Xīng Hé stood.
Her leg was whole again. No trace of the break that had bent it at an impossible angle moments ago. Her face was smooth. Blood reabsorbed. Wounds vanished as if they had never existed.
But she felt hollow. Drained. The after-effects of her concept's unconscious activation pressed on her like a physical weight, demanding rest she could not afford.
She walked to the far end of the table and sat, directly opposite Heiyun Jue.
He said nothing.
He continued eating with unhurried grace. Strips of meat torn from bone. Each bite deliberate, casual, as if he had not just smashed a child against wall and ceiling for standing when commanded to sit.
The hall was silent but for the soft rhythm of his meal. A predator at rest.
Then he spoke.
"What is your favorite meal?"
The question caught her off guard.
Xīng Hé blinked, collecting herself. "Dumplings," she said finally. "Pork and cabbage. My mother makes them every New Year."
Her words summoned memory: flour-dusted hands, steam rising from bamboo baskets, laughter spilling through the kitchen. "They taste best when she cooks them."
Heiyun Jue smiled. Small, controlled. She hasn't severed ties with home. Good.
A child who still loved her family could be guided. Chains unnecessary when hope sufficed.
"As you ascend," he said, tearing another strip of meat, "you'll have opportunities to see home again."
Heiyun Jue returned to his meal. Silence fell, broken only by clinks of porcelain and breathing.
When they finished, the plates vanished. Clean. As if food had never existed.
He set down his utensils. "Since your concept is time-related," he said, "I could assign a specialized teacher—someone versed in temporal concepts to guide your development precisely."
Xīng Hé's mind raced.
Specialized guidance meant study, scrutiny. Observation. A teacher who would uncover her true power.
"If Your Eminence permits," she said, lowering her eyes, "I would rather not."
Heiyun Jue's expression flickered—surprise, perhaps displeasure.
She pressed on. "Your guidance is already a blessing beyond measure. A specialized teacher… I fear I might disappoint you."
Fear his wrath, she thought. Project it. Let it be real enough for him to believe.
For a heartbeat, his face darkened.
Then he smiled. Calm, paternal. Terrifying. "I see. You fear expectation. Understandable. Very well. You'll learn alongside the others."
She bowed. "Thank you, Your Eminence."
"However," he said, letting the word hang. A blade suspended in air.
"Every first day of the month, for the next year, you will dine with me here. Discuss your progress. Answer my questions. Understood?"
Her blood ran cold.
"Yes, Your Eminence," she said, voice steady.
He nodded. "Good. You may—"
A subtle flicker of his will brushed her soul. She felt nothing, then everything.
"You may go," he finished. Guards would escort her.
She rose, bowed, and walked out. Legs weak, body demanding rest, but her pace remained measured. Controlled.
Behind the table, Heiyun Jue sat perfectly still, expression serene.
Inside, his mind stormed.
What was that?
He had activated his divine sense, a whisper of perception meant to gauge her ceiling. Ten thousand times he had done this.
And found… nothing.
Not empty. A wall. Impenetrable. No reflection, no trace. Her being was a void, an absence where a child should exist.
He pressed harder.
Pain exploded in his soul—sharp, sudden, agonizing. Centuries of experience, millennia of mastery, yet he could not pierce her. He nearly flinched.
Almost.
He is Heiyun Jue. He does not show weakness. Not now, not ever. Calm returned to his face. Posture remained perfect.
Inside, questions churned.
Who protects her? Another Transcendent? Impossible. That would breach the compact.
Then: The being above us. The World itself?
The thought stunned him. If the World Will shielded her, she was more than a natural awakener. She was unprecedented. A force capable of reshaping the balance among Rulers.
He would need more information. Carefully. Quietly. Without alerting others.
He would summon her again. Study her. Probe her limits.
He raised his teacup. Empty.
A flicker of will. It filled again.
⸻
Xīng Hé found Yao Xian waiting in the corridor outside the dining hall.
The healer leaned against the wall, her usual air of profound boredom intact, but today something had shifted—tension in her shoulders, a sharpness in her eyes that Xīng Hé hadn't seen before.
