The sun seemed absorbed in its own affairs, distant and inattentive, leaving the heavens washed in grey. Not storm-grey—just tired. As if the sky itself had decided neutrality was safer.
I made my way toward the shrine, the stone beneath my feet familiar, worn smooth by years of passage. Voices drifted through the air—some familiar, others foreign in cadence and rhythm. The town no longer spoke with one tongue.
"Go back to your country, you monster!"
The shout cut through the murmurs like a snapped string. I turned instinctively.
A child stood a short distance away, arm still raised from the throw. A stone clattered uselessly against the ground near one of the foreign workers. The man didn't retaliate. Didn't even speak. He lowered his head and continued on, as though silence were armor.
I stopped.
Inaction was not the absence of effort. It was effort misdirected—pretending nothing was happening because acknowledging it would demand response. A convenient stillness. A false nothing.
I exhaled once and turned away.
The letter in my sleeve felt heavier than paper should. Its contents concerned the city—its future, its stability. Matters that demanded clarity, even when my thoughts refused to settle.
The shrine greeted me with familiar quiet.
Victoria lay curled on a mat, fast asleep. A small deck of playing cards lay scattered beside her, abandoned mid-game. I paused, studying them.
"I didn't know we had those," I murmured, remembering how she'd pointed them out in the market, eyes bright—as if she'd found some ancient relic rather than cheap amusement.
I crossed the empty hall toward the bath. My footsteps echoed softly. The shrine felt larger without voices to fill it. Steam rose around me, and my thoughts followed it inward—unbidden, relentless.
I thought about how far I had come.
The Jindan. The golden core.
Once, it had been distant—spoken of in reverent tones, reserved for those with talent, discipline, or destiny. Now it was mine. Not perfected. Not stable. But undeniably real.
I allowed myself a small smile. Pride, restrained but present.
When I returned, Victoria was awake.
"Heiwa! You're finally back!"
She wrapped her arms around my waist before I could speak. The sudden warmth startled me. I hesitated—just a breath—then rested my hands lightly against her back.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, her voice muffled against my chest.
"I didn't want to interrupt your nap," I said, exhaling slowly.
She pulled back, just enough to look at me. "How did your training go?"
She handed me an apple she had just peeled. I took it without thinking.
"It was… an ordeal," I said, gazing past her toward the open sky beyond the shrine roof. Training wasn't pain. It wasn't triumph. It was erosion—being worn down until only truth remained.
"So," she said lightly, watching me, "are you more refreshed now?"
Then—brighter, sharper—
"Are you more powerful?"
Her eyes gleamed like sunlight breaking through cloud cover.
"I've only reached the beginning of the golden core," I replied carefully.
She stilled.
"And I'll continue," I added. "I need to be better."
She smiled, satisfied—though I wasn't certain what she saw reflected in my words.
Something shifted then. Quiet. Uneasy.
"Where is Miss Li Hua?" I asked.
"Out," Victoria replied. "Doing what she always does."
"Letting nature decide her meal?" I asked faintly.
She laughed.
Beyond the shrine walls, the city pulsed with life. The market thrummed with song and bargaining, laughter threaded through argument. Even with unanswered questions hanging in the air, the world refused to slow.
And yet—
Inside my chest, everything felt crowded.
Not with noise.
But with thoughts that had nowhere to go.