The office was quiet.
Too quiet.
The silence was heavy, like the aftermath of a storm—thick with pressure, yet eerily still.
Wu Zhangkong stood at the large window behind his desk, hands folded behind his back. The afternoon sunlight bathed the floor in a pale white rectangle, but his figure blocked the warmth. He was a silhouette—tall, unmoving, unreadable.
In front of him stood Tang Wulin, Xie Xie, and Qiang Ming, side-by-side, like prisoners before judgment.
None of them spoke.
They didn't dare.
Wu Zhangkong turned slowly.
When he spoke, his voice was calm. Controlled.
But cold as falling snow.
"Xie Xie"
"You were holding back."
Xie Xie's head snapped up, his mouth opening instinctively—but Wu Zhangkong's glare froze the words in his throat.
"I watched every second of your match," the teacher continued, stepping around his desk. "You had the agility. You had the opening. But you didn't commit."
"I—"
"Quiet."
Xie Xie swallowed.
Wu Zhangkong's steps were slow and deliberate as he circled.
"You allowed your pride to decide your limits. You assumed you would win because you were faster. That you could play around, humiliate someone, then walk away victorious."
He stopped behind Xie Xie.
"If this were a battlefield, your hesitation would have cost you your life."
Xie Xie stiffened.
"The Light Dragon Dagger is not a tool for dancing. It's a weapon. And you've trained with it for years. Yet you thought this was a game. A stage for your flair."
Wu Zhangkong stepped in front of him again.
"I will make this clear: If you ever again underestimate an opponent, if you treat combat as anything less than lethal, I will personally remove you from class until you remember what it means to be a Soul Master."
He leaned forward slightly.
"You think you're special. That's fine. All children do. But if you act like a child in my class, I'll break you like one."
Xie Xie's jaw clenched. He nodded slowly.
"Yes, Teacher."
Wu Zhangkong didn't reply.
He simply turned his gaze to the next student.
Wu Zhangkong stared at Tang Wulin for several long seconds before speaking.
"You used forging to reinforce your body."
It wasn't a question.
Wulin nodded, cautiously. "Yes, Teacher. I—my Martial Soul is weak. I thought that if I trained physically, I could make up for it."
"And that's why you took up forging?"
"Yes."
There was another long pause.
Then, suddenly—
SLAM.
Wu Zhangkong's hand came down on the desk, the sound shocking in the silence.
"Then why are you here?"
Tang Wulin flinched.
"If you want to be a blacksmith, go to the Forgemaster's Guild. If you want to pound metal for the rest of your life, go do it. But don't waste my time."
Wulin opened his mouth, but Wu Zhangkong didn't stop.
"You think clever tricks and vines will carry you through real combat? That you can outmaneuver every opponent you face?"
He walked forward until he was inches from the boy.
"You faced Qiang Ming. You knew you couldn't overpower him. But you threw yourself into the fight anyway. Why?"
"I… I had to try."
"You had to prove yourself."
Tang Wulin couldn't reply.
"You hid behind excuses. 'I'm not strong enough yet.' 'My Martial Soul is weak.' Nonsense. All of it. If you have time to forge metal, you have time to refine your spirit."
He pointed to Wulin's chest.
"You have heart. I saw it. But that's not enough."
He paused.
"If you don't treat your spirit training as your primary path… you'll stay mediocre forever."
Tang Wulin bit his lip.
"I understand."
"Do you?"
Wulin's fists clenched at his sides.
"I will prove it, Teacher."
Wu Zhangkong stared at him.
Then gave the faintest nod.
Then he turned.
"Qiang Ming."
The room seemed to dim slightly.
Qiang Ming straightened, arms behind his back, face composed.
But Wu Zhangkong's expression changed.
"You carry yourself like a cultivator. You've got talent. Refinement. You analyze your opponents, adjust your tempo mid-fight, conserve energy."
He paused.
"But underneath all that calm?"
He took a step forward.
"You're arrogant."
Qiang Ming's eyes narrowed, but he didn't speak.
"A genius with two rings by age nine. A powerful Martial Soul. A Clan name that still holds some weight. And now, you think the world is yours to swing at."
He leaned in, his voice low.
"But I saw you in the last fight. I saw your eyes change when Tang Wulin dared to challenge you. I saw the smirk fade. The control crack."
He stepped around to Qiang Ming's side.
"You say you're calm. But you're not. You're offended that someone weaker than you made you try."
Qiang Ming's jaw tightened.
Wu Zhangkong circled again.
"You weren't fighting him. You were trying to prove something. Trying to crush the idea that he was worthy of standing across from you."
"Your Martial Soul is not a scepter. It is not a throne. It is a tool. A responsibility. And if you swing it out of pride, one day it will bury you."
That struck deeper than Qiang Ming expected.
He didn't reply.
Wu Zhangkong stared at him a moment longer.
Then said, quieter now:
"You are gifted. But you are not great. Not yet. And if you don't learn to control not your power, but your entitlement, then you will become your own enemy."
Qiang Ming's eyes dropped slightly.
"…Understood."
"See that you do."
The cafeteria was unusually quiet for mid-afternoon.
Tang Wulin, Xie Xie, and Qiang Ming sat at the same table, trays of steaming food in front of them. The smells of spirit-beast stew, rice, and sweetbread filled the air—but the three of them barely noticed.
They ate in silence.
Each chewing slowly, lost in thought.
Wulin stared at the corner of his tray, Wu Zhangkong's words repeating over and over in his head.
If you want to be a blacksmith, go to the Guild.
He took a deep breath and kept eating.
Xie Xie stabbed a piece of fried dumpling with unnecessary force.
If you act like a child… I'll break you like one.
His appetite was still there, but every bite tasted like paper.
Qiang Ming, however, chewed with perfect rhythm—but his brow was furrowed. He had never—never—been spoken to like that before.
And worse?
The teacher had been right.
He clenched his jaw and forced himself to swallow.
They didn't speak.
But for the first time since arriving at East Sea Academy—
They were all thinking the same thing:
I have to be better.