Opening of the Tournament
At first light, the bronze bells rang three times over Donglin, and the banners of the seven sects rose like vertical rivers. In the Circle of Banners, the Master of Ceremonies stepped forward with a black wooden staff inlaid with runes. His voice—trained to be larger than the crowd—set the beginning and the bounds:
— By the ancient pact between the Sects and the City, we declare open the Tournament of Echoes. Today, the trials divide into four paths: Body, Technique, Silence, and Reflection. — The staff struck stone, dry. — Morning: the Trial of Body, to measure what holds. Afternoon: the Trial of Technique, to judge what does not hesitate. Tomorrow at dawn: the Trial of Silence, where none speak and all are heard. Tomorrow at dusk: the Trial of Reflection, in the Valley of Broken Echoes, where the world returns what you are.
The rules were read: no ancestral weapons, no outside aid, no showmanship that turns a trial into spectacle to distract the judges. Interference would mean expulsion; excess pride, a cut. The jurors—representatives of lesser sects and envoys of the greater—would take note of what the eyes see and what weight reveals.
The staff lifted, incense smoke traced a short spiral in the air—and the way began.
The Gate and the Three Artifacts
The Gate of the Circle of Banners opened at first light—dark stone, ancient runes, a breath of incense that seemed to try to discipline destiny. Donglin held its breath. The seven colors of the sects slashed the sky like tall lances; beneath them, a sea of voices, restrained drums, eyes hungry for glory.
Long Yanshen entered without a sound.
At his side, Ling Xiyan adjusted the sash that held her half-sword. Meilin, jasmine ribbon on her wrists, watched everything like one who measures the seams of a cloth the whole world is trying to tear.
— So this is it — Xiyan said, low. — Body, Technique, Silence, and Reflection.
— Don't let them laugh at you — Yanshen murmured, without looking. — Laughter is cheap; the path is not.
— And when they laugh at you? — Xiyan teased, the corner of her mouth defiant.
— Their laughter doesn't reach me.
The candidates were led to a wide terrace ringed with basalt pillars. Above, judges from minor sects took notes; farther back, heavier figures watched in silence—Zhu Yan, the Elder of Rock; an envoy of Jing Lanyi fanning a milky fan; messengers of Jin Yuhuan like discreet sparks. In the shadows of the stands, Lan Yuerong, the governor's daughter, observed with calm attention, her gaze resting on the wanderer who seemed to belong nowhere.
Trial of Body
Brought in by disciples of the Heart of Stone, three artifacts lay in the center: the Drum of Ancient Soil (each strike demanded the body not splinter within), the Atlas of Basalt (twin slabs to be lifted and held aloft), and the Path of Hammers (ten blocks falling in sequence, demanding perfect step and spine under direct weight).
— Strength isn't just muscle — the judge announced, tapping the staff. — It's what remains standing inside when the outside trembles.
The first advanced with shouts and aura on display. A youth of the Crimson Lightning Sect struck the Drum; the sound returned like thunder and he staggered half a step—applause, even so. A disciple of a minor sect raised the Atlas and locked her arms until her teeth ground—she passed in tears. Another fell on the fourth hammer—boos.
When Yanshen stepped into the circle, some laughed.
— Look, the wanderer without flame. — Someone hissed from the back. — He'll break on the first touch.
He set his palm on the Drum of Ancient Soil. He didn't pull back his shoulders, didn't call the flow; he simply breathed. And struck.
The sound wasn't loud. It was deep—bass that didn't spread, it sank. The floor stones vibrated silently, the pillars seemed to straighten their own spine. Yanshen didn't move a finger beyond the necessary; when the reverberation tried to bite his bones, the Heart of Stone he had learned in the Abyss absorbed and returned the impact to the ground, as if laying the blow itself down to sleep.
— Next — he said, simple.
The slabs of the Atlas of Basalt seemed light in his hands. No bulging veins, no roar. The slabs rose and held. Beneath the calm skin, muscles the world didn't recognize worked like hidden gears. The judges exchanged glances; the staff noted, dry.
On the Path of Hammers, Yanshen walked like one crossing a corridor of wind. Each block fell, and, instead of resisting, he adjusted his weight a breath before—Steps of the Silent Void tempered with the patience of stone. The hammers touched his body as rain touches ancient rock: without memory.
