The first rays of dawn crept over the treeline like cautious scouts, painting Shrek Academy in soft gold.
Roosters crowed somewhere in the village beyond the walls—ordinary sounds that felt almost defiant in the presence of what had transpired the night before.
Aza still sat in the exact centre of the field.
He had not moved since midnight. The Outer Gods had not moved either. Their positions were identical to the hour they had taken them: Nyarlathotep lounging on empty air, Yog-Sothoth rotating slowly, Shub-Niggurath's darkness cradling the grass like a living blanket. The flautists played on, softer now, a melody that rose and fell with the breathing of something infinitely larger than the continent.
Yet when the sun touched Aza's face, something changed.
The piping faded to silence.
One by one, the lesser spawn dissolved into wisps of shadow that drifted upward and vanished. Shub-Niggurath's projection retracted, folding in on itself until only a faint patch of darker grass remained. Yog-Sothoth's spheres folded inward like closing eyes, leaving only a faint shimmer in the air. Nyarlathotep stood, straightened his immaculate black suit, and offered a shallow, theatrical bow.
Then they were simply… less.
Not gone—never truly gone—but diminished, as though stepping back behind an invisible curtain. Only the faintest outlines remained at the edge of mortal perception: a tall shadow here, a cluster of eyes there, a suggestion of hooves in the dew-wet grass. They would not vanish entirely; they were bound to their Sultan. But for the daylight hours, in the presence of others, they allowed the illusion of solitude.
Aza opened his eyes fully for the first time since arriving.
They were still abyssal, still endless, but now there was something else in them—curiosity, perhaps even a trace of wonder. He looked at the academy buildings, at the rising smoke from the kitchen where Teacher Li was already preparing breakfast, at the students beginning to emerge sleepy-eyed from their cabins.
He rose to his feet in one fluid motion.
The moment he did, the academy bell rang—Flender's signal that morning assembly and lessons would begin in thirty minutes.
Tang San was already outside, performing his Purple Demon Eye cultivation as the sun crested the horizon. His posture was perfect, breathing measured, gaze fixed on the first sliver of light. When Aza walked past—silent, barefoot on the cool grass—Tang San's concentration wavered for a fraction of a second.
"Good morning," Tang San said, voice calm but alert.
Aza paused. He tilted his head, as though tasting the words.
"Good… morning," he echoed, the phrase foreign on his tongue. The layered quality of his voice made it sound like a chorus speaking politely. "You… greet the day this way?"
Tang San nodded. "Purple Demon Eye. It strengthens observation and spirit power control. You should try it sometime."
Aza considered. Then, without another word, he turned toward the rising sun and stood perfectly still, mimicking Tang San's stance.
Nothing visible happened—no spirit power circulation, no glow of cultivation technique. Yet Tang San felt the air grow heavier, as though the sunlight itself bent slightly around Aza's silhouette.
After a full minute, Aza lowered his gaze.
"I see… many things," he said quietly. "Threads of light. Threads of possibility. And far beyond… music."
Tang San wasn't sure how to respond to that.
Xiao Wu emerged from the cabin then, stretching and yawning, her rabbit spirit subtly enhancing her agility even in casual movement. She took one look at Aza standing beside Tang San and grinned.
"You're up early, weird new guy! Did your scary friends keep you awake all night with their concert?"
Aza turned to her. For the first time, the corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, but close.
"They do not sleep," he said. "But they played softly. For me."
Xiao Wu blinked, then laughed, the sound bright and unafraid. "Well, tell them thanks from me. It was kinda pretty, in a spooky way."
Aza's almost-smile deepened a fraction.
Across the field, the door to the auxiliary students' cabin opened.
Ning Rongrong stepped out, already impeccably dressed in a fresh pink-and-white outfit, hair pinned with jewelled ornaments that caught the morning light. She carried herself with the natural poise of someone born to privilege, chin high, expression cool.
But her eyes—sharp, assessing—went immediately to Aza.
She had not slept much. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard faint flutes and saw those endless black eyes looking up at her window.
Now, in daylight, he seemed less terrifying. Pale, quiet, strangely beautiful in an unearthly way. The terrifying court had withdrawn to mere suggestions of presence. Yet the air around him still felt different—thicker, charged, like the moment before a storm.
Oscar and Ma Hongjun emerged behind her, arguing about breakfast sausages.
"—I'm telling you, my new peach-flavoured recovery sausage is gonna be a hit!" Oscar insisted.
Ma Hongjun snorted. "If it tastes like your last experiment, I'd rather eat dirt."
Their bickering stopped when they noticed Aza.
"Morning, new guy," Oscar said cautiously. "Uh… sleep well?"
Aza turned to them. "I do not sleep."
Ma Hongjun gulped. "Right. Cool. Very cool."
Flender's voice boomed across the field then, amplified by spirit power.
