The bell rang at dawn.
Not the usual call to training.
This one was slower.
Heavier.
It rolled through the stone corridors and wooden dormitories like a low warning, pulling every disciple from uneasy sleep into stiff, silent movement.
Within the time it took incense to burn halfway down its stick, the outer plaza was full.
Rows formed under instinct rather than command. No one laughed. No one whispered. Even the habitual troublemakers stood rigid, eyes forward, hands at their sides.
Yesterday still clung to them.
The blood.
The missing.
The lone survivor's sobs at the gate.
All of it pressed against their backs like an invisible wall.
At the front, Tan Wei stood with his hands behind his back.
He did not speak.
He did not need to.
The presence beside him did the rest.
I stepped forward. The scrape of my boots against stone was soft, yet it cut through the crowd like a blade.
At once, spines drew straighter. Breaths shortened. The air itself felt thinner, as if the plaza had sunk a few inches into the mountain.
I lifted my gaze and let it pass over them.
Twenty-seven faces in the first rows showed restrained fear.
Six displayed exhaustion.
Three carried resentment barely contained behind lowered eyes.
And one…
One pair of eyes did not avert itself at all.
Hungry for power.
Interesting...
"Yesterday's missions,"
I said, my voice traveling without force, yet reaching every corner of the plaza,
"were classified as low-risk."
No one moved.
"No high-grade beasts. No territorial kings. No environmental anomalies."
A pause.
"Eleven still died."
[You've gathered 48 points of Fear]
A ripple passed through the crowd, not outward, but inward. The disciples became tense, their throats tightened.
"One returned with limbs that will never answer him again."
[You've gathered 64 points of Fear]
The words settled like dust onto wet stone.
"Twelve lives permanently altered," I continued calmly. "For an assignment designed for training."
[You've gathered 72 points of Fear]
I turned my head a fraction.
"That result is unacceptable."
[You've gathered 80 points of Fear]
A few disciples swallowed.
Some in confusion.
Some in relief.
They had expected praise for survival.
They found condemnation instead.
"Do not misunderstand me," I said. "Death in battle is not shameful."
The front rows stiffened.
"But dying because you were sloppy," I added, "is not bravery, it is pure incompetence."
Silence.
"Dying because you were impatient," I continued, "is not sacrifice."
A few shoulders drew back, as if struck.
"Dying because you ignored your teachings…"
My gaze lowered slightly.
"…is stupidity."
The word landed without heat.
Colder than shouting.
"Fear is not your enemy," I said. "It is a tool. It tells you where you are weak. It tells you when to stop."
I let the mask tilt just slightly.
"Those who treat fear as a challenge will die quickly."
A faint shift rippled through the formation.
Not panic.
Correction.
"The survivors yesterday lived for only one reason," I said. "They listened. They maintained formation. They moved as one. "
I raised my hand slowly.
"Discipline is the only mercy this sect will offer."
No one spoke.
Even Tan Wei stood motionless now, his hands clenched behind his back.
"Your rewards will stand," I said. "Because results matter."
A short pause.
"But your dead will not be praised."
This time, the silence cracked with something subtle.
Understanding.
"Their names will not be engraved."
"Their acts will not be remembered."
"They will be recorded only as wasted resources."
Several disciples' faces drained of color.
"From today onward," I continued, "you do not chase achievement."
"You chase precision. You chase power. You chase superiority."
A breath.
"Those who fail in that will discover very quickly how cheap their lives truly are."
I lowered my hand.
"Step back."
The pressure eased by a fraction. Enough for breathing to return in staggered waves.
Then I turned my head.
The excited disciple stood in the third row, posture flawless, eyes unwavering.
I did not call him forward.
Not yet.
Instead, I spoke again.
"Logistics reassignment."
A murmur stirred, quickly strangled into silence.
Names followed.
One. Two. Three.
Each stepped out.
Then I spoke his.
"Wu Chi."
When his name left my lips, the crowd reacted for the first time too slowly to hide it.
A flicker of surprise.
He stepped forward immediately.
Unhesitating.
Good reaction.
"From this moment," I said, "you are removed from combat deployment."
A few disciples could not fully suppress their shock.
His gaze did not waver.
"You will assist in wounded transport, casualty recording, and inner hall supply movement."
No explanation.
No justification.
"Effective immediately."
He bowed without hesitation.
"Dismissed."
The formation broke in controlled motion. Squads dissolved in orderly silence. Whispers formed only after several dozen steps had been taken.
None of them dared speak while still within ten paces of me.
.
The wounded hall smelled of metal and heat-crushed herbs.
Steam drifted in thin veils between the cots.
Wu Chi joined the stretcher line without comment. When the first injured was brought out, he adjusted his grip instantly, matching the bearer across from him without being told.
The body was warm.
Too light.
A youth with crushed ribs, breath rasping in uneven pulls. With every step, the sound inside his chest shifted wetly.
The excited disciple did not look away.
The injured boy's eyelids fluttered open briefly as they passed beneath a hanging lantern.
When he saw the face above him, his fingers twitched against the cloth.
Later came the crippled one.
Twisted legs wrapped crudely in cloth that could not hide the shape beneath. The man whimpered in broken, animal sounds, deep in sleep.
As they moved him, one bearer faltered.
The excited disciple corrected the pace without a word.
The stretcher steadied and the man's breathing evened.
The others followed his rhythm without noticing they had done so.
Borrowed authority had already begun to settle.
.
By midday, he was ordered to deliver compiled records to the inner hall.
He approached alone.
Each step inside felt heavier than the one before, not from pressure, but from awareness.
I stood by the window, reviewing another scroll when he entered.
I did not turn.
He knelt and raised the documents with both hands.
"Casualty records delivered," he said.
His voice was steady and gaze pointed downward.
I took the scroll, scanned it in silence, returned it.
Only then did I speak.
"Your handwriting is steady."
Nothing else.
No verdict.
No approval.
No threat.
He bowed again and withdrew.
His pulse was loud enough that he could hear it.
I did not need to say more.
.
That afternoon, during drills, a disciple two lines away stepped half a beat too early.
A minor deviationm the kind that breeds corpses.
The excited disciple felt it before he understood it.
"Wrong. Return to rhythm."
His voice was quiet, but sharp, making the offender freeze on the spot.
Then stepped back into alignment without resistance.
No elder spoke.
No instructor intervened.
The formation absorbed the correction and continued.
From the balcony above, I watched without moving.
"He's doing well. Extention of myself directly within their circles. That should keep them on their toes even when I'm not present."
.
That night, behind the outer dormitory, the excited disciple stood alone.
The courtyard was empty.
He straightened his posture once.
Again.
Again.
Until the angle felt correct.
No one was watching.
Yet he practiced anyway.
In his mind, the speech replayed.
The word that would not leave him was not death.
It was waste.
And beneath it, quieter than the rest, one sentence repeated with far more weight than it should have carried.
"Your handwriting is steady."
He exhaled slowly.
Not in relief, but in silent admirtaion.
.
.
.
[STATUS]
[Name: Han Ye]
[Age: 18]
[Cultivation: Terror Manifestation Realm - Late Stage ▸ Qi Condensation - Early Stage]
[Fear Points: 5 327]
[Trauma: +553/day]
[Infamy: +24/day]
[Fear Points needed for the next stage: 6 000]
[Techniques: Shadowless Step, Thousand Faces Arts (incomplete), Silent Pulse Breathing, Crow Shroud Technique]