that shivered on the walls. And there, at the heart of it, stood the old elder, one of the five mightiest in the King Domain Peak. His reputation clung to him like a ragged cloak—foul beneath, but no one dared rip it away. His crimes were shapeless whispers, rumors that turned the bold aside. Yet he stood, alive, untouched, grinning as if the world owed him a debt.
He approached, his steps deliberate, echoing on the polished floor. His eyes glinted, but there was no warmth—just a hollow hunger. He stopped before us, his rehearsed smile stretching wide.
— "You, girl, can't slander others like that," — he said, his voice slick, sweet as tainted honey. — "And you, young man, don't need to worry; I believe in you. I will personally protect you from anyone who tries to exploit your physique."
The air stilled. No laughter, no applause. The masters around—stone figures in flawless robes—shared looks that spoke volumes: he deceives no one. But the old man didn't care. He took the silence for triumph.
Kaelan, who'd been toying with the scene like a cat with a string, chose that moment to nudge the game. He crossed his arms, a troublemaker's smirk tugging at his lips.
— "True," — he said, voice soft, almost to himself. — "I've read stories about the Angels and Seraphim... Direct descendants of a true and ancient God. They say that if you pray with her name on your lips, she can see your prayers and respond."
His words sank into the quiet like pebbles in a pond, sending ripples. It wasn't idle chatter—there was intent, a lure dangled with precision. The elder cocked his head, eyes narrowing with a gleam that promised no good.
— "Interesting..." — he murmured, his smile sharpening like a knife.
I held my tongue, just watching. My heart beat steady but slow, a drum keeping time. Something was brewing—you could feel it prickling your skin, the air holding its breath.
Nael, ever the stronghold, didn't twitch. His glass-clear eyes pinned the elder with a chill that shrank the world. But I caught what others missed: the space around him quivered, faint as a sigh. The air bent, strained by something nameless.