The Holy Mountain did not fall silent after the bloodline ceremony.
Where one radiant awakening was usually cause enough for celebration, this time the heavens had blazed with seven.
Dominion's Gaze.
Soul Gaze.
Veil of Fate.
Heaven's Sight.
Memory Engraving.
Seven full awakenings, not fragments—seven children marked by the clan's purest inheritances. Even the Bloodline Vein pulsed brighter in its hidden caverns, as though the ancestors themselves whispered in astonishment.
Whispers rippled through Astralis. Disciples rejoiced, servants spread rumors in hushed awe, and vassal branches prepared tributes without waiting for command. To them, it was simple: the Ye Clan had entered a golden age.
But in the Core Palace of Skyveil, the Matriarch did not smile.
By candlelight she faced the family's Seer, an ancient woman robed in black and silver, her eyes clouded like storm-wracked skies. Incense coiled between them, twisting into shapes that would not stay still.
"Seven stars blaze together," the Seer whispered. "Such brilliance has not been since the founding. The heavens turn their gaze upon Astralis."
The Matriarch's voice was steady. "And what does heaven's gaze bring? Fortune—or calamity?"
The Seer's breath rattled, the smoke thickening. For a heartbeat, frost seemed to pass through the chamber.
"Fortune and doom wear the same face," she intoned. "The heavens bless, and the heavens test. One cannot come without the other."
The Matriarch closed her eyes. She had feared as much.
That night, the Supreme Elders and the Grand Elders of the Core Council assembled within the Ancestral Pavilion. Jade lanterns burned low, their glow casting long shadows across carved murals of the Ye forebears.
The Matriarch's words broke the silence: "Seven full awakenings."
A murmur rolled through the elders like distant thunder.
Grand Elder Ye Tianlan was first to speak. His face was grave, his voice deliberate.
"This news must not leave the Holy Mountain. If the outside learns Astralis has birthed seven prodigies in a single breath, the Realm itself will look on us with envy and fear."
Supreme Elder Ye Zhenyuan, broad as mountains, nodded.
"My grandchildren already walk as targets for their Li bloodline. To add this blaze of light would make every arrow in the heavens turn toward us. I agree—the world must not see them as they are."
All eyes turned to Supreme Elder Ye Qianlan, veiled in silver. Her presence pressed into the bones of all who listened.
"Then let them be ordinary in the eyes of Astralis," she said. "And extraordinary only in our shadows. Outwardly, they will walk as any disciple—quiet, unremarkable, their names recorded as fragments if at all. But in secret, they will be forged together. If the heavens have given us seven, then seven shall be bound as one."
Silence followed.
The Matriarch's gaze was sharp. "And who shall oversee this forging?"
Qianlan inclined her head. "The Supremes and the Core. No more, no less. And… my pavilion will bear the burden of their guidance."
By dawn, the decree was sealed.
To the clan at large: the ceremony had produced promising but ordinary children.
To the vassals and the realm: nothing unusual had happened.
In truth: a circle of ten would be raised in secret.
The Golden Seven would train alongside two others—Li Shen and Li Mei, grandchildren of Zhenyuan—making nine.
And with them, under Qianlan's unseen hand, would walk one more: Ye Xuan.
When the council dispersed and the lanterns dimmed, Qianlan lingered. Her veil shifted faintly as she turned her gaze inward.
Seven prodigies, bound together. The world would one day call them Astralis's Golden Generation. To the clan, they were destiny incarnate. To her, they were a shield.
For hidden among them, unremarked, would be the tenth child—the boy of prismatic light, cursed and blessed in equal measure.
By forging the seven together, she had given Ye Xuan what he had been denied: a childhood among peers. And by hiding them all in shadow, she had shielded his secret from the eyes of gods and men alike.
Her hand lingered on the cold jade railing as she whispered to herself:
"Whether omen or fortune, the heavens will not find us unprepared."
The wards of the Holy Mountain hummed in agreement, as though the ancestors themselves had heard.
The Holy Mountain lowered its voice. After seven awakenings, even the wind moved with care.
Across sanctums and pavilions, children were called—not by trumpet or decree, but by quiet summons. No banners. No drums. Only doors opening, one by one.
In the lower halls of the Supreme Pavilion, a candle of clear oil burned without smoke. Supreme Elder Ye Qianlan stood by the carved window, veil silver as frost, hands folded as if cradling law.
