Xīng Hé stared at the woman on her bed.
Bai Jinxue sat with casual ease, one leg crossed over the other, a book open in her hands as if she'd been reading there for hours. As if this were her room. Her space. Her territory to occupy however she pleased.
The contrast was deliberate.
A Transcendent—a being of unfathomable power—lounging on a child's bed like a visiting relative. Reading. Relaxed. Utterly unthreatening in posture while radiating menace simply by existing.
Now that Xīng Hé had evolved, she could perceive something she hadn't before. A distinction. Divine existences carried a quality that set them apart from mortals—a weight to their presence, a density to their existence that ordinary humans simply didn't possess. It was subtle, easily missed if you didn't know to look for it.
But once you knew, you couldn't unsee it.
Bai Jinxue, despite her impossible beauty, could have passed for a noble mortal. She had that refined look, that cultivated grace.
But She wasn't fooled.
"Why are you here?"
The words left her mouth before she could stop them—instinct overriding caution, curiosity overwhelming sense. The moment they were spoken, she regretted them.
I just questioned a Transcendent.
She braced herself.
Pain. Violence. The casual brutality she'd experienced at Heiyun Jue's hands. She tensed every muscle, preparing for the blow that would surely come, for the reminder of exactly how insignificant she was in the presence of such beings.
Nothing happened.
Bai Jinxue smiled.
The expression was warm. Gentle. The kind of smile an older sister might give a younger sibling who'd said something endearingly foolish.
It was also utterly false.
"You can treat me like a big sister," Bai said, her crystalline voice carrying notes of affection that didn't reach those pulsing golden eyes. "And keep big sister being here a secret between us, okay?"
The words hung in the air.
Xīng Hé understood immediately.
A secret.
She was being told—not asked, told—to deceive Heiyun Jue. To hide the presence of another Transcendent in territory that belonged to him. To become complicit in whatever game was being played between these ancient, terrifying beings.
There was no choice involved.
Refusing would mean death. Or worse—Transcendents had lifetimes to devise punishments more creative than mere killing. And even if she somehow survived refusal, she would simply be eliminated later, when her usefulness as a rebellious tool was outweighed by her inconvenience.
Bai Jinxue was giving her the illusion of intimacy. The pretense of sisterhood. A relationship that implied equality, protection, mutual care.
But Xīng Hé saw through every layer of it.
This was a leash.
A pretty leash, decorated with silk and perfume, but a leash nonetheless. Bai wanted her controlled. Wanted her compliant. Wanted her positioned exactly where she needed to be for whatever scheme was unfolding.
And Xīng Hé had no power to resist.
She nodded, lowering her gaze in a gesture of submission that cost her more than she could express.
"Yes, elder sister Bai."
The words tasted like ash on her tongue.
Bai's smile widened slightly—satisfaction, perhaps, or amusement at how quickly the girl had learned to obey.
Then she returned to her book, as if the conversation had been nothing more than a pleasant exchange between relatives.
Xīng Hé's mind raced behind her composed expression.
I've just been told to deceive another Transcendent.
The implications crashed over her like waves against stone.
Something was happening. Something between Heiyun Jue and Bai Jinxue—some conflict, some competition, some game played at levels she couldn't fully perceive. And she had just been positioned as a piece on their board.
Why?
The question spiraled through her thoughts, seeking answers it couldn't find.
Either Bai was using her as a medium—a way to get close to Heiyun, to access something in his domain, to extract information or resources that she couldn't obtain directly. Or she was being used to spot weaknesses—to observe, to report, to reveal cracks in Heiyun's defenses that Bai could exploit.
Either way, the outcome was the same.
Xīng Hé was a tool.
A pawn caught between two gods, each using her for their own purposes, neither caring whether she survived the game. If Bai succeeded in whatever she was planning, Xīng Hé might be discarded as evidence. If Heiyun discovered the deception, she would be punished for betrayal.
There was no path to safety.
This is why I have to get strong.
The thought crystallized with cold clarity.
Fast. Faster than they expect. Fast enough that by the time they realize what I've become, I can protect myself from their games.
But that was a goal for the future. Right now, she was trapped. Vulnerable. A child surrounded by predators who saw her as nothing more than useful meat.
Lives matter.
The philosophy rose in her mind—her own truth, the understanding that had shaped her concept.
Either divine existence or mortals. Lives matter.
That was what she was fighting for. Not just her own survival, but a world where beings like her weren't ground up in the machinery of powers that saw them as expendable. Where children weren't drafted, broken, used, and discarded. Where existence itself wasn't a commodity to be traded between gods.
She couldn't achieve that as she was now.
But she would achieve it eventually.
Or die trying.
"Elder sister Bai," she said, keeping her voice steady, "if you wouldn't mind—can you brief me on the current situation?"
Bai Jinxue looked up from her book.
Those golden eyes studied her for a moment—assessing, measuring, calculating something that Xīng Hé couldn't perceive.
Then she smiled again.
"Hmm, where do I start?" She tapped a finger against her chin in a gesture of theatrical thoughtfulness. "How about you get us something to eat first? I'm starving."
A deflection.
Playful. Casual. The kind of response a real elder sister might give when she wanted to delay a conversation.
But also a reminder.
I ask the questions here. You serve.
Xīng Hé swallowed her frustration and nodded.
"Of course, elder sister."
She turned toward the door, her mind already racing through possibilities, strategies, angles of approach.
Two months, she thought. I was unconscious for two months. What happened in that time? What changed? What's waiting for me outside this room?
