Seclusion did not feel like exile.
At first, it felt like relief.
Days passed without interruption. No examinations. No polite concern hidden behind measured glances. The inner courtyard was quiet in a way Empyreal Heaven rarely allowed—soundless, undemanding, patient.
I slept when I tired.
I ate when hunger came.
I worked when the pressure inside my chest grew too heavy to ignore.
Stone became my answer.
At the beginning, my hands bled.
Not from strain, but from ignorance. I had no tools, no technique, no instruction. I pressed my fingers into raw stone and forced it to yield, shaping instinctively, clumsily, removing what felt wrong rather than adding what felt right.
The first pieces were crude.
Unbalanced.
Incomplete.
I left them where they stood.
They did not matter.
What mattered was what happened after.
Each time I worked, my thoughts quieted. The weight inside me—constant since the ceremony—settled, distributing itself evenly instead of pressing inward. My breathing grew deeper. My spirit… steadied.
I didn't call it cultivation.
I didn't dare.
But something was happening.
Years blurred.
Stone dust layered the courtyard. Blocks replaced one another as the older ones wore down, reshaped, or simply crumbled away. I learned to listen—not with my ears, but with something deeper.
Some stones resisted.
Others welcomed my touch.
I learned the difference.
By the third year, my hands no longer bled. By the fifth, I no longer needed to look while shaping. By the seventh, I understood when to stop.
That was the hardest part.
Knowing when something was finished.
The sculptures that remained were simple.
No grand forms.
No divine beasts.
No exaggerated figures.
Just… presence.
A curve that invited stillness.
A line that encouraged breath.
A shape that felt complete.
Sometimes, when I stepped back, the courtyard felt fuller than before—despite containing nothing new.
I avoided thinking about it too much.
My family never forced their way in.
Mother visited occasionally, always announcing herself before entering. She brought food, fresh stone, sometimes nothing at all. She never asked what I was making.
Father came less often, but when he did, he stayed longer. He would stand quietly, hands clasped behind his back, observing the courtyard with the same expression he once reserved for ancient arrays.
Neither of them spoke of heaven.
Neither asked when I would return.
That, more than anything, told me they understood.
Time passed.
Ten years, measured not by seasons or ceremonies, but by the changing texture of stone beneath my hands.
By the time I realized how long it had been, my reflection in a polished surface startled me.
I was taller. Older.
My eyes were the same.
Calm.
Still.
If heaven had forgotten me, I had not forgotten myself.
On the final day of seclusion, I finished a piece and stepped back.
For the first time, the courtyard felt… complete.
Not full.
Complete.
I washed my hands clean of stone dust and stood there for a long moment, breathing evenly.
Then I opened the doors.
Light spilled in.
Somewhere beyond the inner courtyard, Empyreal Heaven continued as it always had—confident, orderly, unaware.
I stepped forward.
Ten years of silence behind me.
And whatever came next—
I would meet it standing.