The afternoon sun hung lazy in the artificial sky, casting warm golden light across Bai Zixian's courtyard. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the maple tree at the center, sending scattered shadows dancing across the stone tiles where the ten children sat in their loose circle.
Chen Yè looked at the boy and thought—wasted potential, honestly.
Kiran sat with his shoulders slightly hunched, fingers picking absently at the hem of his robe. The representation he'd shared was vivid. Detailed. Three rooms, silent musicians, invisible presences, a domain of absolute death. It painted a picture none of them could fully grasp.
But Kiran was eight years old. Maybe nine at most. The chocolate skin, the grey hair that caught the light strangely, those blue eyes that had seen something profound—all of it belonged to a child. How was someone that young supposed to understand something like that without active guidance?
The scent of jasmine drifted from somewhere in Bai's garden, sweet and persistent. A bird called in the distance—one of those artificial creatures that populated these constructed domains, going through motions of life without truly living.
Then again, Chen Yè thought, glancing around the circle, if he could just help him understand...
The thought died before it finished forming. He couldn't understand his own representation. How was he supposed to help someone else understand theirs?
Looking at the others, he could tell they shared the same realization. The same frustration.
Noah Wen scratched his round cheek, brow furrowed in that way people got when they were trying to appear thoughtful but were actually lost. His eyes kept darting to Kiran, then away, uncomfortable with the silence.
Ash Wei sat perfectly still, scarred hands resting on his knees. His face revealed nothing, but his jaw was tight. Frustrated, perhaps. Or simply impatient with the lack of progress.
Vera Lin had her arms crossed, one finger tapping rhythmically against her elbow. The sound was soft but persistent—tap, tap, tap—like a clock counting down to something none of them could see.
Maya Chen stared at some point beyond Kiran's shoulder, her gaze unfocused, distant. Whether she was pondering his representation or lost in her own thoughts entirely, Chen Yè couldn't tell.
Sera Zhao's lips moved silently, and Chen Yè caught fragments of whispered words—"three rooms... presence... death..."—as if she were cataloguing the information, sorting it into mental boxes that might never open again.
Quinn Liu shifted his weight, the fabric of his robes rustling against the stone. He looked ready to speak, to demand action, but even he seemed uncertain what action to demand.
Leah Tang watched Kiran with soft eyes, her gentle presence somehow making the boy's discomfort more bearable. She offered a small smile when he glanced her way, wordless reassurance.
They'd all heard Kiran's representation, and now they were supposed to—what? Offer wisdom? Provide meaning? None of them had found meaning in their own concepts yet.
The breeze picked up for a moment, carrying with it the distant sound of chimes from somewhere deeper in Bai's estate. The sound hung in the air like a question no one knew how to answer.
Bai Zixian broke the silence. "Who would go next?"
His tone was casual, but Chen Yè caught the calculation beneath it. Bai was managing the group, keeping things moving, maintaining his position as the one who'd brought them together.
Vera Lin uncrossed her arms, drawing breath to speak—
"How about we do it this way."
Chen Yè's voice cut across hers, quiet but firm.
Vera stopped, eyebrows rising slightly. Her finger paused mid-tap. She didn't protest, but her eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with interest. Assessment.
The others turned toward him. Even Ash's impassive gaze sharpened.
Chen Yè hadn't planned to speak—the idea was still forming even as the words left his mouth. The stone beneath him was warm from the sun, and he pressed his palms against it, grounding himself.
"Now we all know Kiran's representation," he said slowly. "The three rooms. The musicians. The presences. The death domain. But none of us understand what it means. I don't. Bai doesn't. Kiran himself doesn't."
He paused, letting that truth settle.
Quinn leaned forward, elbows on knees. Sera's silent recitation stopped. Even Maya's distant gaze seemed to focus, drawing back from wherever it had wandered.
