The journey continued for five more days after the attack in the valley, but something had changed irreversibly. No one said it out loud, yet everyone felt it. The road, once merely dangerous, had become hostile—as if the land itself were judging who deserved to move forward and who should be left behind.
The imperial captain slowed the convoy's pace and reinforced the night watches. He no longer treated the youths as expendable recruits, but as resources that needed to reach their destination alive. Not out of compassion, but calculation. Every casualty before the Southern Front was a pointless loss to the Empire.
Lin Ye noticed the change in the way the captain watched him. It was not open suspicion, nor indifference either. It was the look of someone who had seen too many anomalies to ignore them entirely.
On the sixth day, the landscape changed abruptly. Scattered hills gave way to a vast plain scarred with black fissures in the earth—remnants of ancient battles that had never fully healed. The air carried a metallic scent, and the ambient spiritual energy was unstable, as if it had been forced too many times and now refused to flow normally.
At the center of that plain rose the Southern Front Forward Camp.
It was neither a city nor a traditional fortress. It was a hybrid structure, formed of mobile walls, watchtowers, and massive formations engraved directly into the ground. Dozens of imperial banners fluttered in the wind, each representing a different division of the Aureon Empire. Flying carriages entered and departed constantly, transporting troops, resources, and sealed messages.
When the convoy crossed the camp's outer perimeter, a subtle pressure swept over the youths. It was not an offensive formation, but a detection network. The Empire was registering every breath, every spiritual fluctuation, every anomaly.
Lin Ye felt the scan like an invisible needle running over his body.
The fragmented clock reacted immediately.
Not with alarm.
With caution.
For an instant, Lin Ye had the sensation that something within the camp had "looked back." Not a conscious being, but a structure designed to detect irregularities. The eye of the clock remained closed, but the gear pulsed once, as if warning: not now.
"Remain calm," the captain ordered. "Move forward."
The group was led to an inner esplanade where other contingents from different dominions had already gathered. Lin Ye observed in silence. There were youths clearly stronger than Lin Hao—some with dense, stable auras, others with sharp presences, like blades barely sheathed. Not all came from intermediate dominions; some bore insignias of clans directly affiliated with the Empire.
Conversations were brief and tense.
"Where are you from?"
"Black River Dominion."
"Losses?"
"Four. You?"
The Southern Front was no secret. Everyone knew that talent was not what was measured there—utility was.
An imperial officer stepped onto a raised platform. His robe was black, without visible ornamentation, but the golden sun emblem on his chest marked a high rank.
"Listen carefully," he said firmly. "From this moment on, you no longer belong to your clans or dominions. During your time at the Southern Front, you answer only to the Aureon Empire."
A murmur passed through the esplanade.
"Not all of you will be sent directly into combat," he continued. "Before that, you will undergo functional classification. The Empire does not waste resources."
Lin Ye frowned slightly.
Functional classification did not mean a standard talent evaluation. It meant determining how each person could be used.
They were divided into groups and led to different sectors of the camp. Some were sent to combat trials, others to logistics, scouting, or support. Lin Ye was assigned to a small group, composed mostly of youths with low or unstable cultivation.
"Endurance and adaptability trial," announced the officer in charge. "Follow me."
The assigned area lay on the outer edge of the camp, near a region where the terrain had been warped by collapsed ancient formations. The air there vibrated irregularly, causing mild dizziness even in trained cultivators.
"Your task is simple," the officer said. "You will remain here for a full night. No protective formations. No support. Whoever does not collapse, passes."
Some turned pale.
Lin Ye studied the terrain carefully. To him, it was not merely unstable. It was filled with small faults—points where time did not quite align with space. They were not full dead instants, but fragile edges, residues of ancient distortions.
Night fell slowly.
One by one, the youths began to show signs of exhaustion. Some sat down to cultivate, trying to stabilize their spiritual energy. Others simply endured, teeth clenched. Lin Ye remained standing, motionless, breathing evenly.
At midnight, one youth collapsed unconscious.
Then another.
The officer watched from a distance, recording names without emotion.
When dawn began to tint the sky, only five remained standing.
Lin Ye was one of them.
The officer approached, studying him with renewed interest.
"Name?"
"Lin Ye."
"Recorded cultivation: nonexistent," he murmured, checking a tablet. "Interesting."
He said nothing more, but made a special mark beside Lin Ye's name.
Later that day, Lin Ye was summoned to an inner structure of the camp. It was not a formal interrogation, but neither was it a casual conversation. Inside the room were a stone table, several active formations, and a single man seated on the opposite side.
Zhao Wen.
The imperial inspector lifted his gaze as Lin Ye entered.
"Sit," he said bluntly.
Lin Ye obeyed.
Zhao Wen studied him in silence for several seconds. It was not an aggressive stare, but a meticulous one, as if comparing what he saw to an invisible pattern.
"You have no vital pulse," he said at last. "No cultivation. And yet, you survive where others do not."
Lin Ye did not reply.
"I'm not interested in how you do it," Zhao Wen continued. "At least, not yet. The Empire cares about only one thing: usefulness."
He leaned forward slightly.
"At the Southern Front, there are zones where formations fail, where maps become unreliable, where even time behaves erratically. Normal cultivators die quickly there."
Zhao Wen smiled for the first time, though it was not a warm smile.
"You, on the other hand, seem to… fit."
A faint chill ran down Lin Ye's spine.
"I won't force you to explain," Zhao Wen added. "But from today onward, you will be assigned to a special reconnaissance unit. It is not an honor. It is a test."
He stood.
"If you survive, the Empire will take note. If not… no one will ask questions."
When Lin Ye left the room, the fragmented clock vibrated softly.
Not in warning.
In acknowledgment.
The Empire had set its eyes on him.
And for the first time, Lin Ye understood something with absolute clarity: on a board that spanned continents, clans, and entire eras, he was no longer an invisible piece.
But he was not yet a player.
Not yet.