The moon hung high over the crystalline structures.
Six hours had passed since the others entered the Insight Chambers.
Five figures remained in Bai Zixian's courtyard.
Kiran and Noah sat together near the edge, voices low. An unlikely pair—void-touched and dream-touched, grey eyes and guileless expressions. But months of shared struggle had forged something between them. Not quite friendship. Something closer to understanding.
Bai Zixian sat near the table, posture relaxed, expression pleasant. If the waiting bothered him, he didn't show it. But then, Bai never showed anything he didn't want seen.
Chen Yè and Seren sat apart from the others, close but barely speaking. Seren's quiet nature. Chen's racing thoughts.
"You're worried."
Kiran's voice drifted across the courtyard. The grey-eyed boy looked at him with something like concern.
"About whether it'll work," Noah added, earnest. "But it will. It worked for Seren. It worked for all of us with the perspective thing."
Chen Yè said nothing.
"He's right," Bai offered, tone light. "You've pulled miracles before. No reason to doubt yourself now."
They thought he was worried about the method failing.
They were wrong.
Chen Yè wasn't worried whether the six would evolve. His theory was sound, his definitions grounded in observation. The Insight Chambers would provide whatever additional aid was needed.
The problem was what came after.
When everyone in the group had evolved except him, the dynamics would shift. Power created distance. Evolution created hierarchy.
He would be the only mortal in a group of divine existences.
How long before they saw him as dead weight? How long before his contributions stopped being enough? How long before carrying him wasn't worth the effort?
Make yourself indispensable, he reminded himself. Make them need you, even if they don't need your power.
A fragile strategy. Dependent on personalities, circumstances, factors he couldn't control.
But the only strategy he had.
"Chen?"
Noah again, innocent eyes watching. "You've been quiet for a long time. Are you sure you're okay?"
Chen Yè looked at the four evolved existences who had no idea what he was really thinking, and forced a small smile.
"I'm fine. Just thinking about what comes next."
Not a lie.
Just not the truth they imagined.
"When they come out," Chen Yè continued, "we'll need to help them adjust. Evolution is disorienting. They'll need support."
Nods all around. The tension eased slightly.
Chen Yè settled back and resumed his waiting.
Six people in the Insight Chambers. Six evolutions in progress.
And one street orphan, planning for a future where he might be the only one left behind.
---
### PART 2: THE GRIEVING
In her manor, Xīng Hé was alone.
Elder sister Bai had left hours ago—vanished as silently as she'd arrived, leaving behind only the faint impression of her presence and the weight of secrets unexplained.
She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at nothing.
I'm the only one.
That was what Bai had revealed. Xīng Hé had assumed there were others like her—other drafted children receiving special treatment, housed in private manors.
There weren't.
Singular. Unique. The only natural awakener in four thousand years.
It should have felt like a privilege.
It felt like a target.
Her friend was somewhere in this citadel too.
Qin Hongyu. Red-haired, sharp-tongued, fiercely loyal. Childhood promises made in gardens while their parents negotiated inside.
"We'll always look out for each other. No matter what happens. Promise?"
"Promise."
Years ago. A different world. A different life.
Yao Xian had mentioned that Hongyu visited often during the two months Xīng Hé lay unconscious. Had come to the manor repeatedly, only to be turned away each time.
She kept trying. Even when they told her no. She kept coming back.
The thought cracked something inside her.
She'd been trying not to think about her family.
Safer that way. The memories were sharp-edged things, beautiful and painful in equal measure.
But tonight the walls she'd built weren't strong enough.
The memories came anyway.
Mother's hands in her hair. The gentle pull of the brush, rhythm steady as heartbeat. Old songs—words forgotten, melody remaining. "You have your grandmother's eyes. Sharp as winter stars."
Father's calloused palms correcting her stance. Weight on her shoulders, teaching balance through touch. "Everything begins with balance."
Brother's study. Scrolls everywhere, ink-stained fingers. Annoyance melting into reluctant affection. "What is it now, little xīng?"
Sister's small hand clutching her robes. "Wait for me! My legs aren't as long!" That determined voice, refusing to be left behind.
The baby.
One week old when they took her. Held him once. Tiny warm weight. Eyes squeezed shut. Fists curled. The smell—milk, clean cloth, something sweet.
She didn't even know his name.
They named him without her. His first smile. First laugh. First steps. All of it—missed.
By the time she saw them again—if she ever did—generations would have passed. The baby grown, aged, dead. Parents memories. Siblings ancestors.
She would be the one who was drafted.
The one who never came home.
The night stretched on.
Xīng Hé didn't sleep. Couldn't. The memories kept coming—wave after wave, joy and grief in equal measure. She wept without sound, tears sliding down cheeks smoother than they'd ever been, falling onto silk sheets that absorbed them without trace.
At some point, she'd started eating an apple.
Didn't remember picking it up. Just—there. Cool skin. Crisp flesh. Sweet.
Something to do with her hands. Something that wasn't screaming.
She ate mechanically. Bite after bite. Barely tasting.
Thirteen hours passed.
The apple never got smaller.
Each bite restored itself. Flesh filling back in. Skin sealing. Whole again.
Xīng Hé didn't notice.
Too deep in memory, too lost in grief, too focused on faces she might never see again to register what her hands were doing. What her concept was doing.
The unconscious expression of Restoration, rebuilding what was broken, refusing to let anything she touched remain damaged.
Even something as small as an apple.
The first light of the artificial sun crept through the translucent panels.
Soft grey, then pale gold, then warm amber of simulated morning. Finding tear-tracks drying on her cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, snow-white hair catching light like spun crystal.
She looked terrible.
She looked beautiful.
Evolution had done that—refined her features, cleared her skin, transformed her into something that transcended ordinary mortality. Even exhausted, even grief-stricken, even after a night of silent weeping, she possessed a beauty that hadn't existed before.
Is this what it means? To become divine? To look perfect even when you're falling apart?
She was too tired for answers.
The apple sat in her hand—whole, unmarked, showing no evidence of the dozen bites. She stared at it without comprehension, then set it down on the small table beside her bed.
Hongyu.
The name surfaced through exhaustion.
I need to see her.
Not a decision. A realization—something that had always been true, finally acknowledged. She'd spent the night drowning in memories of family she couldn't reach.
But there was someone here. Someone she could see. Someone who had kept coming back.
Xīng Hé stood.
Her body moved smoothly despite the sleepless night—another gift of evolution. She caught a glimpse of herself in the restored mirror, saw the white hair and clear skin and red-rimmed eyes, and looked away.
She crossed to the door.
Her hand found the handle.
Please be safe. Please be okay.
She pulled the door open and stepped through.
It was time to find her friend.
---
End of Chapter 22