Xīng Hé stood.
Her leg was whole again—no trace of the break that had bent it at an impossible angle moments ago. Her face was smooth and unmarked, the blood that had poured from her wounds now reabsorbed into skin that showed no evidence of trauma.
But she looked pale. Drained. The after-effects of her concept's unconscious activation pressed down on her like a physical weight, demanding rest she couldn't afford to take.
She walked to the far end of the table and sat down, positioning herself directly opposite Heiyun Jue.
He said nothing.
He simply continued eating, tearing strips of beast meat from the bone with casual elegance, savoring each bite as if he hadn't just broken a child against his walls and ceiling for the crime of standing when told to sit.
The hall was silent except for the sounds of his meal—the soft tear of flesh, the clink of utensils against porcelain, the quiet rhythm of a predator at rest.
Then he spoke.
"What is your favourite meal?"
The question caught her off guard.
Xīng Hé blinked, momentarily thrown by the shift from violence to casual conversation. She gathered herself quickly, forcing her mind to work despite the exhaustion clawing at her thoughts.
"Dumplings," she said finally. "Pork and cabbage. My mother makes them herself, every new year." She paused, the memory rising unbidden—her mother's flour-dusted hands, the steam rising from the bamboo steamers, the chaos and laughter of the kitchen. "They taste best when she cooks them."
The words came out before she could consider whether they were wise.
Heiyun Jue smiled.
She hasn't severed ties with home yet, he thought. Good.
That was useful. A child who still loved her family, who still longed for home, who still dreamed of the life she'd been taken from—that child could be controlled. Obedience didn't require chains when hope served just as well. Let her believe she might see her mother again someday, and she would comply without needing to be broken.
"As you ascend," he said, reaching for another strip of meat, "you'll receive opportunities to see home again."
A lie.
Or perhaps not a lie—perhaps a truth so distant it might as well be fiction. Centuries from now, if she survived the war, if she climbed the stages, if she proved valuable enough to earn privileges that common soldiers never received... perhaps then.
But Xīng Hé wouldn't know that. She would hear "opportunities" and feel hope, and hope would keep her obedient.
Heiyun Jue continued eating.
The hall fell silent again—just the sounds of the meal, the soft clink of ceramic, the quiet breathing of two people who had nothing in common except power and its absence.
When they finished, the plates simply vanished. One moment the remnants of the meal sat before them; the next, the table was clean and empty, as if food had never touched its surface.
Heiyun Jue set down his utensils.
"Since your concept is time-related," he said, "how about I find a special teacher for you? Someone with expertise in temporal concepts, who can guide your development more precisely."
Xīng Hé's mind raced.
Special teacher. Specialized guidance. Someone who knows time concepts.
The offer sounded generous. It sounded like a privilege, like recognition of her potential, like the system investing in her future.
But she understood what it really meant.
A specialized teacher would study her. Would observe her manifestations, analyze her progress, report everything to Heiyun Jue. And the moment they realized her concept wasn't actually time—the moment they discovered she was working with something else entirely—.
"If Your Eminence permits," she said, lowering her eyes in a show of humility, "I would rather not."
Heiyun Jue's expression flickered—surprise, perhaps, or the beginning of displeasure.
She pressed on before he could speak.
"Taking guidance from Your Eminence's followers is already a blessing beyond measure," she continued, keeping her voice soft, deferential. "But a special teacher, with special expectations..." She let a tremor enter her voice, carefully calibrated. "I fear I might not be able to meet Your Eminence's standards. I fear I would disappoint you."
Fear his wrath, she thought, projecting the emotion as clearly as she could. I'm afraid of failing him. I'm afraid of punishment.
For a moment, Heiyun Jue's face darkened.
Xīng Hé felt her heart stop. Had she miscalculated? Had she—
Then the shadow passed, and he smiled again.
"I see," he said, nodding slowly. "You fear the weight of expectation. That's... understandable." He sipped his tea, considering. "Very well. We'll proceed without a dedicated teacher for now. You can learn alongside the others."
