The golden array of the Awakening Array pulsed with quiet constancy, its light spreading like molten gold across the ceremonial floor. Each ripple traced ancient lines of script carved deep into the stone, breathing life into the hall with every slow pulse. Overhead, the Moon of Origin glowed steady, a silent, unblinking witness to what unfolded beneath.
The first waves of awe had passed—the brilliance of Heaven's Sight, the chilling veil of Fate—yet the ceremony did not slacken. Instead, it found a steady rhythm. Small feet pressed against the glowing floor one after another, each child stepping forward to be measured by the ancestors who had already walked their paths.
The hall smelled of sandalwood and candle wax, underlaid by the faint chill of polished stone. Murmurs from parents and elders swelled and faded like the tide, each name called carrying the weight of both hope and fear.
A boy with hair sticking up like a startled sparrow chick bounded forward when his name was called. He tripped, caught himself, and grinned sheepishly. As he stepped into the array, the air around him thrummed with a faint, buzzing energy, and a muted ripple of gold dust rose from the floor. He could suddenly feel the subtle currents of the hall—the low thrum of the Array, the barely-there warmth of a family's intertwined qi, and the soft, steady hum of the Moon of Origin itself, all as if he were feeling the pulse of the world with his skin.
"Qi Trace," Ye Shengyuan announced, his tone steady but not unkind.
The boy's gap-toothed smile stretched wider. He gave a hasty bow and scampered back toward his mother, who laughed even as she tried to shush him.
The scribes recorded the name with brisk strokes, their brushes scratching softly in the silence.
Following him was a girl in a crimson sash, her chin lifted high with practiced poise. Yet when the array glowed with only a faint shimmer of silver, her shoulders stiffened. The air around her shifted, feeling thinner and more distant. For a fleeting instant, she saw a brief flash in the corner of her vision: the Grand Elder's hand, reaching for a teacup that had not yet been placed on his table. The vision was gone as quickly as it appeared, but the feeling lingered—a quiet whisper of a possibility that was not yet reality.
"Fleeting Sign," the officiant declared.
The girl pressed her lips together. It was not quite disappointment—more a quiet forging of resolve.
Her father knelt beside her, his voice low but clear enough to reach the nearest rows. "A warning before the strike is worth more than the strike itself, Mei'er. Remember that."
The girl nodded once, her jaw set, and stepped back into the waiting line.
One after another, subtalents emerged. A thin boy awakened Clear Lens, blinking furiously as though the hall had grown too sharp for him to bear. A shy girl drew murmurs with Fresh Ink, the air around her fingers darkening briefly as though brushed with calligrapher's strokes.
"Glimmer."
"Soul Echo."
"Thread Sense."
Each announcement brought its ripple of whispers. Some parents wept quietly with relief; others masked disappointment behind still faces. The scribes continued their work, brushes scratching softly as their scrolls filled line by line with the names of futures yet to be written.
At the back, younger cousins fidgeted, tugging at sleeves, whispering guesses about what talent might come next. The ceremony was as much a lesson as it was a judgment.
Then the aide's voice lifted, cutting through the murmurs with a clear note:
"Ye Hanrui."
The murmur shifted at once.
From the eastern line stepped a boy in deep crimson robes trimmed with black-gold thread. His hair was bound with a jade clasp, his expression calm, almost solemn. Even at so young an age, his bearing carried the gravity of lineage — the great-grandson of Supreme Elder Ye Tianhong, Flame of Astralis.
"The blood runs deep," one elder murmured.
"Mm. That branch does not birth mediocrity."
Hanrui stepped into the circle without hesitation. His gaze did not wander curiously over the array but lifted, steady, toward the Moon of Origin. It was not the look of a child; it was the look of one taught to meet history eye to eye.
Ye Shengyuan gave a single nod. "Begin."
The array brightened beneath Hanrui's feet, its golden lines curling into the shape of an opening eye. A faint tremor passed through the hall — not stone shifting, but spirit itself acknowledging a new power.
