From her seat in the front row, Ningguang watched the proceedings with the stillness of a viper waiting to strike. Her face was a perfect mask of diplomatic neutrality, but her mind was a whirlwind of strategic assessment.
She replayed Azar's opening gambit. It had been clumsy, heavy-handed. "To attempt the forbidden, and fear none." A transparent attempt to cow the boy with religious dogma, to frame progress as sin. It was the desperate tactic of a man who feared losing control.
But Ren… Ningguang's lips twitched with a ghost of a smile. He hadn't flinched. He hadn't stuttered or begged. He had counted to five—a trick she had taught him to center himself—and then dismantled Azar's argument with calm, undeniable logic. He invoked the Raiden Shogun not as a threat, but as a precedent. He invoked Cloud Retainer not as a shield, but as an origin. He had turned the weight of divinity against the man who claimed to speak for it.
He is not just an inventor anymore, she thought, a fierce pride swelling in her chest. He is a statesman. He understands that truth is a weapon, and timing is everything.
A few seats away, Lisa leaned back, her emerald eyes tracking Ren's movements as he manipulated the hologram. She wasn't listening to the technical jargon—she already knew how the Conduit worked better than anyone in the room besides Ren and Xianyun. She was watching the boy himself.
Look at him, she mused. Standing there in the lion's den, lecturing the lions.
She recalled the way Azar had tried to paint him as a heretic. Most scholars, even seasoned ones, would have crumbled under the Grand Sage's glare. The weight of the Akademiya's disapproval was a crushing force. But Ren had simply… stood there. He had met arrogance with humility, and accusation with fact.
He didn't defend himself by claiming he was right, she realized. He defended himself by proving his intentions were pure. He made Azar look like a bully picking on a child who just wanted to help people.
She swirled a lock of hair around her finger. Sumeru has become stagnant, rotting from the inside with its obsession with rules and sins. Perhaps it takes a child from another land to remind them what wisdom actually looks like.
In the shadowed back corner of the gallery, far from the prying eyes of the Sages, sat a young man with grey hair and headphones around his neck. Alhaitham, the Scribe, had no official role here. He had come purely out of intellectual curiosity. The reports of a "man-made Vision" were too intriguing to ignore, even if it meant enduring a few hours of Azar's pompous speeches.
He watched Ren with a detached, analytical interest. The boy's explanation of the device was concise, efficient. No wasted words. No flowery embellishments. Just data.
Rational, Alhaitham thought. The boy prioritizes function over form. A rare trait.
He glanced at Azar, noting the Grand Sage's barely concealed irritation. Then he looked back at Ren. The boy had navigated the trap of the "forbidden sin" argument with remarkable dexterity. He hadn't engaged in a theological debate he couldn't win. Instead, he had shifted the frame of reference entirely—from divine prerogative to practical utility.
He understands leverage, Alhaitham noted. He knew he couldn't win on Azar's ground, so he moved the battlefield. Clever.
He crossed his arms, settling in. This review was proving to be far more interesting than the usual academic droning. It was a study in power dynamics, and the child was currently holding the high ground.
High on the dais, Grand Sage Azar watched Ren conclude his initial presentation. His face remained impassive, but behind his eyes, a cold calculation was running.
The boy was… problematic. More resilient than anticipated. More articulate. And backed by forces—Ningguang, the adepti, the Electro Archon—that made him difficult to simply crush.
Azar's gaze shifted, drifting past the boy to the woman seated in the front row. Ningguang. The Tianquan. She sat there with an infuriating calmness, her amber eyes watching him, analyzing him. She knew what he was doing. She knew this review was a farce, a probing attack. And she was letting it happen, confident in her ward.
Arrogance, Azar thought, a flicker of disdain curling in his gut. They think their money and their contracts make them untouchable. They do not understand the true nature of wisdom. They do not understand the power we are about to unleash.
He didn't care about the boy's heater or his little elemental toy. Not really. The man-made Vision was a crude imitation of the power the Akademiya sought to create. But the boy… the boy was a variable. A connection to the divine. An anomaly.
He needed to be scrutinized. Dissected.
Azar glanced to his left, catching Khajeh's eye. A subtle, almost imperceptible nod passed between them.
Begin the dissection.
Khajeh straightened, clearing his throat loudly.
"Very well," the Sage of Haravatat announced, his voice sharp. "The operational theory is… adequate. However, we must now delve into the specifics. The runic inscriptions used to stabilize the elemental flow… they bear a striking resemblance to certain scripts of ancient technology. Explain your methodology."
The technical interrogation had begun. But Azar wasn't listening to the answers. He was watching the players, waiting for a crack in the armor. Waiting for the moment to strike.