The fox paused.
Its expression shifted—subtly, but unmistakably. The casual, instructive tone faded, replaced by something more measured. More serious.
"…There is another aspect," it said slowly.
It met the lizard's blank gaze.
"One most teachers don't explain until later."
A beat.
"Divine sense is not only for perception," the fox continued. "It can also be **weaponized**."
Silence settled.
The fox's tails stilled.
"When the soul extends," it said, "it doesn't just *touch* the world. It **presses** on it."
Its paw tightened faintly against the floor.
"And anything that can press… can strike."
The fox lifted its gaze, eyes sharp.
"High-level cultivators can use divine sense to invade another's perception. To crush awareness. To tear at consciousness."
A pause.
"To induce fear. Confusion. Hallucinations. Madness."
Its ears flicked back briefly.
"In extreme cases… death."
The word was not dramatic.
It was factual.
"Two cultivators can clash without moving a single muscle," the fox said. "Soul against soul. Will against will. The weaker one collapses."
It glanced at the lizard's head.
"That soul attack you used in the fight," it added quietly, "that was **not** a technique. That was raw, instinctive divine sense impact."
"At first I didn't know what it was but after seeing it too much I kind of figure it out."
A beat.
"You didn't shape it. You didn't control it. You just… released it."
The fox studied the lizard closely now.
"That's why it injured you," it said. "Because you pushed something you don't yet understand."
No accusation.
Just clarity.
"Divine sense is delicate," the fox went on. "It's part of the soul. Overstrain it, and you damage yourself. Use it improperly, and it tears."
Its voice lowered.
"That injury you mentioned… that restriction… that's because you burned a portion of your own awareness."
The room felt heavier.
"But," the fox added—and now there was something sharp in its eyes, something keen—
"the fact that you could do it at all…"
A slow smile.
"…means your soul is **abnormally strong**."
It leaned forward slightly.
"Most cultivators can't weaponize divine sense until Core Formation. Some never manage it. But you did it by instinct."
A pause.
"Which means when you learn control…"
Its smile widened a fraction.
"…you will be dangerous."
Not flattery.
Assessment.
The fox straightened.
"But first," it said firmly, "you need to **feel** your divine sense before you ever try to use it again."
Its gaze locked onto the lizard.
"Perception first. Control second. Attack last."
A beat.
Then, softer:
"Otherwise… you'll blind more than just your eyes."
The room was silent.
The fox had said its piece.
And between them now hung a new understanding:
The thing the lizard had thought of as a last resort…
Was not a trick.
It was a **weapon of the soul**.
The fox exhaled slowly.
"Alright," it said, tone steady. "We'll start simple."
It shifted closer, tails settling around it as it faced the lizard directly.
"Close your awareness," the fox instructed. "Don't think about sight. Don't think about sound. Think about… **presence**. The space where you exist."
The lizard did not move.
It did not blink.
It simply… listened.
Inside, it followed the instruction. Letting thoughts still. Letting impulses quiet. Waiting for something—anything—to happen.
Silence.
The fox watched carefully.
"…Do you feel anything?" it asked.
The lizard tilted its head slightly.
"…No."
The fox frowned, but only a little.
"Alright. That's fine. Different approach."
It lifted a paw and gently pressed it to the stone between them.
"Divine sense is an extension of the soul. Think of it like… a limb you forgot you had. You don't force it. You **allow** it."
It closed its eyes briefly.
"You are here," the fox said. "But you are also… more than here. Let yourself spread."
The lizard tried.
It focused.
It waited.
Nothing.
Its blank gaze lifted.
"…It's not working."
The fox paused.
Studied it.
"…Okay," it said. "Then we'll go even simpler."
It leaned in.
"Don't try to extend. Don't try to sense. Just… notice."
A beat.
"Notice me."
The lizard turned its head toward the fox.
It could hear it.
Smell it.
Feel the faint heat of its body.
But beyond that…
Nothing.
"…I notice you," the lizard said.
The fox shook its head slightly.
"No. Not with your body. With… you."
It gestured vaguely toward the lizard's chest.
"Your core. Your awareness."
The lizard stilled again.
Focused inward.
Waited.
Silence.
"…It's not working."
The fox's ears flicked.
A faint crease formed between its brows.
"…Interesting."
It sat back.
Then leaned forward again.
"Alright. New angle."
It raised one tail and let a thin thread of qi leak from it, allowing the energy to ripple gently through the air.
"Feel that," the fox said. "Not the wind. Not the temperature. The **pressure**."
The lizard concentrated.
It felt… air moving.
It felt… warmth.
It felt… nothing else.
"…It's not working."
The fox froze.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then it smiled—thin, controlled.
"Okay. That's… fine."
It shifted again.
"Some cultivators struggle at first. We'll try resonance."
It closed its eyes and released a gentle wave of divine sense—careful, non-invasive—just enough to brush the space around the lizard like a soft tide.
The fox felt it immediately.
The lizard did not.
"…Do you feel that?" the fox asked quietly.
The lizard's head tilted.
"No."
The fox did not answer immediately.
Its tails stilled.
Its expression sharpened.
"…Alright," it said after a moment. "Again. This time, don't try to sense *outward*. Try to sense… **inward**."
It tapped lightly against the lizard's chest with a claw.
"Find yourself. Then look around from there."
The lizard obeyed.
It focused on its core.
On the place where energy gathered.
On the steady rhythm of its qi.
It waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Nothing changed.
"…It's not working."
Time passed.
Minutes.
Then more.
The fox tried another explanation.
And another.
Metaphors.
Analogies.
Direct instruction.
Cultivation principles.
Soul theory.
Each time, the lizard listened.
Each time, it tried.
Each time, the answer was the same.
"…It's not working."
The room grew quiet.
Hours slipped by.
The light shifted.
The fox's posture gradually changed—from confident… to focused… to thoughtful.
Then to troubled.
Finally, it leaned back, tails curling slowly around itself.
"…This is not normal," the fox said quietly.
Not accusing.
Not frustrated.
Just… stating.
It looked at the lizard again—really looked.
"You're not blocked," it muttered. "Your qi is stable. Your soul is intact. You're conscious, responsive, aware…"
Its eyes narrowed.
"…But it's like the door simply… isn't there."
It fell silent.
The lizard remained still, blank-eyed, unbothered.
"…It's not working," it repeated, almost neutrally.
The fox's gaze sharpened.
A realization flickered.
Slow.
Uneasy.
"…You said earlier," the fox began carefully, "that you don't *have* divine sense."
The lizard did not respond.
The fox swallowed.
"…I thought you meant you couldn't use it," it said slowly. "But now…"
It looked at the lizard's face.
At its unfocused eyes.
At its calm, empty gaze.
"…Now I'm starting to think," the fox said quietly,
"that you might be telling the truth."
Silence.
Heavy.
Dense.
"…If that's the case," the fox continued, voice low,
"then you are not blind in the normal way."
A beat.
"You are… missing an entire layer of perception."
The fox's ears slowly lowered.
"…Which means," it said carefully,
"either your divine sense is sealed…"
A pause.
"…or it was never awakened."
The second possibility hung in the air like a fracture.
The fox stared at the lizard.
"…And that," it finished softly,
"should be impossible."