A few days had passed.
The evaluation was tomorrow.
That night, Chen Yè sat in his courtyard, staring at nothing. The artificial stars scattered faint light across crystalline structures, casting everything in silver and shadow. Silence pressed in from all sides—the same silence that accompanied every night in this place, indifferent to the fates being decided within its walls.
A knock came at his domain's entrance.
He rose and walked to the door, unsure who would visit him now. Most of the group had been absorbed in their own preparations, their own anxieties about what tomorrow would bring.
Vera Lin stood in the doorway.
Her sharp features looked softer in the dim light. Her hands fidgeted at her sides, fingers twisting together in a nervous rhythm that didn't match the commanding presence she usually projected.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Chen Yè said, stepping aside. "What can I do for you?"
She walked into the courtyard, eyes moving across the simple space—the cushions arranged near the center, the small table where he sometimes ate, the crystalline walls that enclosed his temporary existence.
"You haven't been coming to the pavilion for guidance anymore," she said finally. "I thought I'd come check on you."
Chen Yè considered her words.
He'd stopped attending weeks ago. There was no point. When it came to concepts at Awakened and Resonance stages, he was probably more knowledgeable than all the children combined. He had questions the elder couldn't answer. He'd accomplished something none of them had—helping others evolve directly, defining their concepts, giving them the keys to advancement.
That alone should have been enough to evaluate him higher than the rest.
But the risk outweighed the reward.
If he revealed what he could do—if he demonstrated the method that had pushed seven peers to breakthrough—he would become something other than a failed awakener. He would become a resource. A tool to be studied, exploited, possibly dissected.
Better to remain invisible.
Better to accept whatever fate awaited those who couldn't evolve.
He looked at Vera's face.
The concern there was genuine. The worry in her eyes, the nervous movements of her hands—none of it was calculated. She actually cared. Actually thought he was sitting here alone, drowning in sadness because he couldn't manifest a concept.
Let's play along.
"Attending or not doesn't really change anything, does it?" he said, keeping his voice neutral.
"No, but—" She stopped, struggling for words. Her jaw tightened with sudden resolve. "I'll try to get achievements. To see if I could do something for you."
The devotion in her voice caught him off guard.
"Don't you have siblings?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"I mean at home. Outside this place."
"No. I came from the orphanage."
Chen Yè's expression flickered with genuine surprise.
The orphanage. She was like him. Raised without family, without protection, without anyone who would miss her if she disappeared. The system hadn't stolen her from a home—it had simply relocated her from one form of institutional neglect to another.
"Don't you have people you want to see at the orphanage?" he asked.
She nodded slowly. "I do."
A pause.
"But I don't forget a kindness."
The words landed with unexpected weight.
I don't forget a kindness.
Chen Yè had lived on streets where kindness was rare and usually came with hidden costs. He knew what it meant to receive help when you expected none. Knew how that kind of debt settled into your bones, became part of how you saw the world.
Being an orphan was hard. Harder than most people understood. You learned early that no one was coming to save you. That every good thing had to be earned, fought for, or stolen. That trust was a luxury you couldn't afford.
But when someone did help you—genuinely, without ulterior motive, when you had nothing to offer in return—that created something different. Something that didn't fade with time or circumstance.
Welcome aboard, Chen Yè thought, studying her determined face. My first loyal follower.
But what he said was: "No need. It was just me helping another person. Think of it as a friendly gesture from a friend."
Vera shook her head.
Her face grew sad. Solemn.
She didn't believe him. Or rather, she believed his words but rejected their implication. He could downplay what he'd done all he wanted. She would remember anyway.
"Well," Chen Yè said, filling the silence, "don't worry. We'll eventually see each other again."
"Probably not." Her voice was quiet. Resigned. "They said they'd separate us. And they'll take you away."
The truth hung between them.
The unevolved would be sorted into different paths. Different fates. The system didn't keep failures around as reminders. It disposed of them efficiently, channeled them toward roles that extracted whatever value remained.
Chen Yè looked at her—this girl who had grown up like him, who understood what it meant to have nothing, who was choosing to spend her last night of freedom checking on someone the system had already written off.
"Do you think they can keep us apart for long?"
The words came out before he could stop them.
Vera's eyes brightened.
"You will," she said.
Not a question. Not a hope. A statement of faith.
She wasn't doubting him. If he could do something the elder couldn't—if he could help people evolve when the entire system struggled to accomplish the same thing—then he could probably find a way to meet her again. If he wanted to.
Chen Yè would beg to differ.
He'd said it because she looked sad. Because she was an orphan like him. Because some small part of him that hadn't been completely crushed wanted to give her something, even if it was only a comfortable lie.
But he didn't correct her.
"Would you come watch the evaluation tomorrow?"
The question caught him off guard.
He went silent.
Vera watched his face, reading something in his expression that made her own features fall. Before he could respond, she was already speaking.
"I understand. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
She thought she knew why he wouldn't come. Thought it would be painful for him to watch the others leave for better places while he remained behind, awaiting whatever fate the system had prepared for failures.
She wasn't entirely wrong.
But Chen Yè's thoughts ran darker.
They'll probably die soon anyway.
That was the truth none of them understood yet. The training, the guidance, the careful cultivation of their abilities—all of it was preparation for war. And war killed people. The evolved children celebrating their achievements today would be corpses on battlefields tomorrow.
His fate might actually be better than theirs.
Who could say?
"It's alright," Vera said, misreading his silence as hurt. "Really. I understand."
Chen Yè let her believe what she wanted.
They talked until darkness deepened around them—about nothing important, about small things, about memories they'd accumulated in this place that had been their prison and their home. The conversation was lighter than it should have been, given what tomorrow would bring.
When she finally left, her steps were lighter too.
Excited for tomorrow.
For the evaluation that would determine her path.
For the future that might kill her before she ever saw the orphanage again.
Chen Yè watched her disappear into the night.
Then he turned and walked back into his domain, footsteps echoing against crystalline surfaces that had become too familiar.
This was his last night in the place.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
He didn't know what awaited him. Didn't know if the system would find some use for his peculiar talents or simply dispose of him like the failure he appeared to be. Didn't know if he'd ever see Vera Lin or any of the others again.
But he'd survived worse uncertainty.
He'd survive this too.
Chen Yè entered his room and prepared for whatever came next.
---
End of Chapter 34
---