The bell tolled again.
The sound settled into their bones.
Children moved without being told.
The nobles gathered first—silk and embroidery even in ruin, clustering by instinct and habit. They knew one another. Names traded at banquets, alliances negotiated over sugared tea.
Street-born children drifted elsewhere. To pillars. To walls. To shadow.
Chén Yè stayed near the stone, face blank, jaw throbbing where teeth used to be.
Across the hall, Xīng Hé stood beside another noble girl, red hair bright even in the dim light. "Qin Hongyu," someone whispered.
They stood straight. Cleaned up as much as they could manage. Composed.
A handful of children wore eager expressions, eyes shining.
Chén Yè watched them and said nothing.
His gaze returned to Xīng Hé.
She had run.
She had been caught.
She had not been beaten bloody in a cell.
That meant something.
Family meant something.
Power meant something.
He pushed away from the wall.
If value was armor, proximity was shelter.
He slipped between bodies, quiet as breath, and stopped a few steps behind her.
He opened his mouth—
The world collapsed.
Not with noise.
With weight.
Something descended.
Air thickened. Sound died mid-breath. The hall became an ocean trench.
Chén Yè's lungs strained. His ribs compressed. The stone rushed up to meet him.
Around him—
A wave of whimpers.
Bodies striking the floor.
The sharp, humiliating scent of released fear.
Most lay flat, unmoving. Some twitched. A few clung to their hands and knees, shaking violently.
Xīng Hé was on one knee.
Her hand dug into the stone, knuckles white. Her shoulders trembled. Slowly, she raised her head.
Her eyes were not pleading.
They were furious.
The pressure pressed harder.
Chén Yè's cheek ground into stone. His vision blurred at the edges. Something in his ears rang.
He did not black out.
He had endured worse things in smaller rooms.
His body trembled, but it held.
Then—
Release.
The weight vanished so abruptly several children gasped as if breaking the surface of water.
A faint fragrance drifted through the hall—jasmine and something sharp, metallic. The air felt lighter. Cleaner.
Children stirred. Coughed. Cried quietly.
Chén Yè pushed himself up.
A man stood at the front of the hall.
The doors had not opened.
He simply was.
His face was unlined, his hair untouched by age, yet his eyes carried a depth that did not match the rest of him.
He regarded the room.
Calm.
Measured.
"I see you have experienced your first lesson," he said.
His voice was not loud. It did not need to be.
"Presence."
A few children flinched at the word.
"In this world, there are those whose existence alone outweighs others. That is power."
Silence held.
"I know you are afraid," he continued, tone mild. "You miss your homes. That is natural."
A girl began to cry. Quietly. She tried to smother the sound.
"You were not taken," he said. "You were chosen."
The word lingered.
"You possess the seed of divinity. You have been granted the opportunity to rise above the ordinary. To protect this world. To carve your names into its history."
He paced once across the podium.
"The path is difficult. It demands sacrifice. Strength. Discipline. But the reward is purpose."
He smiled.
"You will be shield and sword. You will end a war that has consumed centuries. The honor you bring your families will echo long after you are gone."
His gaze swept over nobles and beggars alike, equal in assessment.
"Rest tonight. Tomorrow, your true evaluation begins."
A pause.
"Food will be provided."
At that, several heads lifted.
"You are dismissed."
The man vanished.
No door opened.
He was simply no longer there.
Murmurs rippled through the hall.
Chén Yè watched the space where he had stood.
Shield.
Sword.
Chosen.
He remembered carts at dawn. Bodies under white cloth.
He remembered the guards' laughter.
An official approached, expression blank, and pressed a jade key into his palm.
Smooth. Cold. Number etched in gold.
Chén Yè closed his fingers around it.
Gods.
Weapons gleamed more brightly.
Predators simply stood higher in the food chain.
He glanced once at Xīng Hé as attendants began separating them into rows.
She stood straight again.
Not trembling now.
The bell did not ring this time.
They moved because they understood.
Tomorrow, the forging would begin.
---