Crimson light welled up like fresh blood, slow and deliberate, until it touched the boy's eyes. They ignited, glowing with a steady, unblinking intensity. The sensation spread outward — not sharp or violent, but heavy, pressing into the hearts of all who met his gaze. For an instant their wills stilled, caught in silence, as if their very spirits had bowed without choice.
An aide standing just beyond the array swallowed hard, his own heart thudding without knowing why.
Ye Shengyuan's voice rang out, edged with respect and awe:
"Soul Gaze. Complete."
The hall shifted subtly. Elders exchanged long looks — not of surprise, but calculation. Branches of power rebalanced silently in their minds. Disciples stilled, uncertain.
Hanrui bowed and stepped back. There was no flourish, no hesitation. The crimson faded from his pupils, but those who had met his gaze knew they would carry the weight of that stillness long after.
One after another, subtalents emerged.
"Day's Page."
"Omen Thread."
"Glimmer."
A boy tripped on his way out of the array, earning laughter from cousins and a gentle reminder from his uncle: agility was no gift of blood.
Then the hall hushed.
"Ye Qingyi."
All eyes turned westward.
A girl in robes the color of morning mist walked forward, her hair bound by a single silver thread. Her face carried the calm poise of her father, Ye Lianshu, the Heaven-Marked Oracle, whose reputation made her steps heavier with expectation.
She entered the array unhurried. Azure light rose around her, cool and pure, filling her eyes until they shone like twin lakes beneath the stars. The air sharpened. Even the smallest shift — a blink, a twitch — seemed caught and preserved. Some elders felt, for a heartbeat, as though this very moment had been etched into permanence, never to be forgotten.
Ye Shengyuan's voice carried solemnly:
"Memory Engraving — Complete. The eye that preserves what must not fade."
No surprise stirred. Only acknowledgment. She bowed with brushstroke grace, then stepped aside, her composure unbroken.
Subtalents followed again — Soul Echo, Fresh Ink, Qi Trace. Some children puffed with pride, others clung to robes. Parents whispered encouragement or pressed lips into thin lines.
"The hall settled again, yet the weight of crimson and azure lingered. Elders leaned forward now with sharper eyes — the ceremony was no longer routine, but expectation."
Then—
"Ye Liangfeng."
The hall grew quiet once more.
From the line stepped a boy in plain violet robes. His hair was tied simply, his manner calm. He carried no finery, yet the air seemed to make space for him.
When the array called his name, Liangfeng felt a quiver — not fear, but recognition. Like the first grain of sand sliding in an hourglass.
He walked steadily. The floor was cool beneath his soles. The scent of sandalwood pressed sharp in his lungs. Even the flames of the candles seemed to lean in.
The golden array deepened to violet, its weight settling on him like an elder's unseen hand. Beneath it, something vast stirred. He did not resist. He breathed.
If they see, they will understand. If they do not… it matters little.
The light reached his eyes, and the hall slowed. His pupils blazed violet, deep as a still lake at night. The phenomenon spread — not a crushing pressure, but an unspoken command. Elders straightened without realizing. Children hushed mid-whisper. Even the scribes bent lower, their brushes moving as though compelled to mark history faithfully.
From the benches, Ye Chenrui leaned forward, whispering with wide-eyed wonder:
"By the ancestors… he looks like he could order the stones to stand up and they'd do it."
Ye Qingxian nudged him sharply, though her own silver gaze was fixed in solemn awe. "Quiet. This isn't a jest."
Liangfeng's breath steadied. Restraint came easier than indulgence. He let the urge to test his power pass.
The officiant's voice lowered, tolling like a bell:
"Dominion's Gaze — Complete. The gaze of kings.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was inevitability. Elders felt their spines straighten further. Some whispered prayers. Scribes' hands shook, but their ink flowed, tracing words that would be read for centuries.
Above, the Moon of Origin pearl pulsed once, then again, sending a tremor of light through the hall — as if the ancestors themselves leaned forward from their painted seats to bear witness.
Liangfeng stepped free. The violet glow faded from his eyes, but the stones seemed to remember.