"So here's what I propose. We all go home today. We ponder over what meaning we see in his representation—each of us, from our own perspective. Tomorrow, when we gather here again, we each share what that representation means to us. Not the correct meaning. Just our meaning. Our interpretation."
The maple tree's leaves rustled overhead, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the group. Kiran had stopped picking at his robe. His blue eyes were fixed on Chen Yè, something fragile building behind them.
Noah was nodding slowly, unconsciously, his round face brightening with something like hope.
Ash's hands hadn't moved from his knees, but his fingers had uncurled slightly. Listening. Truly listening now.
"Then Kiran tries to understand our meanings," Chen Yè continued, his voice growing more certain. "He sees things from each of our perspectives—understanding why we see what we see, what leads us to our interpretations. Through understanding the views from all nine of us, plus his own understanding, if he's lucky, he might coincidentally find the meaning to his concept from one of our perspectives."
Chen Yè sat back slightly, feeling the warmth of the stone through his palms.
"The same process goes for everyone."When it's your turn to share, we all ponder. We all offer meaning. We all try to help each other see."
Silence filled the courtyard.
But this was a different silence than before—not the heavy, frustrated quiet of confusion, but something lighter. Thoughtful. The breeze carried the jasmine scent again, and the distant bird had stopped calling, as if even it were waiting to hear what came next.
Even Bai was speechless.
Chen Yè watched the reactions ripple across the group like stones dropped in still water.
Noah's nodding had become more pronounced, his hope no longer hidden. He glanced at Leah, then at Kiran, as if already imagining how this might work.
Ash Wei remained still, but something had shifted in his posture. The tension in his shoulders had eased, just slightly. His scarred hands were relaxed now, open, as if ready to receive rather than guard.
Vera tilted her head, dark hair sliding across her shoulder. She was considering—weighing the proposal against whatever she'd been about to suggest. Her finger had resumed its tapping, but slower now. Contemplative rather than impatient.
Maya Chen blinked, and for a moment her gaze was fully present, fully here. A ghost of a smile touched her lips before she drifted back to that distant place behind her eyes.
Sera had produced a small notebook from somewhere—when had she grabbed that?—and was scratching notes with quick, precise strokes. Cataloguing again, but differently now. With purpose.
Quinn's ready-to-act energy had settled into something more grounded. He studied Chen Yè with frank appraisal, reassessing, recalculating.
Leah's gentle smile had widened into something genuine. "It could help," she said softly, her voice carrying that strange weight it sometimes held, as if the words themselves offered comfort. "At the very least, it can't hurt."
Kiran Xu hadn't looked away from Chen Yè. The fragile thing behind his blue eyes had solidified into something stronger—hope, yes, but also gratitude. His small hands had stopped their nervous movements, pressed flat against his knees in unconscious imitation of Ash's posture.
This was, perhaps, the best idea anyone could have come up with. Understanding your own representation through the perspectives of different people.
The other kids looked at Chen Yè with something like awe. Reverence, even. Who was this boy?
Bai Zixian hadn't spoken yet. Chen Yè glanced at him and found that practiced smile in place—pleasant, open, revealing nothing. But something flickered behind those intelligent eyes. His fingers had curled slightly against his knee, the only break in his careful composure.
"An interesting approach," Bai said finally. His voice was warm, agreeable, perfectly controlled. "Using collective perspective to illuminate individual understanding."
Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just acknowledgment.
"You really think..." Kiran's voice was small, tentative. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "You think this could work?"
Chen Yè met his eyes—those strange blue eyes in that young face. "I think understanding usually comes from outside ourselves. We're too close to our own representations to see them clearly. But others—others can see what we can't."
Is that true?
He didn't know. It sounded true. It felt like it should be true. The warm stone beneath his hands seemed to agree, solid and certain in a way his thoughts weren't.
And if it wasn't—if this method failed completely—at least he'd tried something. At least he'd positioned himself as someone who contributed, who thought, who offered value beyond just showing up.