— Approved — said the judge, unable to hide his disconcert.
The jeers dwindled without courage; some laughter dissolved like dust.
Xiyan was called. At the Drum, she trembled at the return of the strike, but did not yield. At the Atlas, she lifted with dignity—arms wavering, ankle firm. On the Path, she failed on the ninth hammer, the injured knee recalling its debt. Tense silence.
Before the partial approval was spoken, jasmine ribbon brushed Xiyan's ankle: Meilin, quick, tied an improvised support.
— It's not cheating — the artisan said, facing the judge's arched brows. — It's care.
— The Trial is of the Body that walks with what it has — the judge answered after a pause. — Approved.
Meilin smiled small, tucking her hands away. When her turn came, she had no brute force, but axis—posture honed by work with silks day after day. The Atlas trembled; she stepped back a breath, shifted her support, and held. She fell on the eighth hammer, but left the circle with her head high. The "almost" did not weigh guilt; it weighed path.
Only when the Trial of Body ended did the tardy laughter come—not from courage, but old habit.
— The no-aura pretended well — a Crimson Lightning disciple sneered, flaring his nostrils. — In the Valley, the reflection will swallow him whole.
Yanshen passed them like dust passes between teeth. He did not bite, he did not answer.
Trial of Technique
The Trial of Technique was announced the next hour, under the shade of bamboos. The goal: to cross a corridor of spiritual blades that reacted to excess aura, unstable pulse, or vanity of display. It was a trial where shining invited cuts.
— Perfect for those who like to show off — Xiyan muttered, ironic.
— And perfect for those who know how to disappear — Meilin answered, glancing at Yanshen.
Those who entered first tried to "negotiate" with the blades: aura as a curtain, steps of their sect's style, mantras recited to impose order. The blades obeyed for an instant and, offended, cut what they perceived as pride.
When Yanshen entered, the corridor seemed to grow bored.
Breath of the Celestial Serpent stitched to the Seals of Quiet Breath and Veiled Pulse; the body as neutral geography, heat distributed like one who snuffs two candles with the same exhale. The blades, expecting brightness, found stone and wind; they passed through him as through absence.
Midway, a larger blade tried to "feel" the outline of his non-being—the Eye of the Void Long Zhuan had taught him roared in memory. Yanshen did not force; he gave himself back to place: dust in a corner, rumor of water in a deep stone. The blade missed its hunger and returned to watch.
In the end, he came out with his sleeve intact.
— Name — asked the scribe, tense.
— Long Yanshen.
The pen hesitated a breath, as if the page did not want to accept a name that made no noise.
Xiyan entered next. She knew too much aura would attract a cut—so she dosed her ice until it was only cold air blowing on a wall. She erred once—a ribbon of blade bit her shoulder—and she did not insist on correcting it with pride; she stepped back half a step, laughed at herself, and passed.
Meilin, with no sect techniques, traced the course with her eyes, measuring blades like one measures warp and weft. When the first demanded, she did not resist; she tilted like silk accepting wind. She left with scratches, but whole.
— I didn't know silk faced steel — said a disciple crossing paths with Meilin.
— Silk doesn't face it — replied the artisan. — It goes along until steel tires.
The murmur around them changed. Where there had been disdain, curiosity was born; where there had been certainty, a small discomfort. Up high, Zhu Yan scratched his beard with the hammer's haft, weighing the silent wanderer. One envoy of the Celestial Mirrors tilted his milky fan, trying to see what the veil hid; in the fan's own reflection, for an instant, there was nothing—as if the mirror had blinked.
Lan Yuerong descended two steps, as if to hear better the rumor of a new name.
— That man… — she whispered to her aide. — Find out whence he comes and why the silence.
The aide nodded and vanished.
Interlude
Between trials, Donglin became a lukewarm courtyard—vendors pushing broths, children running with ribbons of lesser sects, musicians testing notes they would not dare play while patriarchs watched.
Yanshen sat on a stone ledge. Meilin approached with a cup of cheap tea.
— It isn't much — she said, offering it. — But it warms from within.
— Thank you.
— You made the corridor look… easy — she ventured.
