Several weeks had passed since Xuanye chose his own path.
No supervisors pressed him.
No elders reprimanded him.
Yet the world began to speak in its own way—silent, waiting, and judging.
Xuanye walked into the training grounds at midnight. The cold wind whispered through the stone gaps, carrying the scent of incense and damp earth. He closed his eyes and circulated qi, slow and imperfect, deliberately making his body inefficient.
Suddenly, he felt something—not real, yet real. A shadow moved at the edge of his qi. It did not threaten, did not attack, but it watched.
He opened his eyes slowly.
Nothing visible. Only the night's darkness and a faintly swaying lantern.
Yet it felt unmistakable: the world was watching him. A world that did not need his existence, but still judged.
Some disciples might notice, some supervisors might record his movements, but the shadow was not human. Not an elder. Not a disciple. He did not even know if it was "real."
Xuanye smirked faintly. He wrote in his notebook:
If the world is silent, it does not mean safe. If the world is silent, it is only waiting.
He closed the notebook, inhaled, and stared at the night sky. No stars shone brightly. Only vast darkness, as if challenging his courage.
Yet he stepped forward. Slowly, carefully, deliberately wrong, and aware of every movement being observed.
That night, he learned one thing:
Choosing his own path was not freedom.
The world does not always punish, but it always watches.
Survival meant dancing with shadows unseen.
He returned to his small room, lit the lamp, and wrote one final line for the day:
My path may be wrong in the world's eyes. But I will keep walking.
And for the first time, Xuanye felt a strange sense of safety—uncomfortable, uneasy—but enough to survive.