"All students to the main field! Assembly in five minutes! Anyone late runs fifty laps!"
The group converged.
Dai Mubai arrived last, striding from the teachers' building with his usual confidence, white hair gleaming. Zhu Zhuqing and another girl—apparently a late arrival named something-or-other—followed quietly.
Grandmaster stood beside Flender, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable.
When everyone had assembled—eight students in total now, including Aza—Flender cleared his throat.
"Welcome to Shrek Academy's new term. As you know, we only accept monsters here. No mediocre talents. Looking at this batch…" His eyes lingered on Tang San, Xiao Wu, Dai Mubai, then finally on Aza. "…I'd say we've outdone ourselves."
Grandmaster stepped forward.
"Today begins basic physical conditioning and theory lessons. But first—introductions. Name, age, spirit rank, martial soul."
They went in a circle.
Tang San: twelve, rank 29, Blue Silver Grass and Clear Sky Hammer (he only mentioned Blue Silver Grass).
Xiao Wu: twelve, rank 29, Soft Bone Charm Rabbit.
Dai Mubai: fifteen, rank 37, Evil Eyed White Tiger.
Oscar: fourteen, rank 29, Sausage (he recited his infamous spell with a grin, earning groans).
Ma Hongjun: thirteen, rank 25, Evil Fire Phoenix.
Ning Rongrong: twelve, rank 26, Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Pagoda.
All eyes turned to Aza.
He stood at the end of the line, hands loosely at his sides.
"I am called… Aza," he said slowly, as though the name was new to him too. "Age is… difficult. Spirit rank cannot be measured by your devices. Martial soul…"
He raised his right hand.
Black-violet mist coalesced instantly, forming a perfect sphere of absolute nothingness—light bent around it, sound muffled near it. The Void Nucleus.
Grandmaster's eyes widened behind his glasses.
"Innate… domain-like effect?" he muttered.
The pagoda at Ning Rongrong's side—un-summoned—chimed once, clearly, as though in recognition.
Rongrong's cheeks flushed. She quickly dismissed the phantom image.
Flender coughed. "Right. Well. Lessons begin now. First period: physical conditioning with Teacher Zhao Wuji."
Zhao Wuji emerged from the teachers' building, cracking his knuckles, bear-like frame casting a long shadow.
"Alright, brats! Twenty laps around the academy! Anyone who falls behind gets personal attention from me!"
The students groaned and set off.
Aza ran with them.
He did not sweat. He did not breathe heavily. His footsteps made no sound. The faint outlines of the Outer Gods paced him at the edges of the track—Nyarlathotep jogging elegantly, Yog-Sothoth rolling along like a cluster of wheels, Shub-Niggurath's darkness flowing beneath his feet to cushion each stride.
No one commented. They were too busy trying to keep up.
After the run came theory with Grandmaster: martial soul classification, spirit ring age limits, variant souls.
Aza listened in complete silence, absorbing everything.
During a break, students gathered near the water barrel.
Ning Rongrong stood apart, sipping delicately from a crystal cup one of her clan guards had apparently left behind.
Aza approached—slowly, as though not wishing to startle her.
She noticed immediately. Her posture stiffened.
He stopped three paces away.
"Your tower," he said without preamble, voice soft, layered. "It sang last night. And again this morning."
Rongrong nearly dropped her cup.
"I—I don't know what you're talking about," she said, chin lifting defiantly.
Aza tilted his head.
"It reached for my music. A greeting, perhaps."
Rongrong's face burned crimson. "My pagoda doesn't reach for anything! It's the world's number one auxiliary martial soul! It doesn't need your… your creepy flutes!"
Behind Aza, the faint outline of Nyarlathotep chuckled silently, shoulders shaking.
Aza did not seem offended.
"I meant no insult," he said. "Only observation. Your light… is beautiful. It cuts through the dark clearly."
Rongrong opened her mouth for a sharp retort—and found none.
No one had ever spoken to her like that. Not her father, not her elders, not the boys who fawned over her status. Beautiful. Clear. As though her pagoda was not a tool for boosting others, but something precious in itself.
She looked away, clutching her cup tighter.
"Well… don't get used to it talking to you or whatever," she muttered. "It's mine."
Aza nodded solemnly.
"Of course. It chose you."
He turned to walk away.
"Wait," Rongrong said before she could stop herself.
He paused.
"What… what is your music, anyway? I heard it last night. Through the window."
Aza considered.
"It is the sound of everything that is, was, and will be—dreaming. My court plays it for me. Always."
Rongrong shivered, but not entirely from fear.
"It sounded… sad."
Aza's void eyes met hers.
"Perhaps it was," he said. "Until last night."
He walked back to the group then, leaving Ning Rongrong standing alone with her racing heart and a pagoda that, for the third time that day, chimed softly—as though in quiet, hopeful agreement.