The group began discussing logistics—when to meet tomorrow, how to structure the sharing, whether they should take notes. Sera was already ahead of them, her notebook filling with neat lines of text.
Chen Yè let them talk, his mind already turning to other questions.
The higher divine existences, he thought. Did they never think of this?
It seemed too simple. Too obvious. Share perspectives. Pool understanding. Use collective insight to illuminate individual confusion.
But the elder hadn't suggested anything like it. He'd told them to share representations, to hear opinions—but opinions and perspectives were different things. Opinion was judgment. Perspective was understanding.
Maybe they did think of it, Chen Yè considered. Maybe it doesn't work.
Or maybe it worked too well.
Maybe the system didn't want them helping each other this effectively. Maybe isolation served a purpose. Maybe keeping them separate, confused, dependent on official guidance—maybe that was the point.
He filed the thought away.
The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across Bai Zixian's courtyard, their shadows lengthening across the courtyard tiles. The group was dispersing, heading back to their respective blocks with instructions to ponder and prepare.
Tomorrow, they would try his method.
Tonight, Chen Yè would think about Kiran's representation. Three rooms. Silent music. Hidden presences. A domain where existence itself ended.
What does that mean to me?
He didn't know yet.
But he would find out.
✦
Meanwhile, Xīng Hé had been in her room throughout—not opening the door for hours.
The manor had grown quiet with unease. Servants moved through the halls on soft feet, speaking in whispers when they spoke at all. The guards at their posts had stopped their idle chatter, their attention fixed on the sealed door at the end of the corridor.
When Yao Xian arrived, the artificial sun had begun its slow descent toward evening. Orange light slanted through the manor's windows, painting long shadows across marble floors.
The maids clustered near the entrance, wringing their hands.
"She hasn't emerged since yesterday," one of them reported, her voice barely above a whisper. Dark circles under her eyes spoke of a sleepless night spent worrying. "We thought—we didn't want to disturb—but it's been so long, and she hasn't asked for food, hasn't asked for water, hasn't—"
Yao Xian raised a hand, and the woman fell silent.
The healer's footsteps echoed through the corridor as she approached Xīng Hé's quarters. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with something that pressed against her senses.
She stopped before the sealed door.
The wood was ordinary—polished mahogany, carved with subtle patterns of clouds and wind. But the air around it wasn't ordinary at all. Yao Xian could feel it against her skin, a faint pressure that had nothing to do with temperature or humidity.
She extended her senses outward, probing gently.
And paused.
The faint scent of concept drifted around the room—seeping through walls, bleeding into the air like perfume from a closed bottle. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable to someone of her level.
It could either be I'm the unconscious use of her concept or she could be understanding her concept, but was it possible without seeing her representation?
Yao Xian pressed her palm flat against the door. The wood was warm—too warm for the cooling evening air. Something was happening inside. Something that defied the careful categories and progressions the higher divine existences had established.
She considered forcing her way in. Demanding answers. Investigating this anomaly.
The girl was under her supervision, after all. Heiyun Jue had assigned her to watch, to guide, to report. This development—this impossible manifestation—surely warranted interruption.
But something held her back.
Let it develop, a voice whispered from somewhere deep within her. Let her grow. See what she becomes.
Whether that voice was wisdom or something else entirely, Yao Xian couldn't say.
She stepped back from the door.
"Come tell me when she emerges," she instructed the nearest maid. The woman nodded quickly, relief and confusion warring on her face. "Do not disturb her before then. Under any circumstances."
Then she left, her footsteps echoing through the silent manor, the orange light of sunset following her like a trailing cloak.
Behind her, in the sealed room, Xīng Hé remained lost in whatever truth was slowly taking shape within her. The guards returned to their posts. The maids resumed their whispers, softer now, tinged with a new kind of fear.
And the faint scent of concept continued to drift through the air, a promise of something none of them could yet understand.
End of Chapter 18