The bell tolled again, a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in their very bones.
It was a summons.
Instinctively, the hundreds of children began to move, a confused herd seeking safety in numbers. Cliques formed with a speed that spoke of a lifetime of social sorting.
The nobles, with their fine, albeit torn, clothes, gathered together, their faces a mixture of fear and ingrained superiority. They probably knew each other—childhood introductions at family gatherings, political alliances sealed over tea and empty smiles. In a world where any house might birth the next divine existence, even rivals kept their enemies close.
The street kids, like Chén Yè, gravitated towards the shadows, their eyes constantly scanning, assessing.
Chén Yè's body ached. The memory of the guards' casual brutality was a fresh, hot pain under his skin. He knew he needed to blend in, to become invisible.
He saw Xīng Hé speaking quietly with another noble girl—her red hair a splash of defiant color in the gloom. Qin Hongyu, he overheard someone call her. The two of them looked relatively clean, composed. They had probably accepted their fate quietly, followed the guards without resistance. Most noble children did.
He saw the handful of children who looked genuinely excited, their faces shining with the propaganda they'd been fed about honor and glory.
Fools, he thought, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. You have no idea what you've been sold.
His gaze returned to Xīng Hé.
An internal, pragmatic struggle began. His first instinct was to stay far away from her. She was the reason for his current predicament—the catalyst that had led him here.
But a colder, more calculating part of his mind took over.
She had run. She had defied them. And yet, she was here, seemingly unharmed, while he had been beaten half to death for a far lesser crime.
That meant her family had power. Influence.
Value.
In this world, proximity to value was a form of armor.
He made his decision.
He pushed off the wall, a ghost slipping through the crowd, intending to attach himself to her group, to become a quiet, unnoticed shadow at her back.
He opened his mouth to say... something. Her name. An introduction.
He would never know.
Because in that instant, the world ended.
It was not a sound. It was the absence of it.
A sudden, crushing pressure descended upon the hall, as if a mountain had materialized in the air above them. It was a weight made of pure presence, a suffocating authority that had nothing to do with physics and everything to do with will.
Every breath became a conscious effort, a fight against an invisible ocean trying to fill their lungs. The air grew thick, heavy. For Chén Yè, it felt like being pinned to the bottom of a deep, cold lake, the light from the surface a distant, mocking memory.
A wave of small, pathetic sounds swept the room.
The whimpers of terrified children. The soft thud of bodies collapsing. The dark, wet stain spreading on the stone floor as bladders gave way.
Most of the children were on the floor—some passed out, some simply paralyzed by sheer terror. A few, the stronger ones, were on their hands and knees, trembling, their bodies refusing to collapse but unable to rise.
A few feet from him, Xīng Hé was one of them.
She was on one knee, her head bowed, her knuckles white where she gripped the stone floor. Her entire body shook with the effort of resisting, but her face, when she lifted it, was a mask of cold, defiant fury.
She was not just enduring.
She was fighting back.
Chén Yè was also on the floor, flat on his face, the stone pressing into his cheek. The pressure was a physical thing, grinding his bones, trying to force the very air from his body.
But he did not pass out.
A lifetime of enduring—hunger, cold, beatings—had forged a stubborn, rat-like resilience in his soul. He could not move, but he would not break.
Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.
A faint, sweet fragrance, like night-blooming jasmine and cold ozone, washed through the hall. The crushing pressure vanished, replaced by a strange, revitalizing energy. The children who had fainted stirred. The terror subsided, leaving only a trembling, bewildered silence.
Chén Yè pushed himself up, his heart hammering.
He looked towards the podium at the front of the hall.
A man stood there.
He hadn't been there a second ago. The doors were closed. He had simply... appeared.
He looked ancient and young all at once, with eyes that seemed to hold the weight of millennia and a face unlined by time.
The Inspector had arrived.
He surveyed the room of terrified, broken children, his expression calm, almost placid. Then, he began to speak, his voice not loud, but carrying to every corner of the hall with effortless authority.
"I see you have experienced your first lesson," he began, his tone that of a patient teacher addressing a class of new students. "The lesson of Presence. You have learned that in this world, there are those whose very existence is a weight upon others. This is what it means to be powerful."
He let the words sink in before continuing, his voice softening into something almost kind.
"I know many of you are frightened. You miss your homes. This is natural. But you were not taken. You were chosen. You are the few who possess the seed of divinity. You have been given a privilege—the chance to rise above the mundane, to protect the world that birthed you, to carve your names into history."
He gestured to the hall around them.
"The path ahead is not easy. It demands sacrifice. It demands strength. But it offers a reward greater than any other: purpose. You will be the shield that guards the mortal realms. You will be the sword that ends a war that has raged for centuries. The honor you bring to your families will echo for a thousand years."
He smiled, a gentle, paternal expression.
"I know you are tired. The true test of your potential will begin tomorrow. For now, you will be shown to your quarters. Food will be provided. Rest. For tomorrow, your journey to becoming gods truly begins."
Chén Yè looked at the man, at his noble posture, his kind smile, his inspiring words.
And in his heart, he felt only a cold, burning contempt.
He saw the lie, polished and perfect.
They were not being raised to be gods. They were being forged into weapons, and the man on the podium was merely the master smith, praising the quality of his new ore before throwing it into the fire.
He remembered a saying from the orphanage: "Divine existences are the perfect beings."
No, he thought, as an official approached to hand him a jade stone key. They are just better predators.
End of Chapter 2