The stars above Cloud Vein Sect blinked dimly, as if holding their breath.
Zeravon stood silently on the same mountain ledge. His back ached, his wrists sore.
He had trained for hours without pause, without cultivating Qi — just *refining movement*.
But now…
He breathed in.
And the **air responded.**
Not with a tremble.
Not with divine symbols.
But with **clarity**.
As if even the Dao itself acknowledged that what was happening here… was *real*.
---
**Cloud Vein Sect – Early Morning**
Pei and Jin stood at the edge of the forest clearing, watching Zeravon from afar.
> "He's still going?" Jin whispered.
Pei nodded slowly.
> "I think… he's entering some kind of flow state. Did you feel that just now? Like… like the wind curved differently when he moved?"
They said nothing more.
Because **Zeravon wasn't just practicing** now.
He was *communicating*.
Each form.
Each breath.
Each weight-shift.
All of it spoke to something deeper — like he was tracing a language too old to be written, too real to be fake.
---
**Instructor Wei's Observation Tower**
From the top pavilion, Instructor Wei watched quietly.
His arms were crossed, but his brows were drawn.
> "Still no burst of Qi. Still no technique. No awakening. And yet…"
> "Every motion he makes looks like it belongs to the Dao itself."
He turned to Elder Lin, who had appeared silently beside him.
> "Why does that scare me?" Wei asked.
Elder Lin's face was grim.
> "Because he is not becoming strong…"
> "He is becoming *aligned*."
---
**Hours Later — Practice Ends**
Zeravon finally collapsed back onto the stone bench.
His robe was drenched. His limbs numb.
And yet, his breathing was steady.
He looked up at the sky — now tinged gold with the first touch of dawn.
> *"Still no power…"*
> *"Still no memory…"*
> *But something is beginning to fit."*
He placed his palm over his chest — where Yueyin's talisman had been absorbed.
It no longer glowed.
But deep inside him… a **spark** now hummed.
A soft warmth.
Like a match struck in a cave no one had entered for a thousand years.
---
**Elsewhere – Central Arena Grounds**
The sect had announced the second round of evaluations.
Duels would now be held in open format — observed not just by elders, but by **visiting nobles, rogue cultivators, and emissaries from nearby sects**.
Zeravon's name was on the list again.
He glanced at it without emotion.
> "I won't win."
> "But this time… I will not hold back."
He wasn't arrogant.
He wasn't confident.
He was **ready to try.**
---
**Meanwhile – Distant Realm of Tracing Winds**
Far beyond the Lower Realm, in a skyless pocket of space, an immortal fox spirit peered into a drifting mirror-pool.
In the reflection: Zeravon stood still, breathing.
> "He still doesn't know who he is…" the fox whispered.
> "But his breath… his balance… even his silence…"
> "It is the same as the one who once stood at the peak of all heavens."
A younger spirit beside her shivered.
> "Should we interfere?"
The fox shook her head.
> "No. Let him fail."
> "Let him bleed."
> "Only then… will his truth not destroy him."
---
**Back in the Sect — Zeravon's Quarters**
He sat once more beneath the open sky.
No cultivation light. No Qi whirlwind.
Just stillness.
And yet…
The moonlight **bent gently toward him.**
Like it recognized something.
Or someone.
And far, far above — in a place **without stars**, a broken golden scroll finally shed its first **entire letter**.
A name.
Not complete.
Not known.
Just one syllable.
> *"Ob…"*
And the Realm shook — slightly.
But no one noticed.
Not yet.
---