As Chén Yè was led from the podium, the stares of the hall pressed on him, but he did not look back. The Concept Stone had absorbed the backlash of countless awakenings over the centuries. Without it, most children would have died, their concepts burning flesh before they could take form. With it, the losses were… acceptable.
He hadn't even failed spectacularly.
They guided him to the far end of the hall. The air there was thicker, heavier—almost viscous. A girl wept quietly in a corner, her hands trembling. A boy stared at the floor, eyes empty, as if something inside him had been scraped clean. A younger child shivered, silent sobs shaking his frame—the sister he had known, now standing among the chosen, jade key in hand.
The stone had not recognized them. No fire. No frost. No distortion. Only still water. Unfavored.
Chén Yè slid against the wall. The purse of gold in his pocket pressed cold and weighty against his thigh. He had traded freedom for a future that now seemed hollow. Across the hall, the successful children received their keys—bright, glowing tokens of worth. The system did not keep what it could not use.
He closed his eyes. He had survived worse.
High above, the gods had already turned their attention elsewhere. The machine moved on.
⸻
Hours after the "successful" children had departed, a guard returned for the rest. He said nothing, merely gestured. Two hundred Unfavored followed in silence, a shuffling herd.
They were not taken back to quarters.
The path opened onto a vast plateau beneath a sky locked in perpetual twilight. Light stretched evenly, cold and indifferent, neither warming nor moving. Rows upon rows of seamless black cubes rose from the plateau, each with a single flush door, identical and unyielding. It did not resemble housing. It resembled storage. Or burial.
Each child received a jade token etched with a glowing number, then was directed to a matching cube. When the last door slid shut, the guard finally spoke.
"This will be your residence for the next ten years."
The words landed like a hammer. Ten years. He said it as one might say a season. Composure fractured. Breath hitched. Someone began to cry. The guard watched, almost satisfied.
"For the first year, you will receive instruction under the grace of His Eminence, Heiyun Jue. Your needs will be met. After that"—his smile thinned—"you will be responsible for yourselves. You have nine additional years to prove your worth."
Prove it how? He did not elaborate.
A small boy stepped forward, trembling.
"Sir… my sister… will I see her again?"
The guard's gaze lingered, distant and cold.
"Your name?"
"N-Noah. Noah Wen."
A slow exhale.
"Noah, your sister is in a better place. She is valuable. She receives guidance befitting her worth."
Tears pooled on the boy's cheeks. The guard leaned closer, voice lowering so that all could hear.
"If you wish to see her again, demonstrate progress by the end of ten years. Those who prove useful may earn certain privileges."
He straightened. "Settle in. Your first lecture begins tomorrow."
And he vanished. The air shimmered where he had stood, then stilled.
Silence fell like a weight. Ten years. One year of guidance. Nine years to become something they did not understand. Across the plateau, children began to break.
Chén Yè did not. He watched.
The gold in his pocket pressed heavier than before. He had traded a girl's freedom for a future. That future had not vanished—it had transformed. Not into glory. Into confinement.
⸻
He turned to his assigned block. The door dissolved at his approach, revealing an interior that stretched far beyond the cube's outer dimensions. Three levels unfolded in open space: floating platforms hovered in midair, staircases of latticed light arched between floors, a training hall large enough for a regiment dominated the center, bedrooms lined the upper tier, and a kitchen sat untouched.
A mansion without warmth.
He stepped inside, boots echoing faintly on the polished floor, and let his gaze sweep the vast expanse. Every detail struck him—not as marvel, but as opportunity. Platforms could be traps, staircases could divide or confuse. Spaces could isolate, isolate to teach, isolate to break. Every surface, every volume, every gap in the ceiling became a potential stage for leverage.
He sank onto one of the beds. His body felt heavier now, not of coin but of consequence. He thought of the girl, the sister of the boy who trembled under the guard's words. He imagined her happiness, her freedom… and the price he had paid for it. A small, sharp pang of guilt flickered. Then it hardened into calculation.
Xīng Hé. Her image flared at the edges of his thoughts. where was she? Surely she hadn't tried to escape again. If he could get close to someone of her Influence. He'd just need to make himself useful. Indirect power was quieter, sharper, deadlier. He flexed his fingers as if testing an invisible leash, the motion reflexive.
He rose, pacing the central training hall. Platforms hummed underfoot; the latticed stairs cast shifting patterns of light across the floor. He tested the acoustics, muttering a low command, imagining echoes carrying, whispers spreading. How long before subtle fear or awe could bend someone's will? Days? Weeks? Months? He had ten years. Ten years to bend space, people, circumstance itself.
He paused at the edge of one platform, looking down at the hall below. He could see how a single tilt, a single misstep, a single word might rearrange them. Each child was a piece in a game he hadn't yet fully visualized—but he would. He would.
Exhaustion clawed at him, but he did not lie down. Instead, he curled onto the bed, fingers tracing patterns in the air, rehearsing strategies. Heart steady, mind alert, body still.