After leaving the pavilion, Chén Yè returned to his black cube.
The image of Bai Zixian's broken body lingered—the crack of bone, the blood trickling from his ears, the Elder's single, effortless finger. That could have been him.
The thought sat like a cold stone in his stomach. He had been halfway through raising his hand. A second's difference, and he might have been the one crumpled on the floor.
He shivered, pulled the blanket tighter, and sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the blank wall. Silence pressed against him like water.
He had food. Shelter. Warmth. A bed with real blankets.
I have a home now.
The thought should have comforted him. It didn't.
On the streets, every day had belonged to him—hungry, dangerous, yes, but his. He chose where to go, who to avoid, when to sleep, when to run. Only survival commanded him.
Here? His days were planned. Wake when the bell tolled. Attend lectures. Eat. Sleep. Prove his worth to a system that hadn't asked his permission.
I never thought I'd miss the streets.
But he did. Not the hunger. Not the cold. Not the fear. The freedom. Even misery had been his.
This place was better in every material way. And still a cage.
Slavery, he thought. With better food.
His mind turned to the future. Waiting was useless.
Bai Zixian—humiliated, angry—would seek to restore pride. Anger made mistakes. Mistakes made opportunity.
Maybe…
Two hundred children, lost and afraid. Alone, they would be picked off. Together, they might last.
I could find them. Watch them. Decide who's useful.
Not a plan yet. A feeling. But action was better than nothing.
Tomorrow, he would talk to Bai Zixian. Not friends. Not allies—tools. Necessities.
He wandered the empty library. Shelves were bare, dust faint in the air. The search felt good anyway. Doing something. Anything.
When he finally crawled into bed, fear had shrunk to something he could hold. Trapped, powerless—but not inert. He would watch. Learn. Find cracks. Slip through them when the time came.
⸻
In a chamber outside time and space, Heiyun Jue appeared.
He had just returned from Lu Feiyu. Two hundred seventy years of pursuit, and still she regarded him like furniture—present, unremarkable, easily ignored.
He sighed. A lie: perhaps after ascension, things would be different. It wasn't comfort. It kept him moving.
He prepared coffee. The ritual grounded him. Mortality in small doses—grinding, pouring, smelling, tasting. Anchors. Every Transcendent had them. Without them, even gods unravel.
He spread his divine senses through the pocket realm: children sleeping in black cubes. Guards on patrol. Elders in meditation. And in a distant manor, a girl asleep in silk.
The golden goose.
Awakened naturally. Two days instead of a month. Her body had nearly destroyed itself. History spoke of seven others. Four millennia had passed. Now an eighth.
He didn't yet know her concept. She hadn't touched the Concept Stone. But whatever it was, it was powerful. Volatile. Dangerous.
Danger could be shaped. Patience could mold it into a weapon.
He finished his coffee, set the cup aside, and thought ahead. Tomorrow, he would summon her. Gauge her. Begin the careful work of binding loyalty.
He lay on his simple bed, closing his eyes. No need for sleep, but he would pretend. Let his concept run on autopilot. For a few hours, he would be mortal again. Weak. Vulnerable. Human.
Necessary. The only way to remember himself. The only way to keep the abyss at bay.
He smiled. A god pretending to be a man. And as long as he remembered the pretense, he would never lose himself completely.
________
Xīng Hé woke to fragrance—warm bread, something sweet, the faint richness of meat. Her stomach clenched before consciousness fully arrived.
White ceiling. Clouds painted across it. For a heartbeat, she didn't know where she was.
Then memory struck: testing. Rage. Blood. Pain.
Instinctively, she swung her legs over the bed's edge, bracing for yesterday's agony.
Nothing.
Her feet touched the floor. She flexed her ankles. Slowly, carefully, she stood. No pain. Heavy, sluggish—but the grinding agony was gone, as if it had never existed.
Her hands—knuckles once raw and bleeding—were smooth, unmarked.
A fragment from her dreams surfaced: a vast, strange instruction. Colors she couldn't name. A sense of weight and counterweight. Three words burned in her mind: Balance. Restoration. Preservation.
She whispered, testing the first.
"Balance."
Understanding bloomed—not as words, but as truth. Creation and destruction. Authority and rebellion. Cruelty and compassion. All forces must remain in dynamic harmony. When one grows too strong, the world tilts toward suffering.
Balance was not peace. Peace is stillness, and stillness is death. Balance is tension—the invisible weight that prevents any one force from becoming absolute.
Her heart pounded. This was knowledge, not learned—it had arrived. She wasn't merely understanding her concept. She was guiding it, shaping it, making it hers.
Dangerous. Deadly, if the Rulers discovered it. Concepts that could be directed, not just understood, could be studied, weaponized. She could make the war a slaughter.
No. She clenched her fists, feeling the phantom echo of old pain. I must keep this secret. Until I'm strong enough. Until I can protect myself. Until I can protect others.
