Dawn barely brushed the mountaintops when Zhen Hu slipped from the main hall, bowing low to no one in particular. Master Wuyan's sharp gaze followed him from the Skywatch Terrace, and Elder Yun Qian tracked his steps with that same inscrutable coolness. Every footfall felt heavy—an echo of suspicion that trembled beneath the polished stone.
He carried nothing but a simple satchel and the weight of unseen eyes. Even Bai Ruin's sneer from the corridor yesterday still throbbed in his blood: the bully's contempt, the threat unspoken in a bruising shove. The world pressed in on him from all sides.
Not here, Zhen Hu thought. I need air—silence.
He walked east, past sparring grounds and chanting disciples, until the crowds thinned. The path sloped downward, damp earth muffling his boots, until he reached the Ancestor Grove—a hollow ring of ancient pines and moss-slick stones. Few ventured here; even fewer stayed long.
Zhen Hu paused outside the circle of graves. The air was thick with fallen needles and something older still: the faint whisper of lives once lived. He hesitated, then stepped between two weathered markers. One slab, unadorned and leaning, called to him.
He knelt, loosening his satchel. In silence, he retrieved a handful of withered petals gathered the night before—failed offerings from the herb masters. Around him, the grove held its breath.
Zhen Hu settled into meditation, back straight, fingers brushing the mossy stone. Nytherion, he breathed inwardly, guide me.
At first, nothing happened. Then—so faint he almost missed it—a chill slipped through his ribs. The petals in his palm trembled, curling darker at the edges. Beneath the earth, a thread of decaying essence stirred, drawn by the spark within him.
He closed his eyes, welcoming the cold. It seeped upward: roots of death anchoring into the core of his being. Pain lanced through muscles unused to such force, but he let it pass, grounding himself in the silent thrum of the grove.
The unmarked grave yielded its final breath. A whisper of sorrow, a sigh of memory, wove through the petal pile. Zhen Hu felt it—not with ears, but deep in his marrow: a life snuffed out, stories unspoken. And when that cold current entwined with his Nytherion, he felt his dantian swell—just a fraction—like a dark blossom opening.
He inhaled sharply. The world snapped into clarity: every fallen needle, every droplet of dew, every tremor in the wind. His senses rippled with the grove's dying pulse. Not strength. Not glory. But presence—the raw edge of existence.
When he dared to open his eyes, the petals lay blackened and brittle, their essence drawn away. Zhen Hu's robes were dusted with ashlike powder. He pressed his palm to his chest, feeling the faint echo of Nytherion's bloom.
This is the path, he realized. Not harmony, but truth.
A soft rustle stirred the shadows. Zhen Hu turned, expecting no one. Yet in the wavering moonlight beneath the pines, Aelira materialized—her form pale as starlight, eyes deep with ancient calm.
"You gather what the living leave behind," she whispered, her voice like wind through hollow bone. "Good. Each tribute brings you closer to what you must become."
Zhen Hu watched her, heart steadying. "I thought… I thought I must only resist it."
She shook her head, drifting closer. "Resistance starves you. Acceptance nourishes you—yet only if you remain the master."
He bowed his head. "I understand."
Her gaze softened. "Then go. Return to them. Walk their halls once more, but carry this knowing in your bones."
Zhen Hu turned back to the grave. He placed the thorn-black petals atop the stone—an offering and a promise. When he rose, the grove exhaled behind him, settling back into its ancient hush.
By the time he stepped onto the main courtyard stones, the sun had climbed high enough to gild rooftops. Disciples bustled around him, none the wiser to the grave's dying pulse now silent in his core.
But Zhen Hu carried it with him—ever after—like a secret vow.
And beneath his calm gait, Nytherion waited, patient as a shadow.