The gates of the precinct had barely closed behind the caravan when word flew ahead like sparks on the wind. By the time Liang Zhen and the others stepped back into the training yard, whispers already curled around them.
"He fought like a seasoned guard, not a novice."
"Three bandits down, maybe more. I saw it."
"No, it was the guards who saved them. The ember boy only stood lucky."
Each version clashed with the next, but all carried his name.
The head of novices gave no outward sign of approval. She only dismissed the group with clipped words: "Eat. Rest. Return tomorrow." Yet her gaze lingered on Zhen for a fraction longer than the others, sharp and weighing.
As he walked through the yard, disciples parted subtly. Some nodded with respect, others turned shoulders, refusing to meet his eye. Qiu stalked off, face tight with unspoken fury. Han lingered at the steps, offering his faint, polished smile.
"Well done," Han said, voice smooth as silk, though his eyes glittered with calculation. "It seems your name travels faster than carts."
Zhen inclined his head but gave no answer. He had learned silence could defend as surely as breath.
That night, the precinct tavern near the outer wall filled with gossip. Guards who had seen the fight drank loudly, slamming cups down, telling and retelling the tale.
"The boy fought like fire itself!" one swore.
Another snorted. "A spark only. Without the caravan's men, he'd be ash."
Merchants, scribes, even errand boys carried the stories outward, each reshaping it in retelling. By dawn, Liang Zhen's name was no longer just precinct rumor — it was spoken in nearby villages, in the markets below the mountain, in the teahouses where sect recruiters sat quietly, listening.
Inside the dormitory, Zhen lay awake, listening to the hum of whispers through the walls. Some voices carried envy, some fear, some admiration. The ember within him pulsed quietly, as though testing the rhythm of the world outside.
He exhaled slow and steady, whispering only to himself: The road widens, and so do the nets. I must walk without stumbling.
The following morning, Zhen was summoned again, this time not to the practice yard but to the Hall of Records. Its stone doors groaned as they opened, revealing shelves lined with bamboo scrolls and ledgers bound in rawhide. Scribes in gray robes moved silently through the aisles, ink-stained fingers tracing names and numbers that measured lives.
At the center table sat an elder with eyes pale as frost. He looked up from his ledger. "Liang Zhen," he said, voice like a quill scratching parchment. "Your name is noted. Caravan escort. Successful return."
The elder dipped his brush, wrote in a measured hand, and spoke without looking up. "Such records travel. Some will see potential. Others will see disruption. Both invite attention." His brush moved, each stroke deliberate. "Be prepared."
Zhen bowed deeply. The ember in his chest flickered at the weight of the words.
When he returned to the yard, disciples were already gathered in knots. Qiu stood at the center of one cluster, speaking sharply. "You think he's a hero? He was only lucky the bandits were cowards. Next time, we'll see if his breath saves him."
Some nodded, eager to agree. Others shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to contradict but not convinced.
Across the yard, another cluster murmured differently. "He fought steady."
"Yes, I saw him strike three down myself."
"He breathes like the staff listens."
Admiration grew, though it did not erase suspicion. Instead, the precinct split like a river forked by stone — one stream carrying envy, the other curiosity.
Later that day, recruiters from a minor merchant guild visited the precinct. They stood at the edge of the training yard, eyes narrowing as they watched Zhen drill. Han, ever the diplomat, guided them subtly closer, speaking in polished tones about discipline and talent. Zhen felt their gaze like arrows on his back.
When the drill ended, one recruiter approached, voice smooth. "Liang Zhen, is it? I hear your breath steadies not only yourself, but others nearby. Is it true?"
Zhen bowed. "Breath steadies only the one who takes it."
The recruiter smiled faintly, as though amused by his restraint. "Perhaps. Still, we will watch."
The words spread faster than fire. By dusk, novices whispered that guilds and sects were already eyeing him, weighing him like a coin. Some envied, some feared, some wondered how to tie themselves to his rising name.
That night, in the mess hall, when Zhen sat to eat his simple bowl of rice and broth, the bench beside him filled. Two novices asked quiet questions about his breathing method. Another offered him a slice of dried meat, a gesture rare in the hall. At the far table, Qiu's eyes burned like coals, while Han's smile thinned to a sharper edge.
The ember within Zhen pulsed evenly, but he understood: victory had not freed him from nets. It had only drawn tighter threads.
Three days later, the summons came. Not to the library, nor the practice yard, but to the Arena of Stones — a sunken pit ringed with granite pillars. Normally reserved for assessments or punishments, it was rarely used for novices.
When Zhen arrived, the stands were already filling. Disciples whispered eagerly. "Why him?" "What has he done?" "Perhaps the elders want to test his so-called ember."
At the far end stood the instructor, arms folded. Her expression was unreadable. "Liang Zhen," she called, her voice carrying across stone. "You have shown control. You have shown endurance. Today, you will show whether those hold when pressed by force."
A murmur swept the stands. It was a duel, then.
From the opposite gate stepped Qiu, staff gleaming with fresh polish. His eyes locked on Zhen with hungry malice. He bowed stiffly, but his lips twisted into a smirk.
The instructor raised a hand. "This is no grudge match. This is trial. Both will strike, both will endure. The one who holds his form shall pass."
The gong rang.
Qiu lunged first, his strikes sharp and furious. Zhen met them with steady breath, ember feeding each parry. The sound of wood on wood cracked like thunder through the pit. Spectators leaned forward, shouts rising with every clash.
"Qiu will crush him!"
"No, look — he bends each strike aside!"
