She barely had time to breathe.
The sound came first—not a voice, not a footstep.
Just motion.
Then the pain arrived.
A stab.
Low. Deep. Brutal.
Her body jerked as the dagger rammed into her side. Not fatal. Just placed—the kind of wound meant to disable, not end. A thick bolt of pain surged through her ribs, stealing her breath before it even formed.
She collapsed again.
There was no grace left in her fall. Her limbs sprawled. Her aura cracked. The world tilted.
And then—
A hand grabbed her hair.
No kindness. No care.
It gripped her like a handle.
Her head snapped up. Her scalp burned. Her neck screamed in protest, forced into a harsh, tilted angle that locked her eyes onto him.
Yanwei.
Still calm. Still slow. Still only using one hand.
The dagger dripped beside him like it wasn't part of the violence—just a weight at the edge of his fingers.
Her breath stuttered in her throat.
She didn't understand.
Not the stab.
Not the hair.
Not the way he held her like a broken thing that still had one job left to do.
But he did.
He understood her.
She was not like Yun. Yun broke with quiet words and careful cruelty. Yun's fear lived close to the skin.
But this one?
She thought wide.
She saw far.
She had a second talent—something passive in her mind that let her think beyond the moment. A talent that was supposed to protect her from this exact thing.
But it didn't.
And Yanwei knew that.
So he struck not to punish…
But to force presence.
To rip her out of her detached view of the world and slam her down into pain.
Because someone like her doesn't kneel through despair.
She kneels when her body simply can't stand anymore.
She kneels when the pain finally drags her pride into silence.
The dagger rose again.
Not to cut this time.
But to press—blunt and hard—against her cheek.
Then it dragged down, rough and brutal.
Not slicing.
Tearing.
The skin split in its wake.
Not cleanly. Not surgically.
Just enough to stay forever.
She screamed.
Short, raw, involuntary.
Blood ran hot down her face, pooling at her chin. Her vision swam. Her breath shook like her lungs were cracking.
Then he let go.
Her head dropped. Her knees hit the ground again.
Not from defeat—
But from the way pain made thoughts stop.
She stared at the floor. Blood dripped. Time slowed.
Yanwei didn't move.
Then—he crouched.
Low to the ground. Balanced. Still.
Like he had all the time in the world.
He watched her.
No urgency. No tension. Just the quiet weight of inevitability pressing down on her like a second atmosphere.
Then—
The slap.
It cracked across her face without warning.
Short. Sharp. Unceremonious.
Not enough to break skin. Just enough to make her flinch. Enough to snap the spinning in her head, to remind her: you're still here.
Her cheek stung.
Her breath caught.
Then came his fingers—pressing into her jaw.
One hand. Steady. Unshaking.
A thumb under her chin, lifting. Fingers curled along her jawline, holding.
He forced her eyes back up.
To him.
To the truth.
"Eyes up."
Flat. Unemotional.
Not a command.
An expectation.
"You're not dying."
"You're listening."
The grip didn't hurt, but it didn't let her go.
Blood slid down her face in slow rivulets, joining the drip from her side. Her aura flickered again, weak, flickering. Useless.
"You think this pain is a threat."
"It's not."
His thumb pressed a little harder—just enough to let her feel the edge of control he hadn't fully used yet.
"Pain is invitation."
His thumb pressed a little harder—just enough to let her feel the edge of control he hadn't fully used yet.
He looked into her eyes.
Not searching. Not questioning.
Just bearing down.
The kind of gaze that stripped everything else away—resistance, pride, pain—and left nothing but the moment. As if even silence would betray her now.
Then his voice came again.
Colder. Lower. Final.
"Where is the tideglass."
She said nothing.
He ignored her silence.
It didn't even register as defiance—only delay.
Again.
"Where is the Tideglass?"
No answer.
The slap came.
Her head snapped to the side, a sting blooming fresh across her cheek.
She clenched her teeth.
Still silent.
Yanwei didn't react.
Didn't scowl. Didn't sigh.
He simply asked again.
"Where is the Tideglass?"
Another refusal.
Another slap.
His hand struck with the same measured force. No more, no less. Mechanical. Precise.
This wasn't rage. It wasn't sadism for the sake of pain.
It was method.
Yanwei used pain not as cruelty, but as a tool—a psychological blade sharpened by intention.
He knew her type.
She wasn't broken by fear or humiliation. Her mind was too sharp, her pride too vast, her vision too far-reaching.
But pain—cold, repetitive, inescapable pain—that was different.
That was real.
Because pain pulls people out of their imagined selves.
It strips away self-perception, identity, theory.
It doesn't argue.
It interrupts.
And with every slap, he wasn't just bruising her skin.
He was cutting through her layers.
One blow at a time.
