The scent of blood hadn't left his hands.
No matter how many times Zhen Hu scrubbed them, the stench lingered, clinging to his fingers like the weight of sins not yet committed.
He sat beneath the old spirit tree at dusk, eyes lost in the trembling twilight. Wind passed through the leaves like breath through dying lungs. Behind him, the Dawnyu Sect buzzed with preparation for the Inner Disciple Examinations—but he felt no excitement.
Only dread.
Aelira had been silent again. Her absence left a vacuum in his mind, an emptiness where once her whispers guided him, goaded him, broke him down only to build him stronger. And now that she was gone, he felt like a sword left in the forge too long—brittle, uncertain, ready to shatter.
"Are you brooding again?"
The voice broke through the silence like sunlight through smoke.
Zhen Hu turned. Mie Xian stood a few paces behind, her hair slightly tousled, a scroll clutched in one hand and a smile tugging at her lips.
He said nothing. She sat beside him anyway.
"I brought something," she said, waving the scroll. "It's supposed to help focus the mind before duels. One of the monks wrote it."
"Do you think my problem is focus?" Zhen Hu asked, the edge in his voice sharper than he intended.
Mie Xian blinked, then gave a small smile. "No. I think your problem is pretending you don't need anyone."
Zhen Hu turned away. She didn't understand. How could she?
She hadn't seen the things that moved inside him when he meditated. She hadn't heard the voices that whispered when he bled. She hadn't faced Aelira in her wrath—the way the spirit guide shattered his bones with a flicker of thought, screaming lessons into his soul as Nytherion surged beneath his skin.
He didn't need focus.
He needed control.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
She glanced at him with a softer look. "You're allowed to be scared, Zhen."
He wanted to tell her. About the Nytherion. About the forbidden move. About the voice of a goddess guiding him with cruelty carved in wisdom.
But she would look at him differently. Maybe even fear him.
And that, he couldn't bear.
So he said nothing.
---
The sky broke open just after midday.
A booming crack silenced the sparring fields. Every disciple froze as wind lashed through the sect, dragging dust and petals through the air.
Then they saw it.
A vessel, dark as moonless night and shaped like a lotus set ablaze, descended with no regard for subtlety. At its center, a sigil pulsed—a mark none among the younger disciples recognized, but the elders did.
They fell to their knees before the craft even touched ground.
From the eastern tower, Patriarch Zhen Xun stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes narrowed as the vessel settled above the sacred gate.
"Transcendent Realm…" he said under his breath. "Why now?"
The craft opened with no sound. A single figure stepped forward.
He wore robes of silver mist and crimson thread, etched with fractal lines that shimmered with shifting script—alive with power that warped the air around him. His eyes glowed faint blue, and his very breath seemed to weigh heavy on the world.
He was not simply powerful.
He was Presence made flesh.
"Who is he?" Mie Xian whispered as she stood beside Zhen Hu, who had appeared at the edge of the crowd.
Zhen Hu said nothing.
But deep within, the Nytherion inside him stirred. Not with fear—but recognition.
This man radiated power old enough to silence gods.
Aelira's voice returned at last. Her tone was a rasp, barely audible.
"His name is Veyrith. He walked across a thousand dead suns before you were born. Do not look into his eyes."
Zhen Hu clenched his fists.
The Transcendent envoy's gaze scanned the disciples. It lingered, for half a second, on Zhen Hu.
And Zhen Hu felt it—that faint caress of annihilation brushing his spine.
A moment later, Veyrith turned to the elders.
"I bring tidings from the Seat Beyond Mortality," he said, his voice like distant thunder. "A power once lost… is waking again. And its scent lingers in your soil."
Silence.
Zhen Xun stepped forward from the crowd of bowing elders.
"We welcome your presence, Envoy Veyrith," the Patriarch said evenly, though his voice held tension like a bowstring. "But if you believe one of ours is what you seek, you will need more than riddles."
Veyrith's lips curled into a half-smile.
"I do not seek," he said. "I wait. For it to show itself."
Then he turned, robes flowing like liquid void, and walked past the bowing elders—into the sect, as though he owned it.
---
That night, the Dawnyu Sect held its breath.
The Examinations had not even begun, and yet the atmosphere was thick with dread. Some whispered of ancient beasts, others of cursed legacies. But all eyes turned to the youngest, the quietest, the ones who had changed too quickly.
Mie Xian found Zhen Hu again, this time on the rooftop of the disciples' dorm.
"You were shaking," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
"I was cold," Zhen Hu lied.
She didn't argue. But her eyes searched his.
"Promise me something."
He looked at her.
"When the time comes—whatever this is—don't go through it alone."
Zhen Hu nodded, but inside, he knew he would. He had to. If she knew what he truly was—if she saw the rot-laced energy that had stitched itself into his soul—she would never speak to him again.
Still, he offered her a small, broken smile.
"I promise."
Mie Xian leaned her head against his shoulder again, like she had days before.
But this time, Zhen Hu didn't feel warmth.
Only the pressure of a sky that had begun to watch him—and would not blink until he was undone.
V