Xīng Hé sat upright on the edge of the pristine bed, phantom agony echoing through her bones.
Eminence. Assigned to watch her. Natural awakener.
Each word pressed into her chest like a bar in a gilded cage.
"His Eminence will send someone for you tomorrow," Gu Minghui had said before leaving.
A Transcendent. A Ruler. A being whose existence bent reality.
Personal interest should have felt like honor. It felt like ownership.
The war. The draft. The testing.
Clarity settled cold in her chest: children were not being trained to protect the world. They were being forged for those at the top.
She rose and forced herself to truly see the room.
It dwarfed her family's entire east wing. The ceiling arched impossibly high, painted with drifting clouds. Dark wood furniture absorbed light. Silver-framed windows overlooked manicured courtyards and distant towers beneath a sky that felt… artificial.
Not a manor. A constructed realm. A pocket space. A Ruler's domain.
Yao Xian had mentioned her lessons could be held here. Qin Hongyu would be allowed to visit. Small mercies to soften greater confinement.
Her stomach growled.
She swung her legs off the bed—pain detonated through her body. Her knees buckled. She collapsed back, gasping. Healing had dulled the agony, not erased it. Dependence disguised as care. If she wanted relief, she needed the healer. If she needed the healer, she needed obedience. Elegant.
Slow breaths. Pain receded to a tolerable hum. She rang the bedside bell. A clear chime echoed faintly beyond the door. Food would come. Rest would follow. Tomorrow, she would meet the Eminence.
Exhaustion claimed her before service arrived. She fell asleep while unseen hands moved through corridors, carrying a meal that would cool untouched.
⸻
At the pavilion of black stone, the second session began.
Children sat rigid. Yesterday's lesson hung over them like a blade: understand your representation, translate your truth.
Chén Yè leaned against the back wall. Darkness. Winged lights. Unreachable. What truth? The question gnawed.
Across the hall, Bai Zixian met his gaze, offering the same small, knowing smile. Chén Yè looked away.
Elder Pei Leng entered. The air thickened instantly, pressing against every lung.
Before the Elder could speak, Bai Zixian stood.
"Master Pei Leng," he said smoothly, "forgive the interruption. Perhaps hearing how other divine existences understood their own representations would help us find direction."
A ripple of agreement moved through the room. Murmurs passed between children—nervous curiosity, tentative respect.
"And," Bai Zixian continued calmly, "how many stages are there beyond Awakening?"
Silence. Heavy and dangerous.
Elder Pei Leng's expression sharpened.
"Do you believe you are special?" he asked softly.
Bai Zixian hesitated.
"Do you believe you have the right to demand answers?"
He raised a single finger.
Bai Zixian jerked upward, yanked by invisible force. His body hovered for a heartbeat, eyes wide, mouth open in shock. Then he was hurled across the pavilion.
Impact cracked like thunder. Stone fractured. Dust rained in thin streams. He slid down the wall, crumpled, blood streaming from nose and ears. Each breath rasped, shallow, wrong.
A girl screamed. Others recoiled. Some whispered prayers under their breath; a few shifted instinctively toward the walls, touching furniture, testing the distance from danger.
Elder Pei Leng stepped forward, voice low, cutting.
"Do not mistake yourselves. Everyone in this realm—from the maids to the gate guards—is a divine existence. Any one of them could end you without effort."
He let it settle.
"You are at the bottom. Until you climb, you are disposable."
A pause.
"And tomorrow is not guaranteed."
He turned. "This is your first error. It will be forgiven. The next will not."
"Dismissed."
He left. Silence lingered, thick and heavy. Dust drifted down. Bai Zixian's labored breathing sounded like ragged wind through a canyon. Children flinched at every creak and shift of debris.
Chén Yè's pulse ticked faster than his outward calm. His own question had hovered on his tongue. Bai Zixian had simply moved first. The lesson was sharper than any words: let others test the blade. Let the world teach what fire feels like.
A few children rushed forward to help the injured boy. A girl pressed trembling hands against his bleeding face, whispering reassurances. Others stayed back, unsure, calculating risk.
Chén Yè considered stepping closer. Just briefly.
Then calculation smothered impulse. Association meant visibility. Visibility meant risk. Survival required distance.
He turned and walked out of the pavilion without looking back. Behind him, quiet sobs dissolved into the endless twilight. Dust and blood lingered in the air like a warning, a reminder of the system's precision.