Five days.
Xīng Hé had been walking for five days.
Her legs trembled with every step, muscles burning with a dull, unrelenting fire that dragged through bone and sinew. Her vision blurred at the edges; the crystalline structures around her dissolved into smears of light she couldn't focus on. Her throat was parched, lips cracked, skin pale as bleached cloth.
She was dying. Not literally—not yet—but every ragged breath screamed the truth. She was mortal. Awakened, yes, but no different from an ordinary human in body, and ordinary humans were not meant to march five days without rest, food, or reprieve.
Yao Xian walked ahead, unyielding. Her pace never faltered, her posture unshaken. No pause. No hesitation. No need for sustenance or rest. The contrast was cruel.
Xīng Hé's body was breaking, each step sending tremors of exhaustion through her limbs. Every breath felt like inhaling wet cloth. Meanwhile, Yao Xian moved like she was taking a casual stroll through a garden—impervious, perfect, untouchable.
They had entered her territory two days ago. The world subtly shifted—the architecture aligning with half-remembered glimpses from her first days here. Her manor lay somewhere in this expanse, sprawling, incomprehensible. Yet "somewhere" was a cruel word.
By the fifth day, Xīng Hé had stopped noticing the buildings. Her world shrank to the next step, and the next. Survival consumed thought.
Finally, the door to her courtyard appeared.
Relief shattered something inside her. She didn't wait for Yao Xian. She ran. Every last ounce of strength drove her forward, legs screaming, lungs burning, vision narrowing until all she saw was that door, growing impossibly closer.
She burst through, ignoring startled maids and guards. Fifteen minutes of running through her own home, propelled by desperation and the promise of rest.
Finally, she reached her room. She slammed the door, locked it, and collapsed face-first onto the soft silk of her bed.
Outside, Yao Xian watched, serene. Hands folded, expression immaculate. She had felt every pulse of Xīng Hé's suffering, every tremor and groan.
Delicious.
Not enough. Not truly. But the Eminence had forbidden more permanent punishment. Yao Xian obeyed—for now.
The girl would learn her place. One way or another.
✦
Back at the pavilion, five days had passed as well.
Chén Yè and Bai Zixian had begun their careful collaboration. The idea had come from Chén Yè: bring people together. Form a group to help each other understand their representations. Share perspectives, offer interpretations. Only they could help each other.
Bai had listened, considered, and agreed. Their interests aligned enough for the partnership to hold.
They approached others selectively. Not everyone was useful. Some were broken by fear, others too proud to accept aid. A handful proved receptive.
Chén Yè arrived at the courtyard outside Bai Zixian's block. The perpetual twilight pooled thick as spilled ink, making the space feel vast and suffocating. Eight other children had gathered in a loose, uneasy circle. Hope strained against the undertow of deep, primal fear—this was their first act of organized defiance, however small.
Chén Yè recognized most of them. Noah Wen, the "Dream Boy," lingered near the edge, his hollow expression slightly less devastated. Ash Wei, the bulky former servant, stood with arms crossed, radiating quiet, immovable strength. Vera Lin, from the block adjacent to his own, gave him a small, nervous nod. The others were mostly unfamiliar, their faces cycling between suspicion and desperate hope.
For several minutes, no one spoke. The silence stretched taut.
Then Bai Zixian emerged from his residence, carrying a lacquered tray with several steaming cups. The gesture felt almost absurd here, in this place of exile, yet he moved with the easy grace of someone for whom such courtesies were second nature.
"I thought tea might help," he said, voice smooth, welcoming. "The cold here has a way of settling into one's bones."
He began distributing cups, introducing himself formally to each member in turn. A leader setting the tone, establishing himself as the center around which this small gathering orbited.
Before he could complete his circuit, a voice cut through the air.
"Bai Zixian?" Kiran Xu—pale blue eyes wide—spoke, recognition dawning. "Of the Royal House? Aren't you the son of the Second Consort?"
The air shifted imperceptibly, yet the weight was immediate. Bai's pleasant mask cracked; his jaw tightened, his eyes went flat. The warmth vanished.
Kiran Xu realized his mistake. He lowered his gaze, cheeks flushed. "I apologize. I shouldn't have—"
Silence, not born of fear but of understanding. They all still operated under hierarchy here. Until they proved themselves, rank mattered. Even the promise of returning home after evolution didn't erase that truth.
Chén Yè noted it silently. Bai Zixian. Son of a consort. Stripped of status, drafted with commoners. Reduced to survival alongside street trash.
Bai exhaled slowly, expression neutral. "It doesn't matter here," he said evenly. "We're all the same now."
Not forgiveness—but a choice to move forward. The slight would be remembered, but unspoken.
Kiran Xu nodded, relief flickering across his features. "How about we begin?" he said, eager to shift focus. "We could all share what we saw in the room. Our representations."
Heads nodded. A collective willingness to focus on something productive.
"I'll go first," Kiran said, eyes closing briefly as if drawing memory from the depths. "I saw a corridor—long and dark, leading to three rooms."
"The first room was filled with musicians," he continued, brow furrowing. "Dozens, perhaps more—all playing ancient instruments with perfect precision. But there was no sound. Their fingers moved, their breath flowed, their hands struck—but absolute silence. Music without ever being heard."
A murmur ran through the circle: confusion, intrigue.
"The second room appeared empty," Kiran went on. "No furniture, no decoration. Yet I could feel multiple presences, concealed, removed from perception entirely. I knew they were there, but couldn't see or sense them specifically—only the overwhelming awareness that I wasn't alone."
His voice dropped.
"The third room was the worst. It felt like a room belonging to something else entirely. Anything entering would be dead—not attacked, not killed—but severed from life itself. Removed from the world."
Silence fell.
The visions were vivid, detailed, grand—but meaningless to them. Even Kiran couldn't decipher the truth behind them.
Chén Yè understood. Potential without comprehension was worthless. The system exploited that. Power alone didn't matter; only understanding did. Without it, one remained frozen, stagnating, trapped as fodder for the powerful.
Knowledge was the closest thing to survival here. And the ladder to climb was broken, uneven, and cruel.
He scanned the circle—frightened, confused, desperate children. At the bottom. Struggling with broken tools.
⸻