The next day.
The morning sun filtered through the high, arched windows of the Imperial Academy's grand hallways, casting long, golden corridors of light across the polished jade floors.
Disciples in immaculate robes walked in bustling groups, chatting excitedly about the previous day's grand trials.
Yet, amid the vibrant energy of the campus, Qing Yan walked toward his classroom with a hollow, broken gait, moving as if he were a ghost haunting a world he no longer belonged to.
He moved with a stiff, shivering posture, his shoulders hunched tight against his neck, his arms wrapped frantically around his own chest as though trying to hold his shattered pieces together.
Every single step he took sent a phantom flare of agonizing soreness through his waist, lower back, and thighs.
His face was ghastly pale, his eyes sunken, bloodshot, and perpetually darting around in absolute, paranoid terror.
