Donglin awoke like an unfurled banner. Colorful fabrics crossed the streets like suspended rivers, spiritual bells hung from balconies, and the markets breathed spices, cheap incense, and the haste of those who could not afford to be late even for life itself. Beneath the shimmer of embroidery, however, what prevailed was a contained silence — the rumor of a cracked dish about to give way.
Long Yanshen walked among people and banners like one crossing a dream he had not taken part in. The Veil of a Thousand Absences erased his echo, yet the world still tried to remember him through the brush of wind, dust at his ankles, and glances that almost saw him and forgot him in the same instant. For the continent, ten years had passed. For him, in the Abyss, millennia had folded into a single breath.
— Donglin has grown taller — he murmured, gazing at the towers. — And shallower.
Where once cultivators were revered as if they were auroras, now there was fear and rancor. Merchants lowered their heads when disciples in embroidered robes passed by; afterward, once their footsteps had gone, they exchanged bitter looks. On the stalls, cheap talismans were laid out beside fruit; on the corners, children learned to name sects before they learned to name birds.
By dusk, the seven largest banners were raised over the Plaza of the Veiled Heart, a stone terrace overlooking the river. Common soldiers kept their distance; guards from lesser sects lined up like rows of porcelain. The Temporary Council gathered there — not out of respect for Donglin, but out of the convenience of those who ruled it.
Lei Wuchang, the Immortal Thunder Fist, arrived first. His step was a hammer in a cloudless sky; lightning obeyed him like an ancient hound. Han Xueqin, the Still Lotus, sat before anyone else, letting the cold settle beneath the stones. Jing Lanyi, the Fan of a Thousand Reflections, waved once and multiplied presences into shadows that were not hers; when she closed the fan, silence itself seemed to seal destinies. Qiao Yinsheng laid his hand upon an invisible guqin, and the plaza heard a note that was never played. Mo Yin, the Voice Never Heard, was already there when they thought to look for him. Zhu Yan nodded to the mountain as if conversing with a brother. Jin Yuhuan descended with the light of a sun that did not burn, only revealed.
— The roar was not merely an echo — said Han Xueqin, gazing north. — It was a decree.
— And who dares decree above my thunder? — growled Lei Wuchang, clenching a fist wrapped in lightning. — I want a name.
— Names are reflections — Jing Lanyi remarked with a faint smile. — Sometimes, to see is to choose to forget.
Zhu Yan struck his hammer to the ground, and the plaza trembled.— The continent quaked. If it is a ghost, we expel it. If it is a man, we weigh him. — His gaze hardened. — The Tournament of the Sects will be held here. All may take part. We will filter strength… and anomalies.
Qiao Yinsheng brushed the strings of the air. The word "anomaly" vibrated like a trapped sound.— And if that anomaly does not wish to reveal itself?
— Then we shall listen to silence — replied Jin Yuhuan calmly. — Sometimes silence weighs as heavily as a roar.
Mo Yin inclined his hood.— Prepare yourselves for pride.
Lei Wuchang smiled, his teeth sparking like lightning.— Prepare yourselves, rather, for the sky.
The decision was sealed then and there: the Tournament would begin in three days. Trials open to all — body, technique, and spirit. And, at the end, the examination before the water mirrors of the Valley of Broken Echoes. Whoever lied to himself… would drown in the reflection.
That night, the city traded its dust for oil lamps. In an alley near the tea market, Ling Xiyan and Meilin walked slowly, their bodies still remembering recent wounds. Xiyan carried her broken sword wrapped in fresh cloth — not out of vanity, but out of respect for what had endured. Meilin, daughter of silk artisans, wiped her hands with a handkerchief that smelled of poor jasmine.
— He appeared even before the danger — Meilin murmured, as if fearing to wake an omen.
— No one appears like that by chance — Xiyan replied, thoughtful. — Those who do not wish to be seen only appear when they must… or when they choose to.
— And in his case? — Meilin's voice was almost lost in the noise of the market.
Xiyan raised her eyes to the sky, as though seeking an answer among the stars.— I think he needed to.
Turning a corner, wooden courtyard, thin wine. Yanshen crossed in silence, already leaving. Xiyan raised her hand.— At least accept a meal. It is only gratitude.
He weighed the gesture, the night, the burden of his own step. He nodded.
They sat beneath simple lanterns. The flames trembled on the tabletop like phrases one does not wish to speak.
— You are not like the others — Xiyan remarked, firm but not harsh. — You do not try to seem greater than you are.
— Ice that shines too brightly melts first — Yanshen answered.
Meilin smiled shyly.— I only know a few simple techniques I learned from travelers. It is not much… but it is what I have.
Yanshen looked at her hands — hands that knew how to shape the world without asking permission.— Desire itself is a burden. And the hardest one to carry.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable; it felt like respect. Meilin lowered her eyes, while Xiyan, for a moment, noticed in Yanshen's face a tranquil weariness — the kind that did not ask for a bed, but for a horizon.
Yu Qinglan walked through Donglin in silence, accompanied by two disciples of the Celestial Mirror Sect. The city seemed smaller than her memories — streets too narrow to contain such ambition. Her closed fan rested in her hand, and her serene face concealed an ancient weariness.
At the crossing of two streets, Long Yanshen passed by. A brief instant: he, cloaked by the Veil of a Thousand Absences; she, caught in thoughts she dared not share. Their eyes almost met, yet they went on as strangers. Still, an invisible thread quivered in the air, as if the moon itself had breathed between them.
The next morning, elders of the minor sects gathered in the Hall of Banners to settle the details of the Tournament. Maps were spread out, judges appointed, and the trials divided into four stages: body, technique, silence, and reflection.
— Candidates must be tested not only in strength — said an elder in green robes. — But also in discipline and intent.
— Intent is measured in the Valley of Broken Echoes — another replied. — Whoever fears his own shadow is unworthy to advance.
The rules were inscribed upon wooden tablets and soon nailed across the streets of Donglin. The city buzzed with rumors.
That afternoon, Xiyan, Meilin, and Yanshen crossed the market. They drew no attention by ostentation — on the contrary, their presence seemed too modest amid disciples in luxurious robes.
A group of young cultivators, likely from the Crimson Lightning Sect, laughed as they passed.— Look at that… two wounded birds and a wanderer without flame. — The voice dripped contempt.— He doesn't even have energy. Did he come just to hold the banner? — another mocked, drawing more laughter.
Meilin lowered her eyes; Xiyan tightened her grip on the broken sword beneath the cloth, but said nothing.
Yanshen only looked at them for an instant. There was no anger in his eyes, only the calm of one who has known abysses. Then he kept walking, without a word.
The laughter trailed behind, but something in the street seemed to cool. Even the wind seemed to question the audacity of those who laughed.
When they turned the last street, the movement shifted. All of Donglin seemed to converge toward a single point. The banners of the seven sects rippled above, fastened to masts that pierced the sky like spears. The crowd surged in waves — merchants, wanderers, proud disciples, children carried on shoulders.
Ahead, the Gate of the Circle of Banners rose in dark stone, etched with ancient runes. Within it, the space of the tournament awaited. There bodies, techniques, silences, and reflections would be weighed. There names would be revealed… or erased.
Yanshen paused for a moment, gazing at the gate as one measures the distance to a storm. At his side, Meilin adjusted her jasmine-scented handkerchief, and Xiyan kept her chin raised, even in her weariness.
Without needing words, the three stepped forward together.
The roar that had shaken the continent still echoed somewhere unseen — but now it would be the city of Donglin that heard the next sound.