"I would like to head home immediately," Xīng Hé said.
She expected the familiar twist of teleportation—the stone crushed, reality folding, instant displacement to her manor. Her body ached with exhaustion, her mind still reeling from the meeting with the Eminence. All she wanted was her room, her bed, the illusion of safety behind closed doors.
Yao Xian looked at her.
"We are walking."
Xīng Hé froze.
"I'm sorry?"
"We are walking," Yao Xian repeated, pushing off the wall without checking if Xīng Hé followed. "Your legs work, don't they? One foot in front of the other. It's not complicated."
Confusion flashed through Xīng Hé's mind. Walking? They had teleportation stones. They had used one to get here. Why would they—
"But—" she tried, hurrying to catch up, her still-weak body protesting. "We have teleportation stones. We used one to get here. Why would we—"
Yao Xian stopped. Her eyes maintaining it's usual tired demeanor
"Did I stutter?" Yao Xian's voice was soft as silk, sharp as a blade. "We. Are. Walking."
The protest died in Xīng Hé's throat. She didn't know what she had done to earn this punishment, but she understood the rules. One wrong move, and she could end up broken on the floor again.
"Yes," she said quietly. "Walking. Of course."
Yao Xian studied her, then turned and continued down the corridor.
Xīng Hé followed, glancing at the distant spires of Heiyun Jue's palace. Her manor lay somewhere beyond this pocket realm. Walking back felt endless—but she had no choice.
Behind her, Yao Xian walked in silence, thoughts simmering. How dare she.
The words repeated like a drumbeat. How dare a child give her orders. A child who should have been groveling, not directing guards. But the Eminence had made his intentions clear. The girl was valuable, protected—for now.
Walking would teach her limits. Exhaustion would remind her of her place. A lesson without breaking her body.
For now.
⸻
Back at the pavilion, the second guidance session was ending.
Elder Pei Leng stood at the front, surveying two hundred children with profound disappointment. He had asked a simple question—how many of you have seen improvement?—and not a single hand had risen.
Not one.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
He had given them knowledge of their rank; the rest was up to them. Judging by their faces, their fates were already sealed. Those who failed before the ten-year mark would be sent on missions from which few returned, their bodies fodder for battles too dangerous for valued assets. Others would be dissected in research halls, their bodies and souls catalogued. A fortunate few might serve successful peers as attendants.
Death. Pain. Slavery.
The system tolerated no waste, but found use for everything—even failures.
He let the silence stretch a moment longer, then sighed.
"I see," he said flatly. "No progress. None at all."
He paced, footsteps echoing.
"Very well. Since none of you have found your own way, I will offer one small mercy."
The children stirred, uncertain.
"From now until the end of the month," Elder Pei Leng continued, "you may share your representations with one another. Describe what you saw in the testing room. Listen to what others saw. Let them tell you the meaning they found."
A murmur rippled—hope, fragile and uncertain.
He raised a hand, and the room stilled.
"Do not mistake this for leniency," he said. "The path from Awakened to Resonance can take a single moment of clarity—or a lifetime of struggle. So long as you draw breath, understanding remains possible. Concepts wait, patient and eternal, for minds that can grasp them."
He clasped his hands behind his back.
"But here, you do not have a lifetime. You have ten years. By the end of the ten-year mark, your fate will be decided. That fate depends entirely on you."
He turned and walked toward the exit, footsteps echoing.
"Dismissed."
The children remained frozen, stunned.
Chén Yè was the first to rise.
Share representations, he thought, let them talk, listen, learn.
The Elder's words were vague, threats implied but unsaid. He had survived the streets long enough to understand a simple truth: the powerful did not keep the useless alive out of kindness.
If others shared visions, he could listen. Learn patterns. Understand connections others missed. Knowledge here was the closest thing to power.
He glanced at Bai Zixian, standing slowly, confusion and fear etched across his face.
Tomorrow, Chén Yè decided. I'll approach him tomorrow. Today, I have other things to think about.
⸻