The training yard was unusually quiet that morning.
Han Li stood at the edge, arms crossed as his students struggled through the cultivation pattern he'd assigned. Each movement of their bodies was ragged, uneven, and occasionally infused with flashes of unexpected talent.
"Again," Han Li said calmly.
A girl with a jade forehead ornament collapsed to her knees, sweat drenching her sleeves. "S-Sir, I… I need a moment."
Han Li's gaze lingered on her—Xiao Rou. Her family, once noble stewards of the Vermilion Sword Manor, had lost everything when her father refused to kneel before the current emperor.
She was trying harder than most.
"You'll rest when the heavens allow it," Han Li said, and turned away.
Inside the academy's main hall, other instructors laughed while sipping spirit wine.
"She's still trying to cultivate? With that broken meridian?" Elder Qian chuckled, stroking his beard.
Instructor Mei raised an eyebrow. "That janitor-turned-teacher might be delusional, but these kids… they're even worse. Disgraced nobles, rootless commoners. It's a trash pile."
Outside, a black carriage arrived at the gates of Twilight Academy. It bore a crest—three spears over a dying flame.
The guards saluted instantly.
An old man in gold-threaded robes stepped out. His cane touched the earth with authority. "I'm here to deliver supplies to Young Master Feng."
"Yes, Lord Marshal Feng," the guards said in unison.
Feng Lin, a boy in Han Li's class, paused mid-pose as he saw the carriage.
Han Li raised an eyebrow. "More help from home?"
Feng Lin didn't answer. His fists were clenched. "My father wants me to replace Class D with a better teacher. He… says you're a waste."
Han Li turned back toward the group.
"Then prove him wrong," he said softly.
Up in the sky, far above the academy's protective dome, an invisible ripple stirred.
And in a ruined palace beyond mountains and shadow, a man in black bone armor opened his eyes.
"They've begun gathering," he whispered.
"Then let the true hunt begin."
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