After three days in the heart of the Yu Dynasty, near the scholars' district, Daverion arrived at a vast park known for its singular lake.
The main entrance was marked by an arch of white imperial jade.
Carved dragons climbed its structure, their bodies intertwined in a dance frozen in time. At the center, engraved in ancient and solemn calligraphy, there was a single name.
Gran Yu.
People came and went naturally, unaware of the symbolic weight of the place.
Daverion passed beneath the arch without slowing his steps.
As he advanced, his gaze swept across the park with calm attention.
He was not searching for anything in particular.
Yet he understood everything he saw.
Stone-tiled paths stretched in gentle curves, separating only to meet again farther ahead. The grass was perfectly trimmed, not a single leaf out of place, as if even growth itself had learned obedience.
On both sides, pines and bamboo rose in near-ritual stillness.
Among the vegetation stood octagonal wooden pavilions topped with green-tiled roofs. Lanterns hung from their eaves, still unlit, waiting for nightfall.
In some pavilions, elderly men played chess in silence.
In others, they spoke softly over tea, letting their words fade before gaining weight.
Daverion walked unhurriedly until he found a bench by the lake.
He sat down, resting his back against the wooden railing, and closed his eyes.
He enjoyed the peace.
The stillness.
That calm he had learned to inhabit.
The distant murmur of the park did not reach him.
Everything felt contained, sustained in an equilibrium so precise it felt almost artificial.
When he opened his eyes again, he looked at the lake.
It measured roughly sixty meters in diameter, perfectly circular. The water was crystal clear, unmoving, without the slightest disturbance.
It did not reflect the sky.
It replicated it.
"A perfect mirror," he murmured.
There was no admiration in his voice.
Only precision.
He stood and walked to the water's edge.
From there, he could clearly see the bottom: submerged flowers, orderly vegetation, stones placed in what felt like deliberate patterns.
Among them, koi fish of many colors swam slowly—white, red, gold, orange.
Their paths were smooth.
Predictable.
Some approached the shore, drawn by visitors tossing them food.
Daverion watched without moving.
The system worked.
The surface reflected calm.
The depths remained contained.
For a moment, he thought the lake was an elegant solution.
Then he understood the problem.
A perfect mirror does not show what is about to break.
That was when he heard the voices.
They were not speaking to him.
In one of the nearby pavilions, three scholars were engaged in discussion. Their pale robes and measured tones made them seem like part of the scenery, as natural to the park as the trees or the water.
"Everything functions because each thing stays in its place," the first said firmly. "The seasons do not argue with one another. Rivers do not doubt their course. When something works perfectly, interference is arrogance."
The second scholar calmly shook his head, resting his fingers on the table.
"You confuse stability with origin. Before the river found its course, it eroded the land for centuries. Nothing is born complete. Perfection is a result, not a beginning."
The third spoke after a brief silence.
"You both speak as if perfection were absolute. To the river, its course is perfect. To the mountain that vanishes, it is destruction. Who decides which of the two is right?"
They fell silent.
Their gazes turned toward the lake, as if expecting it to answer.
The discussion continued for a while longer, but Daverion no longer needed to listen.
Not because he agreed.
But because he understood something none of them were considering.
A presence approached.
An old man stopped beside him. He wore simple robes and leaned on a dark wooden staff.
He did not look at Daverion immediately.
Instead, he studied the lake carefully, as though measuring something unseen.
"You listen like someone who is not trying to defend an idea," the old man finally said. "That is rare among scholars."
Daverion did not reply.
The old man turned his head slightly.
"Tell me," he continued. "If something is perfect… what happens when it is no longer necessary?"
The lake remained still.
Too still.
Daverion did not answer right away.
He was not thinking about the lake.
Nor the scholars.
Not even this world in particular.
He was thinking about structures that had lasted so long they had forgotten why they existed.
"Perfection does not break because of change," he said at last. "It breaks when what sustains it no longer needs it."
The old man frowned faintly.
"Are you implying decay?"
Daverion shook his head gently.
"No. I am implying completion."
Silence settled between them.
Dense.
Final.
"There are things that do not fail," Daverion continued. "They simply… end."
The lake remained intact.
Clear.
Circular.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
The old man studied him closely.
There was no surprise.
No explicit approval.
Only a silent understanding, as if a piece had clicked into place somewhere it had never been before.
He nodded once.
Then he turned away, leaving without another word.
Daverion looked back at the lake.
The water remained a perfect mirror.
He sighed and returned to the bench.
The price was high.
It always had been.
Using that secret art would demand more than many were willing to pay, but Daverion did not search for alternatives.
What was coming would allow none.
He did not know whether everything he had planned would give them enough time to prepare.
He only knew that delaying the inevitable was, in itself, a form of resistance.
He slowly turned his head to the right.
First, the three-story restaurant, still lit.
His gaze crossed the distance effortlessly.
Farther away, on the mountain, he distinguished the figure of a slender man with a gentle demeanor.
Mael.
Then his eyes shifted to the palace of the Yu Dynasty.
After that, to the sky, where the Celestial Court lay hidden beyond what could be seen.
Finally, he returned his gaze to the unmoving lake.
The park was beginning to empty.
The moon started to rise between the treetops.
When nearly everyone had left, two guards approached to ask him to depart.
They did not get the chance to speak.
Daverion took a step.
And the world accepted that step as something natural.
An instant later, the guards blinked.
He was gone.
They expanded their senses, alarm carefully contained, and found him at the center of the lake, seated in the largest pavilion, the one with the best view, open to the sky.
There was concern.
Caution.
They prepared to intervene when a voice stopped them.
"Leave him," said an old man leaning on a staff. "He is an acquaintance of mine."
The guards bowed respectfully.
"Yes, Great Scholar."
And withdrew.
Daverion remained there, alone.
The lake was still.
Perfect.
For now.