The northern training grounds were carved into the lower slope beyond the academy walls, where frost did not fully melt even at midday. Stone dummies stood in measured rows. Target poles lined the perimeter. A shallow ring marked the sparring field.
Students gathered earlier than usual that morning.
Word had traveled.
Divine-grade potential.
Emperor-grade fox.
Silver-stage awakenings with ceilings that exceeded the North's usual output.
Whispers never required official announcements.
Zhiteng stood near the outer edge of the sparring ring, adjusting his gloves. He had slept little, not from agitation, but from observation. The depth within him had remained quiet through the night. Stable. Heavy. Present.
Xueyun approached from the eastern path. Her expression was composed, though faint shadows rested beneath her eyes.
"Did you regulate successfully?" she asked.
"Yes."
She nodded. "Mine resisted."
"The seal?"
"Partially."
Her gaze shifted toward the academy gates.
A procession entered the grounds.
Three carriages bearing silver-etched insignias. Armed escorts in polished armor. A banner depicting a crimson falcon over mountain peaks.
The central region's mark.
Several instructors stiffened.
At the front of the procession rode a middle-aged man in dark blue robes lined with white fur. His posture was upright, his gaze sharp, his presence refined rather than aggressive.
Marquis Han of the Central Territories.
He dismounted without assistance.
Beside him stepped a young man in crimson training attire, perhaps sixteen, with carefully styled hair and the restless confidence of someone accustomed to being acknowledged.
Silver-stage aura.
Gold-level control.
His beast flickered faintly around him like a heat shimmer.
The instructors moved to greet the Marquis. Formal words were exchanged.
The Blood Snow Duke arrived shortly after, not hurried, not flustered. His presence alone shifted the temperature of the field.
The Marquis inclined his head with polite formality.
"Your North produces interesting seedlings this year," Marquis Han said.
"The soil is harsh," the Duke replied. "Only resilient roots survive."
The Marquis's gaze drifted across the field and settled on Zhiteng.
"And some roots," he said lightly, "grow unexpectedly deep."
Zhiteng did not look away.
The young man in crimson stepped forward.
"Father," he said, though his tone was more announcement than request, "is that him?"
The Marquis did not answer directly.
"If the North permits," he said to the Duke, "a friendly exchange would benefit both sides. My son has long wished to test his cultivation against northern standards."
The Duke's expression remained unchanged.
"Training exchanges are permitted," he said. "So long as discipline is maintained."
The young man stepped into the sparring ring without waiting further.
"My name is Han Zeyu," he said, voice projecting easily. "Silver-stage. Rare-grade Crimson Falcon."
A faint outline of a falcon shimmered behind him, wings edged in scarlet heat.
He looked directly at Zhiteng.
"Divine-grade potential," he said with a thin smile. "Let us see how heavy that weight truly is."
Murmurs rose along the field.
Zhiteng stepped into the ring.
He bowed briefly.
"Lin Zhiteng. Silver-stage."
No further elaboration.
The instructors withdrew to the perimeter.
"Begin," one called.
Han Zeyu moved first.
His steps were swift, controlled. His falcon manifestation sharpened, heat rippling faintly through the air. He did not attack immediately. Instead, he circled, testing range, testing response.
Zhiteng did not pursue.
He stood with a relaxed stance, breathing even.
Han Zeyu's falcon flickered closer, wings expanding, talons forming in translucent red.
The pressure in the ring rose slightly as the beast prepared to strike.
Zhiteng allowed his circulation to shift.
Not outward.
Downward.
The field's frost seemed to settle.
The air thickened subtly.
Han Zeyu's falcon hesitated mid-glide.
Its wings faltered, not from injury, but from interference.
Han Zeyu frowned and pushed more energy through his channels.
The falcon expanded, attempting to reassert dominance.
Zhiteng did not summon form.
He did not project shape.
He simply allowed the depth within him to exist.
The ground beneath their feet seemed to grow denser.
Sound dulled at the edges.
Han Zeyu's falcon flickered again, its outline distorting.
The young man's expression shifted from confidence to irritation.
"Is that all?" he said, forcing more power outward.
The falcon screeched and lunged.
It stopped.
Not blocked.
Not struck.
Stopped.
As if encountering water too deep to cut through.
Han Zeyu's breath hitched.
His falcon's wings trembled violently, then collapsed into scattered sparks.
The pressure in the ring did not spike.
It deepened.
Han Zeyu's knees buckled.
He caught himself for a moment, then dropped to one knee, one hand braced against the ground.
Sweat beaded across his forehead despite the cold.
He tried to rise.
The attempt failed.
Zhiteng had not moved.
He had not attacked.
He had not even changed his expression.
The instructors exchanged glances.
Marquis Han's eyes sharpened.
The Blood Snow Duke watched without visible reaction.
Han Zeyu's breathing became ragged.
His aura wavered.
Finally, he withdrew his circulation abruptly, breaking the pressure loop.
The weight lifted.
He stumbled backward out of the ring, face pale.
Silence spread across the training field.
Zhiteng released his circulation fully and stepped back.
He bowed once more.
"I did not attack," he said calmly.
The statement was simple, factual.
Han Zeyu's jaw tightened, humiliation flickering across his features. He said nothing.
Marquis Han stepped forward, his aura extending slightly.
It was controlled, refined, probing.
The air around Zhiteng tightened in response, not aggressively, but automatically.
Before the Marquis's pressure could deepen further, the temperature dropped sharply.
The Blood Snow Duke's presence settled across the field like falling snow.
It was not explosive.
It was absolute.
Marquis Han's probing aura dissolved instantly.
A faint smile touched the Marquis's lips.
"Impressive restraint," he said lightly. "Both from your student and from yourself."
The Duke's gaze remained level.
"The North does not tolerate unnecessary pressure upon its candidates."
"Of course."
Marquis Han placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"We thank the North for the lesson."
His eyes returned to Zhiteng.
"Divine-grade potential," he said softly. "Be certain you grow into it."
Zhiteng inclined his head.
The procession withdrew without further display.
Only when the carriages disappeared beyond the academy gates did the field exhale.
Xueyun approached Zhiteng slowly.
"You did not summon," she said.
"There was no need."
"You could have."
"Yes."
She studied him for a moment.
"That was not dominance," she said quietly. "It was… depth."
Zhiteng looked toward the northern ridges.
"It did not feel like mine to dominate," he replied.
Above the training grounds, clouds shifted across the pale sky.
On the western edge of the field, a tall woman stood beneath the frost-lined pines.
Her armor was travel-worn but impeccably maintained, dark steel layered beneath a long white cloak clasped at the shoulder. A faint insignia of a phoenix, etched in pale silver, rested near her collarbone. Snow gathered lightly along the edges of her boots, yet did not cling.
Her presence was quiet but precise.
She had arrived without ceremony and would leave without announcement.
Her gaze had not once shifted during the exchange.
Where others had seen humiliation, pressure, or spectacle, she had observed circulation control, restraint, and field influence without projection.
She did not smile.
Sky War General Xue Feng merely inclined her head slightly, as though confirming an internal assessment.
"Interesting," she murmured softly.
Then she turned and departed the training grounds before anyone thought to question her presence.