Yao Xian's cold gaze settled on Xīng Hé.
For just a heartbeat, something in that gaze almost softened. A flicker of warmth, perhaps. Then it was gone, smoothed behind the familiar mask of professional detachment.
"Let's go to the training room," Yao said.
She turned and walked toward the door without waiting.
Xīng Hé followed.
They left the chaos behind—scattered bottles, drying pools of golden blood, the lingering smell of wine and violence. The door closed, and silence rushed in.
Xīng Hé glanced back once.
"Isn't this the training room?"
Yao didn't slow. "No. That was a made-up spar room—large enough for spectators and fighters both. Meant for receiving and entertaining guests." A pause. "I should take you around the manor later."
The words came out as a mumble, almost to herself, but loud enough to hear.
They continued walking.
The manor unfolded around them.
Xīng Hé had been confined to her quarters for so long—recovering, unconscious, lost in comprehension—that she'd never truly seen the scale of this place. Now, following Yao through corridor after corridor, she began to understand.
It was vast.
Crystalline walls rose on either side, surfaces catching light and scattering it in soft prismatic patterns. Polished floors reflected their figures—two shapes moving through an inverted world beneath their feet. Doorways appeared at regular intervals, leading to rooms whose purposes she could only guess.
Some doors stood open.
A library—shelves stretching toward shadow, filled with objects that could have been books or something else. A kitchen—gleaming surfaces, strange implements, a chef who straightened as Yao's gaze swept past. An empty room, waiting to be filled.
The silence was the loudest thing.
Their footsteps echoed—Yao's measured and unhurried, Xīng Hé's quicker as she worked to keep pace. Beyond that sound, nothing. Just vast, empty quiet.
Yao gave orders as she walked.
She didn't stop moving—didn't pause or slow. But whenever they passed a servant, her voice cut through the silence with precise commands.
"You. The eastern corridor needs inspection. Now."
A guard snapped to attention and departed.
"The receiving hall requires cleaning. Assign three staff immediately."
A maid bowed and hurried away.
On and on. Each instruction delivered without looking, without pausing, without apparent effort. Yao moved through the manor like a force of nature—reshaping, reordering, imposing structure on chaos with nothing more than words.
Xīng Hé watched from behind.
Guards received their posts. Maids received their duties. The manor that had fallen into disorder was being rebuilt around her, piece by piece, as Yao walked.
What is she up to?
Yao Xian was a direct follower of Heiyun Jue. She reported to him. That meant the Eminence should be aware of everything happening here—including that Xīng Hé had evolved.
So why wasn't she being summoned?
She'd missed two monthly breakfasts already. Two opportunities to be observed, assessed, to demonstrate progress. If Heiyun cared about her development—and everything suggested he did—then her absence should have consequences.
Instead, she was being taken to train.
They want to see what I can do.
But she couldn't be certain. Too many pieces missing. Too many questions without answers.
"What's got you so lost in thought, little Xīng?"
Yao's voice cut through her reverie.
Xīng Hé blinked.
They'd stopped. A door stood before them—larger than the others, marked with subtle patterns that might have been decorative or functional.
"Oh. Sorry."
Yao regarded her for a moment, expression unreadable.
Then she pushed the door open.
The training room was bland.
That was Xīng Hé's first impression. After the ornate corridors, the endless crystalline beauty, the overwhelming scale—this space was almost aggressively plain.
Smooth, featureless walls. Uniform grey that absorbed light rather than reflecting it. High ceiling lost in shadow. Bare floor—no markings, no equipment, no indication of purpose.
It felt empty.
Not just unoccupied. Empty.
Xīng Hé frowned. For a training room, it seemed remarkably inadequate.
She was about to voice the question when Yao's hand rose, pointing toward the center.
"That," Yao said, "is an artefact."
The mirror floated just above the ground.
Xīng Hé hadn't noticed it at first—her attention captured by the room's oppressive blandness. But now that Yao had directed her gaze, she couldn't look away.
It was beautiful.
The frame was wrought from some material she didn't recognize—neither metal nor wood nor crystal, but something containing elements of all three. It curved in patterns that seemed organic, almost alive, as if grown rather than crafted. Vines of silver-gold wound around its edges, punctuated by nodes pulsing with faint inner light.
The mirror's surface was perfectly smooth.
Not reflective—not in the normal sense. It didn't show her image, didn't capture the room. Instead, it seemed to contain depth. Looking at it was like looking through a window into somewhere else—somewhere that didn't exist yet, but could.
Recognition swept across Xīng Hé's face.
She knew what this was. The texts in her family's library had described objects like this. High-grade conceptual artifacts—tools imbued with power far beyond ordinary creation, capable of things that defied normal understanding.
She'd read about them. Never expected to see one.
Her expression returned to normal almost immediately—schooled into careful neutrality. But the moment of recognition had happened, and Yao Xian had caught it.
She saw that. She knows I recognized it.
But Yao said nothing about it. Simply continued speaking, her tone educational.
"Artefacts are objects imbued with a concept. Think of it as another—or external—concept you can use." She moved closer to the floating mirror. "Each artefact can hold only one concept and has different mechanisms to utilize. Most use intent."
Xīng Hé nodded, expression carefully blank.
"That mirror," Yao continued, "can alter environments. Landscapes. Weather. Gravity. Time flow within its domain." She paused, letting the words settle. "It creates training scenarios that would be impossible to replicate otherwise. You can face storms, deserts, oceans, battlefields—all within this room. You can slow time to practice precision or speed it to test endurance. It's one of the best tools you can use to develop your abilities."
The mirror pulsed gently, as if responding.
Xīng Hé stared at it.
All of that. In one object.
The power contained in this single artefact was staggering. Environmental manipulation. Temporal distortion. Reality alteration within a bounded space. Combined, they created a training tool of almost limitless potential.
And it had been given to her.
Or rather, placed in her manor.
She wasn't certain the distinction mattered.
Yao Xian turned toward the door.
"Wait," Xīng Hé said. "I'm not going to receive guidance?"
The healer paused but didn't look back.
"I can't truly guide you if I don't know what your concept is."
The words came out flat. Matter-of-fact.
"I'll be making myself at home in your manor," Yao continued. "Tell the maids to guide you to my quarters when you're ready. Or when you're done for the day."
She started walking again.
"Wait—"
But Yao didn't stop.
The door opened. The healer passed through. The door closed behind her, cutting off whatever Xīng Hé had been about to say.
Her voice died in the silence.
Xīng Hé stood alone in the training room.
The mirror floated before her, pulsing with gentle inner light. The bland walls pressed in from all sides. The silence deepened in Yao's absence.
She looked at the mirror.
It looked back.
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End of Chapter 25
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