Her stomach growled. Reality intruded. She was starving.
The dining hall smelled warmer now, closer. She followed it, stepping into a space that dwarfed any manor she had ever known. Tables stretched like polished rivers. Crystal chandeliers scattered light into rainbows. And the food—a feast.
Sliced meat in rich sauce, steamed vegetables arranged like gardens, dumplings glistening, golden bread, juice, tea—all laid out in overwhelming abundance.
She ate. Rapidly. Devouring plate after plate, ignoring etiquette, hunger driving her hands. By the end, twenty-six plates were empty. Bread gone. Juice drained.
Fullness brought clarity.
Two hours until the household stirred. Two hours to think. Two hours to plan.
Problem one: she was fully healed when she shouldn't be. Yao Xian had restrained her, kept her weak. But now… she was whole.
Problem two: she understood her concept without representation. Dangerous. Catastrophic if discovered.
Problem three: Heiyun Jue wanted to see her. A Transcendent had taken personal interest. She had no idea why.
One thing at a time. Immediate problem: Yao Xian. She would need a lie—close enough to the truth to be believable.
I'm a natural awakener. Two days instead of a month—plausible.
She opened her eyes, surveying the empty plates. Lie. Hide understanding. Play the frightened, compliant child. Not a plan. Not even a strategy. A thread of control in a world that had taken everything else.
She smoothed her rumpled robes and walked back to her room. In two hours, the manor would wake. In two hours, the questions would begin. She needed to be ready.
⸻
Chén Yè stirred to grey light filtering through the single high window of his black cube. The perpetual twilight of the realm made time meaningless, but the small clock on his bedside table—running on concept, not mechanics—told him he had overslept.
Bath. Food. Move.
The motions had become automatic: scrub sleep from his body in the oversized washroom, pull on the grey robes, eat whatever the kitchen conjured—today, rice porridge with pickled vegetables, steam rising like a ghost. He ate quickly, tension coiling in his shoulders, and rushed out.
The gathering point was at the base of the plateau. Rows of black cubes gave way to flat grey stone. Children milled in nervous clusters, breath misting in the cold. Chén Yè kept to the edge. Desperation was weakness. Weakness invited predators.
A guard appeared, bored, expressionless, and motioned for them to follow. No words, no teleportation this time. Just a long, silent march.
Three hours.
The landscape shifted in strange, dreamlike ways—jagged black stones, pools reflecting a sky that wasn't quite right, forests with silver and gold leaves. By the second hour, younger children lagged, legs trembling, faces flushed. By the third, everyone was soaked in sweat, robes clinging, breathing ragged.
The pavilion finally came into view, its sourceless light beckoning. Exhausted, children collapsed onto the benches.
Chén Yè found his usual corner and let himself breathe. His eyes immediately found Bai Zixian—alone near a pillar, back straight, expression composed. No visible injuries. Good as new.
Chén Yè rose and approached.
"It seems you're fine now," he said.
Bai Zixian flinched briefly, then masked it with a practiced smile.
"Haa," he said, recovering. "Seeing that you came to check on me, I take it as agreement to be friends."
"Friends?" Chén Yè echoed flatly.
"Friendship is for equals," Bai Zixian said. "Most relationships aren't. There are leaders and followers, masters and servants. People who use, and people who are used."
Bai Zixian studied him, reassessing. Good. Keep him off-balance.
"If that's what you believe," Bai said slowly, "then why are you here? If not for friendship, what do you want?"
Chén Yè considered, then gave a version of the truth. "You came to talk to me first. Sat beside me. Offered an alliance. No one else has done that. I'm returning the courtesy."
Bai Zixian blinked. "Returning the courtesy… not accepting, just returning?"
"Yes."
A beat. Then a quiet, genuine laugh from Bai Zixian—the first Chén Yè had seen. The polished mask slipped for an instant, revealing something younger, almost surprised.
"You're strange," Bai said.
"So I've been told."
"What's your name?"
"Chén Yè."
"The radiance of time," Bai repeated, rolling it on his tongue. "Strong." He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect. "I'm Bai Zixian."
Names didn't matter. What mattered was what people could do. Chén Yè nodded and returned to his corner.
"Wait," Bai's voice stopped him.
"You came to return a courtesy," Bai said, leaning forward. "Courtesy returned. But you haven't answered my offer. Alliance of convenience. Watch each other's backs, at least for the year."
Chén Yè let the silence stretch, letting Bai Zixian wait. The first to speak is weaker. The one who asks is weaker than the one who answers.
Finally, he nodded. "Fine. We watch each other's backs."
He returned to his corner without waiting for a response. That was the offer extended, accepted, on his terms. Bai Zixian felt like it was his choice, his initiative—even though it wasn't.
Behind him, Bai Zixian watched with equal parts curiosity and calculation. Two children, each measuring the other. Neither quite right.