Xīng Hé smoothed her silk robes—fresh, the color of morning clouds—and tried to quiet her pounding heart. It didn't work. Her pulse hammered like a trapped bird.
You can do this, she told herself.
She stepped into the corridor.
Yao Xian was waiting, leaning casually against the wall. Her eyes flickered once to Xīng Hé, then returned to some distant point.
"Finally," Yao Xian said, pushing off. "I was beginning to think you'd fallen back asleep."
"I was preparing myself."
"Preparing," Yao Xian's lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "How industrious."
They moved through the manor. Footsteps echoed in vast, shifting halls. Corridors appeared where walls had been; doors led to rooms that hadn't existed moments before.
At the main gate, Xīng Hé spotted a guard standing rigid. She stopped.
"When my friend comes—Qin Hongyu, the red-haired girl—treat her as you would me," she said, voice firm. "She may wait in the guest quarters if she wishes."
No objection. The guard froze. Yao Xian's expression flickered—briefly, crushed a grey stone in her palm. The world dissolved.
The new space was grander still. Dark polished wood, thick carpets, guards bowing, a waiting maid guiding them. Ceilings soared. Artwork radiated authority.
Before massive black lacquered doors inlaid with silver dragons, Yao Xian stopped.
"This is where I leave you."
"You're not coming?"
"I am not welcome. Unless summoned directly, I cannot see the Eminence. You, on the other hand, have been summoned."
"Wait for me," Xīng Hé said. The flicker in Yao Xian's eyes lingered for brief micro seconds, her gripped itself tighter.
Xīng Hé inhaled, exhaled, and pushed the doors open.
The dining hall stretched before her. A table long enough for a hundred, though only two places were set. Crystal chandeliers scattered light into shadow. Paintings of landscapes moved subtly—rivers flowing, leaves rustling, clouds drifting.
At the head sat a figure eating with unhurried grace. Long brown hair fell past his shoulders. Features perfect, ageless. He looked no older than twenty, yet Xīng Hé knew he had lived millennia.
A Transcendent. One of the most powerful beings in the world. And she had to pretend ignorance.
"I am here to see His Eminence, sir," she said, voice respectful.
His eyes met hers—dark, ancient, carrying centuries behind a youthful face. They pressed against her chest like gravity. Then he nodded.
"Sit down," he said.
Xīng Hé remained standing.
"I was told by the healer to only relax when His Eminence says I should," she lied. Obedience displayed. Hierarchy acknowledged.
Heiyun Jue's posture shifted slightly. Good, he thought. They are drilling obedience, little by little.
Then the world moved.
Pain. Pure, absolute, blinding.
Something struck her—no hand, no weapon—just force. She slammed into the wall, tasted blood, heard something crack. Space twisted. Up became down; the floor rushed to meet her. She hit the ceiling, skull cracking. Vision burst into stars.
Then she fell properly. Her leg hit first. A crack louder than her scream, which came a heartbeat later, tore through her. Pain rolled in waves, relentless.
And then something moved inside her.
The pain receded—not fading, retreating like a tide. Bone ground back together. Blood lifted. Wounds knitted themselves as if time had reversed.
Restoration.
Understanding bloomed, sharp and immediate. But she could not act—not here, not with Heiyun Jue watching.
When her body finished, she was whole. Robes pristine. Wounds gone. Blood gone. Pulse wild, heart hammering.
"What was that?" she whispered.
"Remarkable," Heiyun Jue said calmly, standing over her. "Exactly what I wanted to see."
He observed the reversal—damage undone in precise order. Time, he concluded. Your concept must be temporal. Powerful. Dangerous.
Xīng mind raced, he thinks I can she reverse time. He did not know of Balance, Restoration, Preservation. Not three concepts.
"Your Eminence," she managed, voice hoarse, "I… I don't understand. What just happened?"
A lie now. Confused. Frightened. Childlike.
Heiyun Jue studied her, then extended a hand. She took it, stomach twisting.
"What is your concept?" he asked.
"I don't know, Your Eminence. I haven't… I haven't been told. I don't even know what stage I'm at."
He tilted his head, considering. Then smiled. Warm. Paternal. The smile of a mentor pleased with progress.
It was terrifying.
"Then," he said, releasing her hand, "we have much to discuss. But first—eat. You must be hungry."
He returned to his seat as if nothing had happened—as if he hadn't just broken her body and watched it rebuild itself.
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