— It wasn't — he answered, honest. — I just didn't fight it.
Her eyes rested a moment longer. It was not heroism that moved her; it was the way he treated everything the world called an obstacle—as if they were old folk who step into the street and to whom one offers passage.
Xiyan arrived, wiping the thin line of blood on her shoulder with her thumb.
— When this is over, I'll ask a master of my sect to show me where my ice wastes strength. — She looked at Yanshen sideways. — If your eyes are better than hers, I'll suffer the embarrassment of learning from you.
— Ice cuts more when it doesn't try to be a mirror — he said. — If it shines too much, it melts.
Xiyan laughed, despite the pain.
A gaggle of Crimson Lightning disciples pushed by with shoulders. One of them, the same who had hissed insults before, stopped in front of Yanshen.
— I saw no aura in your Trial of Body. Nor in the corridor. You'll fail in Silence and cry in Reflection.
— Those who cry loud learn late — Yanshen said, without lifting his head.
— Say that again.
— I don't need to.
The youth swelled, but a voice sliced the friction:
— Enough.
Lan Yuerong, with two discreet guards, stopped between them. The group stepped back—not from fear, but from etiquette.
— Rules of the Tournament — she said, looking at the disciple without harshness. — Respect keeps the sword in the sheath. Save your blade for the valley.
The youth bowed and left. Yuerong turned to Yanshen. For an instant, their eyes recognized each other like those who discover they remembered a face before meeting it.
— Long Yanshen — she pronounced, as if tasting the name. — Silence suits you better than most armor.
— Armor rusts — he replied.
She smiled only with her eyes.
— Until the Valley of Broken Echoes — she said before leaving. — That is where the world truly looks at itself.
Lists and Night
Shadows lengthened in the Circle of Banners. At the edge of night, the lists were announced of those advancing to the Trial of Silence the next morning—courtyards closed, hearts open, no sound save the very weight of existing.
Long Yanshen — approved.Ling Xiyan — approved.Meilin — approved.
There was surprised laughter, fingers pointing to the name of an artisan among disciples. Meilin bit her lip, her eyes wet with fright and pride. Xiyan squeezed her hand.
— Tomorrow, no one will hear your voice — she whispered. — But they'll hear the way you don't speak.
Yanshen tucked the paper into his pocket like one tucks a live coal. When he lifted his face, the sky over Donglin seemed lower—lanterns rising in rivers, the city covered with anxious breaths.
The Look
On the high walkway connecting the stands, two disciples walked beside a woman in pale robes marked with the emblem of the Celestial Mirrors. Hair loose, steps firm, a silence that wasn't emptiness—it was measure. Yu Qinglan.
This time, she stopped.
It was brief—a light stumble inside the chest, enough to turn her face to the basalt terrace where Yanshen, still under the Veil of a Thousand Absences, was preparing to leave. The veil trembled like a thin blade in the wind. He raised his eyes. There was no name between them, no clear memory; there was an old thread that hissed, taut, like a line pulled through a narrow needle.
The guards looked to her, ready to move on. She didn't smile, didn't frown—she simply held the gaze one second longer than a city so crowded would allow. Then she nodded almost imperceptibly, like someone recognizing something without knowing from where.
— Lady Yu Qinglan? — a disciple asked.
— Nothing — she said, resuming her step. — I only heard… a different rumor.
Below, Meilin—the artisan—adjusted the ribbon on Yanshen's wrist without asking permission—a small, natural gesture, like setting straight the world where it insists on falling askew.
— So you won't forget there are people here — she said, blushing. — Even when you vanish.
— Thank you — he answered, with that look still caught on a place that had no word.
Donglin's wind brought the smell of tea and iron. Somewhere in the distance, a guqin plucked a note that did not repeat.
— Tomorrow — Xiyan said, with that brief smile that prefers action to promise. — We'll make silence speak.
Yanshen nodded.
And, beneath the murmur of banners, the continent—still unknowing—tilted a finger toward what had no name. Tomorrow, when voices fell quiet, Donglin would hear for the first time the exact weight of what cannot be seen. And among the hundreds of eyes, there would be one—a mother's, Yu Qinglan's—that, without knowing why, would no longer be able to turn away.