Minutes stretched. Sweat flew. Qiu pressed harder, snarling, his breath ragged. Zhen's ember glowed steady, each exhale meeting a strike, each inhale fueling his stance. He felt the rhythm not as combat, but as breathing made visible.
Then came the trap. Qiu feinted high, then swung low, aiming not for Zhen's staff but his leg. Gasps erupted as the blow connected, knocking Zhen to one knee. Cheers burst from Qiu's supporters.
But Zhen exhaled, slow and deep. The ember steadied him. He rolled with the motion, let the fall become a coil, and rose again in a single movement. His staff swept upward, not to strike but to block the counterblow. The crowd roared, half in awe, half in outrage.
"Impossible!"
"He should have stayed down!"
"No, he turned the fall into strength!"
The duel continued, but the tide had shifted. Qiu's swings grew wild, his fury consuming rhythm. Zhen remained steady, ember guiding his breath. At last, with a single timed exhale, he disarmed Qiu — the polished staff clattering to stone.
Silence fell for a heartbeat. Then the arena erupted.
Some cheered wildly, voices echoing. Others shouted in anger, claiming unfairness. Whispers of "ember boy" rippled through the stands, heavier now, more dangerous.
The instructor raised her hand again. "Enough." Her eyes flicked between the two combatants. "Liang Zhen holds his form. Qiu must learn control. This trial ends."
She dismissed them, but the echoes of the duel clung to the air long after.
That evening, the precinct was divided sharper than ever. Some spoke of Zhen as destined, others as dangerous. Qiu nursed his fury in silence, eyes burning whenever they crossed paths. Han only smiled, soft and polished, but behind it Zhen felt the tightening of another net.
The ember within pulsed steady, but Zhen knew: every victory, every test, every whisper — all of it built a fire he could no longer hide.
The Arena of Stones emptied slowly, but whispers lingered like smoke. Some disciples clapped Zhen on the back, voices bright with excitement. "You turned his strike into your strength!" one said. "That was no trick — that was mastery!" Another frowned and muttered, "Or sorcery. No novice breathes like that."
Zhen accepted neither praise nor suspicion. He only bowed once and left the pit, though he felt eyes follow him every step of the way.
At the precinct's upper level, the elders met behind closed doors. Their discussion carried no farther than the stone walls, but murmurs swirled within.
"Too fast," one said, her voice sharp. "His rise is too fast. Such fires burn themselves out."
"Or spread," another countered. "Do you not see? The sects hunger for novelty. If we clip him, they will still reach."
The headmaster remained silent, eyes closed. At last he said, "The boy is unshaped metal. A blade or a danger, depending on who hammers him first."
"Then hammer him quickly," the first elder urged.
But the headmaster only exhaled, long and patient. "Not yet. Let him show whether his fire is smoke or steel."
That evening, in the mess hall, the air quivered with tension. The benches split into two camps: one murmuring admiration, the other spitting quiet envy. Qiu sat among the latter, his hand clenched so tightly around his chopsticks that the wood splintered. He spoke little, but his silence rang like a vow.
Han, by contrast, floated easily between camps. He offered polite smiles, calming words, and observations about fairness. "Truly, the duel was enlightening," he said smoothly, loud enough for half the hall to hear. "It revealed not just skill, but spirit. Such spirit draws eyes — but not all eyes are kind." He glanced toward Zhen, his expression unreadable, and those near him nodded thoughtfully, carrying his words onward like seeds caught by the wind.
Later, Zhen returned to his mat in the dormitory. His body ached from the duel, yet his breath steadied the pain. He lay in silence, listening to the chorus of voices through thin walls. His name rose again and again — praise, suspicion, envy. The ember within him pulsed steadily, as though acknowledging the storm gathering outside.
Two days passed, and the rumors grew legs. A traveling scribe from a trade guild stopped at the precinct, requesting details of the duel. A minor sect courier asked the instructor quietly whether the "ember boy" would be sent to larger contests. By dusk, even merchants in the outer bazaar whispered about him, some betting on his rise, others betting on his fall.
In the market at the mountain's base, traders spoke of him over steaming bowls of broth. "They say his breath glows red, like coal in a forge." "No, they say he does not breathe at all, only swallows air like a beast." "Bah. I saw him myself. Calm as stone, moving as if the staff were part of his arm."
In a nearby village shrine, peasants lit incense timidly. "If he is blessed," one old woman murmured, "may his flame warm us." Others whispered darker prayers, fearing he might bring misfortune if heaven judged his fire unclean. Thus, his name spread both as omen and as hope.
One evening, the elder scribe summoned him again to the Hall of Records. The man's pale eyes glinted faintly in lamplight as he dipped his brush. "Your name is entered thrice now," he said. "Escort, sparring circle, arena duel. Names written thrice do not fade easily. They spread."
Zhen bowed low. "I did only as asked."
The scribe's mouth curved faintly. "And yet the world hears more than what is asked. That is the way of fire: it burns brighter than its owner intends."
When Zhen left the hall, he found Han waiting in the courtyard, robe spotless, smile calm. "Congratulations," Han said smoothly. "Few novices reach so far so quickly. But know this — every ember that burns too bright draws wind. And wind… can smother."
Zhen studied him, silent. The ember pulsed quietly, warming his chest. He thought of Hua, of the smith, of every kindness that had steadied him. And he thought of the nets tightening: Qiu's fury, Han's schemes, the elders' watchful eyes, the world's growing whispers.
That night, before sleep, he whispered into the darkness: If I am to burn, I will burn on my own terms. Not as a spark blown by wind, but as a flame steady enough to carve its own path through stone.
The ember glowed in agreement, soft but resolute.
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