The first time heaven acknowledged my existence, it did not do so with thunder or blessing or divine curiosity, but with a verdict spoken so quietly that the elders around me pretended they had not heard it, even as their hands tightened on their robes and their eyes refused to meet mine.
I was sixteen, kneeling on cold stone that smelled of incense and old blood, surrounded by a crowd that had gathered not to witness my awakening but to confirm their certainty that nothing of value could ever come from me, and when the light above the altar finally settled into my chest and recoiled as if burned, the silence that followed felt heavier than any shout.
The High Examiner cleared his throat slowly, as though buying time might soften what he was about to say, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried a hint of discomfort that did not reach his eyes.
"This one bears a sealed beast imprint," he announced, his fingers trembling faintly as the sigil hovering above my heart twisted into a shape no one present was willing to name, "a forbidden strain that predates the covenant of heaven, unstable, uncontrollable, and unsuitable for righteous cultivation."
The murmurs erupted instantly, sharp and excited, like a pack scenting blood, and I felt dozens of gazes crawl over my body with renewed interest, not the kind that saw potential, but the kind that measured threat and disposal in the same breath.
A sealed beast imprint.
Not a blessing. Not a gift. A sentence.
My father, who had stood behind me with his hands clasped like a man attending his own funeral, finally stepped forward, his voice strained but steady as he forced himself to speak into the space heaven had just poisoned.
"What does that mean for my son," he asked carefully, already knowing the answer and hating himself for hoping otherwise.
The High Examiner did not look at him.
"It means," he said, choosing each word with ceremonial cruelty, "that your son is branded a latent calamity, a vessel heaven cannot fully read, and an existence that must be monitored, restricted, and if necessary, erased before maturity."
My mother made a sound then, something broken and involuntary, and I felt it in my spine more than my ears, but I did not turn around, because some instinct older than fear told me that if I did, I would collapse.
Instead, I lifted my head slowly, meeting the Examiner's gaze for the first time, and asked the question that had been sitting in my chest since the light recoiled from me.
"If heaven fears what I might become," I said, my voice steadier than I felt, stretched long and deliberate the way people spoke when they were trying not to die in public, "does that mean I am guilty of something I have not yet done."
The Examiner hesitated, and in that hesitation I felt it, a flicker of something dangerously close to honesty, before doctrine crushed it flat.
"Heaven does not wait for crimes," he replied, his tone hardening as the sigil above my heart dimmed, "it prevents them."
The words settled into me like iron.
That night, after the clan dispersed and the altar was scrubbed clean as though my awakening had been a stain rather than a ceremony, I was locked inside the inner courtyard under the pretense of protection, guarded by talismans that hummed faintly whenever I moved too close to the walls, reminding me that even my freedom was conditional.
I sat alone beneath the moon, my chest aching where the seal rested beneath my skin, and for the first time since the verdict, I allowed myself to breathe long enough to notice that the fear I was supposed to feel was not as strong as the anger blooming quietly underneath it.
"So this is how it begins," I murmured to the empty courtyard, my fingers pressing against the place where heaven had marked me, "with a warning instead of a chance."
"You sound disappointed," a voice replied calmly, rising from the shadows beyond the old plum tree as though it had always been there and simply chosen that moment to speak.
I stood instantly, my heart slamming hard enough to make the seal flare faintly, and scanned the courtyard for the intruder, even as every ward screamed silently inside my bones.
"Who's there," I demanded, forcing my words to stretch and steady instead of crack, "this area is sealed by heavenly order, and anyone crossing it uninvited is asking to be struck down."
A woman stepped into the moonlight then, her presence bending the air around her in a way that made the talismans flicker uselessly, her expression composed, beautiful in a distant and dangerous way, as though time itself had once answered to her and failed.
"Relax," she said, her voice unhurried and low, carrying the weight of command without raising itself, "if heaven could strike me down, it would have done so long before you were born."
My throat tightened, not with fear alone, but with recognition I did not understand.
"Who are you," I asked again, more carefully this time, my instincts screaming that this woman was not prey, not predator, but something far worse.
She studied me for a long moment, her gaze lingering on my chest where the seal pulsed faintly beneath the fabric, and when she finally spoke, there was something almost amused in her tone.
"I am someone heaven failed to erase," she said softly, stepping closer until the moonlight caught the edge of a sigil that mirrored mine in reverse, "and I have come to ask you a question that will decide whether you die quietly as a warning, or live loudly as a problem."
I swallowed, the night pressing in around us, my pulse echoing in my ears as I met her gaze without lowering mine.
"And what question is that," I asked.
She smiled then, slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment, and said, "When heaven finally comes to kill you, will you kneel and beg for mercy, or will you let me teach you how to make it regret the attempt."