Not to make her suffer—
To make her answer.
Because pain that comes with silence is punishment.
But pain that comes with repetition? That's indoctrination.
It teaches. Conditions. Breaks without fracture.
He asked again.
"Where is the Tideglass?"
No answer.
Another slap.
Her body flinched, but he held her jaw firm.
He wasn't looking for blood.
He was looking for the moment she'd flinch before he moved—when fear reached her before his hand did.
Because that would mean the pain was inside her now.
That he was inside her now.
And when that happened—she'd speak.
Not out of fear.
But because resistance would no longer make sense.
Because silence would no longer feel like control.
It would feel like failure.
Yanwei stared at her.
No change in tone. No rise in volume.
Just that voice—cold, steady, quiet.
"Where is the Tideglass?"
She still didn't speak.
Not even a twitch of the lips. Not even a glance.
He asked again.
"Where is the Tideglass?"
No answer.
Another slap.
Her cheek was a canvas now—painted in blood and swelling. But her silence remained intact, buried beneath layers of stubbornness, pride, or something deeper still.
Yanwei stared at her for a long, cold moment.
Then he moved.
No words. No warning.
Just force.
His foot slammed into her stomach.
The sound was sickening—dull and deep, like flesh folding in on itself. The impact lifted her off her knees before gravity claimed her again. She hit the ground hard, gasping, coughing, folded in pain.
This wasn't the precision of the dagger. This was violence with weight behind it. Deliberate force. High output. Something meant to cripple.
Her body writhed in silence.
But he was already turning.
His eyes fell on her storage bag, half-concealed beneath her sleeve.
He reached out and took it—unbothered. Casual.
Yanked the flap open.
A rush of energy greeted him as it opened—dozens of spiritual stones, all glowing faintly with their own light.
Wealth. Power. Resources.
He didn't even glance at them.
With a flick, he turned the bag over, dumping everything out like it was trash.
The stones scattered across the dirt with soft clacks and glimmering rolls. A small fortune spilled at his feet.
He ignored it all.
His eyes scanned only for one thing.
The Tideglass.
The object her silence tried to protect.
Behind him, Yun let out a low grunt—still coughing, still half-curled from the earlier kick. Her aura was fractured, her ribs likely too.
But Yanwei didn't look at her.
He didn't need to.
His attention was locked on the pile—each trinket, talisman, scroll, and stone a possible answer.
She had nothing else to hide behind now.
Not silence.
Not posture.
Not pride.
Not wealth.
Everything she had was laid bare.
And he was going to find it—with or without her permission.
The smirk tugged at the corner of Yanwei's mouth—barely there.
"If you were sensible…" he said quietly, almost like an afterthought, "you would've just given it to me."
He crouched again, eyes skimming the mess of items he'd spilled from her bag. Dozens—maybe hundreds—of spiritual stones, flickering faintly, still humming with ambient energy. Tools. Scrolls. Trinkets. Junk.
"…and not suffer."
His hands moved methodically, brushing through the pile of stones. Not roughly—carefully. His fingers didn't fumble or rush. He sifted.
Because the Tideglass was small.
Deceptive.
Easy to lose in the brilliance of lesser things.
But that's how it always was—power hiding in plain sight, buried in distractions that only fools would treasure.
And so he searched.
Stone after stone passed through his fingers. One flicked aside. Another rolled. He turned a few over, checking for hidden inscriptions, runes, embedded traits.
Nothing yet.
But he didn't stop.
Not for her gasps.
Not for her blood.
Not for Yun's distant groans.
The world had shrunk down to one truth:
She had it. Or she didn't.
And if she didn't?
If it wasn't buried in this pile—then she had hidden it on her. And if not there?
Then her silence would be torn from her with the same precision as her pride.
Yanwei continued combing the pile, each moment more deliberate than the last. The longer it took, the more unbearable the wait became—for her.
Because she was watching.
Because she knew.
She knew every second that passed without him finding it brought him one step closer to her.
Not just physically.
Mentally.
If it wasn't in the bag, then he would return to her—not to search, but to erase.
To remove the final shelter in her mind where she still believed she had control.
And that knowledge?
That was the real pain now.
Because he hadn't even looked at her again.
He wasn't threatening her. He wasn't dragging her by the hair or shoving her down.
He had moved past her—like she was no longer relevant unless she had what he wanted.
And that kind of dismissal?
That was worse than punishment.
Because it meant her suffering wasn't meaningful.
It was just a delay.
A waste of time.
Yanwei's hand hovered over a faintly glowing stone—hesitated—then tossed it away without a second glance.
Still not the Tideglass.
His expression didn't change.
But the air around him grew colder.
Because if he reached the end of this pile without finding it…
He wouldn't ask again.
He'd take what she hadn't given.
With or without her words.