By evening, the Marquis had left, but the weight of his visit remained.
No formal notice was posted about the Marquis' visit, yet everyone knew a central banner had crossed the gates. No official report was given about the sparring ring, yet every student could describe how Han Zeyu's Crimson Falcon had vanished mid-lunge, not shattered by force, but smothered by something that did not even bother to take shape.
Rumor grew quickly in a place built for ambition. The cold helped. When people wrapped themselves in cloaks, they leaned closer to one another. When they leaned closer, words became private, and private words became sharper.
Lin Zhiteng returned to his quarters without stopping to listen.
The dormitory corridor smelled of pine resin and ink. Oil lamps burned behind paper screens, casting soft squares of light onto the stone floor. He heard his name more than once, threaded into conversations like a hook.
Divine-grade potential.
Pressure without form.
The Blood Snow Duke stepped in.
Zhiteng did not hurry. He did not linger.
He entered his small room, closed the door, and sat at the edge of his cot. The space was sparse, not from austerity, but from habit. A folded blanket. A kettle. A stack of worn training manuals. A single whetstone for his blade, though he rarely carried weapons during academy drills unless instructed.
He loosened his gloves and let his hands rest on his thighs.
When he allowed his attention to drop inward, the same sensation returned, stable as before. Weight. Depth. Not an emotion. Not a voice. Not a hunger. It was there the way a sea is there, regardless of whether a man stands at the shore.
He breathed once, twice, slowly.
He did not try to call the presence again.
The last time it surfaced, even incompletely, it had altered the air of the training grounds. That kind of change invited questions. Questions invited hands reaching toward him, some offering help, some offering chains.
He had lived long enough to recognize both.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Zhiteng stood and opened it.
Bi Xueyun stepped into the corridor light. Her cloak was drawn tight, hair still bound neatly, but her eyes held an alertness that went beyond curiosity. Behind her, two girls hovered at a distance, pretending to speak to one another while clearly listening. They withdrew the moment Zhiteng's gaze touched them.
Xueyun did not glance back.
"May I come in?" she asked.
"Yes."
She stepped inside and closed the door.
For a moment she stood, taking in the room, perhaps unconsciously comparing it to quarters she was accustomed to. Then her attention returned to him.
"The academy is loud," she said.
"It always is," Zhiteng replied.
"Not like this."
Zhiteng poured hot water into two cups without asking. He offered one to her. She accepted it, hands warming around the ceramic.
"They are afraid," she said softly.
"They are curious," Zhiteng corrected. "Fear comes later."
Xueyun's lips pressed together briefly, then relaxed. "My clan representative sent a message to my father."
"How quick."
"It was immediate," she replied. "My manifestation, your manifestation, the Duke's reaction, the Marquis' probing. All of it."
Zhiteng did not respond. He did not need to. The central region treated information like currency. Anything that hinted at future leverage was collected quickly.
Xueyun watched him for a moment as if weighing whether he would say something more. When he did not, she continued.
"Do you understand why Marquis Han came?" she asked.
Zhiteng considered.
"To test the North," he said. "To test the Duke. To see whether the rumor about my potential was true."
"That is the surface," she replied.
He looked at her.
Xueyun took a slow breath, as if arranging her thoughts into a form that could survive being spoken.
"The central nobles do not travel this far for pride," she said. "They travel for pathways. Recruitment. Hostages. Marriage agreements. Bloodlines. If they cannot take something, they want to make sure no one else does."
Zhiteng nodded once. "And you think they will return."
"I think they will continue," Xueyun said. "Marquis Han withdrew politely, which means he found resistance stronger than expected. That does not end interest. It refines it."
Zhiteng sipped his tea. The warmth grounded him more than the words did.
Xueyun's gaze lowered briefly, then rose again. "My father will ask me to leave the North."
That was said without melodrama. The statement carried weight because it was realistic.
"The central region will not want you in danger," Zhiteng said.
"They will not want me outside their control," she corrected.
Zhiteng did not argue.
Xueyun's fingers tightened around her cup. "If I leave now, the North's resources for my seal will end. I do not think the central altars will solve it quickly. They may stabilize it, but they will also confine it."
"You want freedom," Zhiteng said.
"I want function," she replied. "And I want to enter the War God Academy with my foundation intact."
Zhiteng studied her. