The First Elder's question settled in the small room, sucking the air out. It was not a casual inquiry. It was a perfectly weighted stone dropped into the fragile pool of Irelion's new reality, and the ripples would either validate his story or shatter it completely.
Aurelia's posture stiffened. She instinctively moved to speak, to shield him, but Irelion gave a minute, almost imperceptible shake of his head. This was his battle to fight.
He met the Elder's gaze. The old man's eyes were not cruel, but they were ancient and sharp, the eyes of a master Go player who could see ten moves ahead. They were eyes that did not suffer fools or liars.
"My master had no name," Irelion said, his voice a low, steady rasp. He didn't look away. He didn't blink. He held the Elder's gaze with the weary confidence of a man who had nothing left to lose. "He abandoned it, along with his sect, his homeland, and his past. He said a name was a chain, and he had spent his life breaking free of them. I only ever called him… Teacher."
The Elder's expression did not change, but the pressure in the room intensified. "A nameless master from a fallen sect in the Northern Continent," he recited, his voice a dry rustle of old parchment. "How convenient. And this sect? Did it also not have a name?"
"The Argent Blade Sect ," Irelion answered without hesitation, pulling a name from a half-forgotten legend he'd heard in his past life—a sect so ancient and obscure that no living record of it should exist. "He said it fell two centuries ago. He was the last survivor, cursed to wander."
"A two-hundred-year-old wanderer," the Elder mused, a flicker of deep skepticism in his eyes. "And his enemies? The ones who forced you into this oath of mediocrity. Did they have names?"
"He spoke of them only as the 'Shadow Mandarins'," Irelion said, the lie flowing smoothly, woven from the fabric of his true paranoia. "A clandestine power that hunted down anyone who knew their secrets. He believed they had spies in every major sect, in every great clan. His fear was… absolute. He did not teach me to be strong. He taught me to be invisible."
The room fell silent. Irelion's story was a tapestry of classic cultivation tropes—the last survivor, the secret master, the mysterious, all-powerful enemy. It was just plausible enough to be possible, and just vague enough to be impossible to verify. A perfect, self-contained lie.
The First Elder's gaze shifted to Aurelia. "And you, child. You believe this tale?"
Aurelia met his stare without flinching. "I believe what I saw, First Elder. I saw a disciple who, despite his own terror, saved the lives of his comrades. I saw a tactician who turned a certain massacre into a victory. I saw a man who threw himself in the path of a Spirit Realm demon to create an opening for me to strike."
She stood up, her voice ringing with a new, unshakeable conviction. "I do not know the truth of his past. But I am a witness to the truth of his actions. Irelion Vance is a hero of this sect. He risked his life to protect its disciples. He is broken and bleeding because he chose to fight when others froze. That is the only truth that should matter to the Azure Peak Sect."
Her words hung in the air, a powerful, public declaration. She had not defended his story. She had rendered it irrelevant. She had shifted the narrative from his suspicious past to his heroic present. A masterful political maneuver. Irelion watched her with a dawning, unwilling admiration.
The First Elder stood in silence for a full minute, his gaze moving between the fierce, protective prodigy and the broken, enigmatic boy in the bed. He was not a fool. He did not believe the story, not entirely. It was too neat. But Aurelia was right. The boy's actions were undeniable. To punish a proven hero based on a mere suspicion would be an act of political folly, especially with the Frostbane clan's backing.
"Very well," the Elder said at last, his voice a low rumble of concession. "The sect rewards its heroes. It does not question their pasts so long as their futures are sworn to us."
He looked down at Irelion, and his eyes held a new, calculating light. He was no longer looking at a suspicious disciple. He was looking at an asset. A valuable, dangerous, and unpredictable weapon that had just fallen into his lap.
"Your performance was exemplary, Disciple Vance. Your… 'oath of mediocrity' is hereby nullified by the authority of this Elder. Hiding such talent is a disservice to the sect. As of this moment, you are promoted to the rank of Inner Disciple. You will be granted a private courtyard, a monthly stipend, and access to the inner sect's resources. Your recovery will be personally overseen by Elder Mei, with no expense spared."
A magnificent reward. Also a leash.
By bringing him into the Inner Sect, the Elder was not just rewarding him; he was placing him directly under his own watchful eye. He would no longer be a ghost in the outer sect's anonymity. He would be a specimen under a microscope, his every move observed, his every action scrutinized.
"You have a great debt to the sect for nurturing you," the Elder continued, his voice leaving no room for refusal. "You will repay it with your loyalty and your strength. We expect great things from you. Do not disappoint us."
Without another word, he turned and swept from the room, leaving a heavy, complicated silence in his wake.
Irelion lay on the bed, the Elder's words echoing in his mind. He had survived the interrogation. He had passed the test. He had won. But as he looked at Aurelia, at the new, unbreakable bond of a shared, dangerous secret that now tied them together, he felt a cold certainty settle in his soul.
His life as a ghost was over. And his life as a prisoner had just begun.