Xīng Hé bowed her head. "Thank you, Your Eminence."
"However."
The word hung in the air like a blade.
"Every first day of the month, for the next year, you will come here and dine with me. We will discuss your progress. You will answer my questions." His empty eyes fixed on hers. "Is that understood?"
Her face went cold. She could feel the blood draining away, the mask of composure threatening to crack.
But she forced her voice to remain steady.
"Yes, Your Eminence."
He nodded, satisfied.
"Good. You may—"
He stopped.
Xīng Hé didn't see anything change.
One moment, Heiyun Jue was dismissing her. The next, something in his expression shifted—a flicker of concentration, there and gone so fast she almost missed it.
She waited, uncertain.
"You may go," he finished, his voice unchanged. "The guards will escort you back to your manor."
She stood, bowed, and walked toward the door. Her legs felt weak, her body demanding rest, but she kept her pace steady. Controlled.
Don't run. Don't show fear. Don't let him see.
The doors swung open before her, and she stepped through.
Behind her, Heiyun Jue sat motionless at the empty table, his face a mask of perfect calm.
Inside his mind, a storm was raging.
What was that?
He had activated his divine sense in the final moment—a simple probe, barely a whisper of power. He'd intended to evaluate her soul strength, to gauge her potential ceiling. It was a routine examination, something he'd done ten thousand times before.
But when his senses touched her, they had found... nothing.
No—not nothing. A wall.
He couldn't see through her. At all. His divine sense—the perception of a Transcendent, refined over a millennium of existence—simply stopped at the boundary of her being. No information returned. No impressions formed. She was a void in his awareness, an absence where a person should be.
He pushed harder.
Pain.
It erupted in his soul like a blade driven through the core of his existence—sharp, sudden, agonizing. A sensation he had forgotten could exist. A sensation he hadn't felt in centuries, perhaps millennia. The agony of a being encountering something it could not overcome.
He almost winced.
Almost.
But he was Heiyun Jue. He was an Eminence. He did not show weakness, not even when his very soul screamed in protest. He controlled his expression, kept his posture relaxed, gave no external sign that anything had happened at all.
Inside, his mind raced.
What is protecting her?
His first thought was another Transcendent. One of the other ten, perhaps, reaching out to shield a valuable asset. But that would violate their agreement—the compact that kept them from interfering with each other's territories, each other's resources, each other's prey. None of them would risk open conflict over a single natural awakener, no matter how promising.
Would they?
He considered confronting them. Demanding answers. But even if one of them had intervened, the girl wouldn't be aware of it. She was too weak to perceive such manipulations, too ignorant to understand what had been done to her.
Then another thought surfaced.
The being ahead of us.
There was something above the Transcendents. Something that had existed before them, would exist after them, watched over the world with a patience that made their millennia seem like moments. It didn't interfere in their affairs—not as long as they operated within certain principles, certain boundaries.
But if they crossed those boundaries...
Is it protecting her? Why?
He didn't know. Couldn't know, not without more information.
The ancient texts spoke of such things—the world will, the principles that governed existence beyond what even Transcendents could perceive. Those texts were fragmentary, incomplete, lost to time and recovered piece by piece over countless generations. But they were also sacred. Authoritative. The closest thing to absolute truth that beings like him could access.
Is she protected by the World itself?
The thought was staggering. Terrifying. Exhilarating.
If the World Will had marked this girl, if it had wrapped its power around her like a mother shielding a child, then she was more than a natural awakener. She was something unprecedented. Something that could reshape the balance of power among the Rulers.
Something that could reshape everything.
He needed more information. He needed to read the texts again, to study the fragments, to understand what he was dealing with.
But carefully. Quietly. Without alerting the others.
I will summon her again in a few days, he decided. And in the meantime, I will learn what she truly is.
He drank, alone in the vast and silent hall, and began to plan.
He would need to consult them.
He would need to confirm that none of the other Transcendents had breached their compact first.
He raised his teacup to his lips and found it empty.
A flicker of will, and it refilled itself.