Zhen Hu walked the winding stone path of the Dawnyu Sect with careful steps, keeping his shoulders squared and his head low—not out of submission, but strategy. The sect thrived on order, and order favored those who did not draw attention. Yet even silence had its limits.
In the few days since returning from the Dark Forest, whispers had followed him like a second shadow. No one had spoken directly, but he could feel the way the elders watched him from above, how senior disciples paused mid-conversation when he passed, and how even the wind seemed to hush near him.
He felt like a splinter caught beneath the sect's skin—too small to provoke a response, but irritating enough to earn notice.
At his core, the Nytherion stirred.
He kept it buried beneath layers of discipline, but it was never truly quiet. Its presence was foreign to the sect's teachings. Where Zen flowed like streams of sunlight—warm, stable, predictable—Nytherion moved like a storm in waiting: subtle, restless, darkly alive.
And now that he had entered the First Layer of the Kyrekh Realm, his senses were heightened. He could feel the tension in the wind, the wariness in a glance, the truth hidden beneath still water.
But above all, he could feel eyes on him—especially Elder Yun Qian, who watched from the eastern tower.
Yun Qian was not loud. His robes were always in place, his speech measured, his eyes heavy-lidded with a scholarly air. But Zhen Hu had caught that flicker of recognition once—when their gazes met across the lecture courtyard. Something in the elder's expression had tightened, and since then, the man always seemed to be near.
Zhen Hu forced his hands to stay loose at his sides. Showing tension would only feed suspicion. He walked on.
Today's task was simple: attend the inner disciple seminar in the lower lotus hall. A hundred disciples would be there. Enough noise, enough bodies to disappear into. That was the plan.
But the sect had other ideas.
As he entered the stone-floored corridor leading to the hall, he caught the heavy footfalls of someone stepping into his path.
"Late again, cripple?"
Zhen Hu looked up slowly.
Bai Ruin.
A second-layer Kyrekh Realm disciple, broad-shouldered, thick-necked, and perpetually scowling. Bai Ruin was known more for his fists than his technique—and for finding easy targets to assert his dominance. The sect tolerated it. Some elders even encouraged it. After all, pressure made jade out of stone.
Zhen Hu said nothing. He kept walking, offering only a slight shift of his body to move past.
A hand slammed against his shoulder, shoving him into the corridor wall. The impact was blunt, jarring, but Zhen Hu didn't cry out. He turned slowly, eyes calm.
"What?" Bai Ruin sneered. "Too delicate to even glare properly?"
The corridor had grown quiet. A few disciples down the hall paused, their expressions unreadable. None stepped in.
Zhen Hu inhaled once. "I have no quarrel with you."
"That so?" Bai Ruin stepped closer, his breath hot and sour. "You walk around like you're someone now. Just 'cause you crawled back from the forest. Maybe I should remind you what the sect thinks of strays."
Zhen Hu's jaw tightened.
The Nytherion within him coiled. It responded to tension—especially threats. In that moment, it surged like blood to a wound, offering power, vision, instinct. He could feel Bai Ruin's heartbeat. The shift in his stance. The tightening of his fist.
I could end this before he lands a blow.
But Zhen Hu didn't move.
Instead, he exhaled through his nose and said, "If hurting me gives you peace, do what you must."
For a moment, Bai Ruin blinked. He hadn't expected submission—not from the Patriarch's son.
He reached forward again, likely aiming to humiliate him further, but something unseen shifted in the air.
Zhen Hu didn't summon Nytherion.
He didn't need to.
A faint, oppressive aura swept from deeper in the corridor. The sound of wooden sandals on stone echoed rhythmically, growing louder. Bai Ruin froze mid-motion.
From the archway emerged Elder Yun Qian, arms folded into his sleeves, gaze unreadable.
"What a curious thing," the elder said, voice like cold spring rain. "That a disciple so eager to teach another should not yet master restraint."
Bai Ruin quickly lowered his arm and stepped back. "E-Elder Yun, I meant no harm."
The elder did not respond to him. His eyes—dark and piercing—fell on Zhen Hu. "Discipline is forged not in power, but in silence. You have chosen silence. May it serve you well."
Zhen Hu bowed. "Thank you, Elder."
Yun Qian turned and left without another word, the pressure of his presence retreating like a passing storm.
Bai Ruin glanced once more at Zhen Hu, eyes narrowed, before storming off the opposite way.
Only then did Zhen Hu let out the breath he'd been holding.
He made it to the lotus hall in time for the seminar, slid into the back row, and sat cross-legged. While the instructor began to lecture on Zen harmonics, Zhen Hu let his mind drift inward.
He didn't want violence. But the sect made it difficult to remain invisible.
The Nytherion stirred softly in his core, not hungry, not angry—just waiting.
And somewhere inside him, Aelira whispered, "You're not meant to blend in forever."
Zhen Hu closed his eyes.
Then let me endure. Just a little longer.