"Xuan'er," she said, and the chamber seemed to still to hear it.
Ye Xuan stepped in and bowed. He wore plain moon-white, the color he had always known in seclusion. In his eyes a faint prism lay sleeping.
Qianlan's voice was low. "There will be a class. Ten children. They will be tempered in shadow. You will walk among them… not as prismatic, not as legend. As cousin. As boy."
Something bright and bubbling rose in his chest, a warmth he had only felt when watching other children from afar. His eyes widened, almost sparkling, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
"I… I can play with them? Train with them too?"
"You may belong," Qianlan said. Her voice was steady as law, though her veil tilted at his eagerness. "But you will belong as a whisper, not a bell. Do you accept this?"
He nodded so quickly his hair shook, fists clenched in excitement. "Yes, Master! I'll be good, I promise!"
Her hand hovered, then settled briefly upon his hair, the gesture soft and rare as spring rain. "Then remember: shadow is not the absence of light. It is its keeper."
In the west cloister of the Supreme Pavilion, lanterns carved from fallen star-stone hung like still comets.
Supreme Elder Ye Zhenyuan sat cross-legged, his broad shoulders easy beneath a robe the color of deep water. Li Shen knelt first, his hands already spear-callused from training, while Li Mei bounced once before settling, a grin tugging at her lips.
"My thunder-saplings," Zhenyuan rumbled, and the lanterns seemed to hum in response. "The clan will train a circle in secret. Ten children. You will be two of them."
"A secret school?" Mei's head popped up.
"A crucible," Zhenyuan corrected, though amusement warmed his eyes. "You will learn with cousins brighter than festival fires. You will guard those fires with your backs to theirs."
Shen's jaw set. "Yes, Grandfather."
Mei swallowed her excitement, trying to mirror her brother's gravity. "Yes, Grandfather."
Zhenyuan laid a heavy palm upon each crown.
"Thunder breaks and mends. Be both. And if pride bites any heel in that circle, let it be yours it bites last."
Meanwhile, in the Core Palace, the Matriarch sat as mountains do—less like a person than a shape the world had decided not to move. The palace held night in daylight; constellations lay asleep in its vaulted stone. Liangfeng, Chenrui, and Qingxian knelt in a single line before her. Her voice was not loud, nor did it need to be.
"You shone," she said. "The clan saw. So did heaven.
That is already enough eyes."
The three small heads lowered further.
"There will be a circle. Ten cousins. You will be three of them. In the open, you are disciples. In the shadow, you are iron. Speak your acceptance and leave your pride here."
"I accept," Qingxian said, her voice like still water.
"I accept," Liangfeng said, calm as a kept promise.
"I accept," Chenrui said, his usual restlessness stilled.
The Matriarch's gaze softened by no degree anyone would name softness. "Good. Rise as branches—and return as a tree."
They rose, smaller than the hall, but larger than when they had entered.
And so it was for the others as well. Ye Liangjun heard from his grandfather, Grand Elder Tianlan, a stern and measured lesson: he was to be balance, not boast. Ye Qingyi learned in the quiet of her father Lianshu's chamber that memory would be her burden and her gift—she was to gather what others might lose. In the westflare forge-halls, a flushed Ye Wen received blunt words from his grandfather: sight is a blade, and patience keeps it sharp. Ye Hanrui, kneeling before his great-grandfather Tianhong, was told not to be kiln nor ash, but a steady flame among flames. Each child, in their own corner of the Holy Mountain, heard the summons. For some it was duty, for others excitement, for still others a quiet weight.
That night, ten children lay awake in ten separate rooms—some beneath banners, some beneath books, one beneath a silver veil. Ye Xuan stared at the rafters, his chest thumping with anticipation. Li Mei whispered plans into her pillow and made her brother vow to keep them. Liangjun arranged thoughts like counters on an abacus. Qingyi half-dreamed a page that would one day hold their names. Wen tried to be patient and failed twice, then succeeded once and slept. Hanrui breathed like a hearth under banked coals. Liangfeng, Chenrui, and Qingxian each reached a hand in the dark, not touching anyone, yet finding a shared steadiness.
Beneath them all, the Bloodline Vein gave a long, contented sigh. Ten faint threads stirred within the mountain, separate strands humming to themselves.
The hum deepened.
Threads quivered.
And somewhere no map recorded, the Holy Mountain's hidden arrays shifted a single measure—making room for a circle that did not yet know it was already being woven.