She would find out.
One way or another.
✦
Two months had passed.
Chen Yè walked through the crystalline pathways of the citadel, his footsteps echoing against surfaces that caught the ambient light and scattered it in patterns he'd long since stopped noticing. The beauty of this place had become invisible to him—just another feature of his cage, no more remarkable than the bars of any other prison.
The group had been meeting every four days since that first gathering.
Ten of them—gathering in Bai Zixian's courtyard to share perspectives, offer interpretations, and try to understand the representations that held the keys to their survival.
The method had worked.
For some of them.
Out of the ten, two had already evolved to the Resonance stage. Their transformations had been visible, undeniable—the kind of change that marked a fundamental shift in what a person was.
Kiran Xu had changed the most obviously. His eyes—those striking blue eyes that had stood out so vividly against his chocolate skin—had darkened to a deep, shadowed grey. Not quite black, but close. The color of storm clouds before they broke, of twilight just before true darkness fell. His features had refined themselves, sharpening into something more precise, more intentional. He moved differently now. Spoke differently. Carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had touched a truth and come away altered by the contact.
His concept was Void.
Chen Yè had been right about that. The word had resonated with Kiran in ways that the group's other interpretations hadn't. Understanding what the three rooms represented—silence, concealment, erasure—had unlocked something fundamental in how Kiran perceived his own nature.
The other evolution had been Noah Wen.
His transformation was... stranger.
Where Kiran had become more refined, more mature in appearance, Noah had gone the opposite direction. His features had softened rather than sharpened. His round face had become rounder still, his cheeks fuller, his expressions carrying a quality of guileless innocence that seemed almost absurd on someone their age.
He looked younger than he was.
Not childish—that wasn't quite the right word. More like... pure. Untouched. The way very young children looked before the world had a chance to mark them with experience. An adult's body carrying an infant's openness.
It didn't make sense when you tried to explain it in words. But looking at him, you understood. His concept was Dream, and dreams belonged to those who hadn't yet learned to distinguish between possible and impossible.
The group had tried to interpret Chen Yè's representation as well.
The lights, they'd said. The dancing motes in the absolute darkness. They could be symbols. Or summons. Or patterns—some kind of worldy arrangement, a map of forces too vast for mortal comprehension.
None of it had helped.
Chen Yè had listened to every interpretation. Had considered each perspective seriously, turning them over in his mind the way he'd once examined stolen coins for signs of forgery. He'd tried to feel what Kiran had felt, what Noah had felt—that moment of recognition, of understanding clicking into place.
Nothing came.
The lights remained meaningless. Beautiful and unreachable and utterly without explanation.
The group had started receiving formal lectures since the beginning of this month. The elder had returned, delivering more information about divine existences, about concepts, about the stages of evolution that awaited those who managed to advance. Thirty children from their cohort had evolved—thirty out of two hundred, their transformations earning them slightly better treatment, slightly more resources, slightly increased chances of survival.
The remaining numbers told a grimmer story.
About forty of the two hundred weren't close to evolving at all. Hadn't gained even a hint of understanding. Hadn't felt even a flicker of insight that might point toward eventual breakthrough.
Chen Yè was among them.
He knew what that meant.
The year of guidance was almost halfway done. 6 more months, and then the sorting would begin in earnest. Those who'd evolved would receive continued training. Those who showed promise would be given more time.
And those who'd proven useless...
He didn't like to think about what awaited them.
The worst part was watching the others in his group.
The remaining seven—the ones who hadn't evolved yet—were all close. He could see it in their faces, in the way they spoke about their representations with growing confidence, in the small breakthroughs they reported at each meeting. Even Bai Zixian, with his careful masks and calculated expressions, couldn't quite hide the anticipation building behind his eyes.
They were going to evolve.
All of them.
And Chen Yè would be left behind.
I can't feel anything.
The thought was quiet. Resigned. The acceptance of a truth he'd been fighting against for months.
They share their perspectives. I offer what I can. But when I reach for my own understanding...
Nothing.
Just darkness, and lights, and the maddening certainty that something was there—something he couldn't grasp, couldn't comprehend, couldn't even begin to approach.
Maybe my connection really is too faint.
Maybe I was never meant to be a divine existence.
Maybe...
He cut off the thought before it could spiral further.
Despair was a luxury he couldn't afford. If he was going to survive—and he would survive, he refused to accept any other outcome—he needed to find another path. The normal route might be closed to him, but there were always alternatives. Ways to make himself useful. Ways to attach himself to those who could evolve, who would rise, who might drag him along in their wake if he positioned himself correctly.
The group was part of that strategy.
Bai Zixian was part of it.
The connections he'd built over these two months—the trust he'd cultivated, the value he'd demonstrated through his suggestions and insights—those were investments. Seeds planted in soil that might bear fruit later.
If I can't become powerful myself, he thought, then I'll make myself indispensable to those who can.
It was the only path he could see.
Chen Yè quickened his steps toward Bai Zixian's courtyard.
The others would be waiting. Another session of sharing, of analyzing, of trying to help each other understand truths that seemed determined to remain hidden.
He would contribute what he could.
And he would watch, and wait, and plan.
Because giving up wasn't an option.
Not for a street orphan who'd survived worse than this.
Not for someone who'd already proven that usefulness could be created, even when it didn't come naturally.
Ten more months, he thought, his jaw tightening.
Ten months to find a way.
He walked on, resigned but not defeated, toward another meeting that might change nothing at all.
End of Chapter 17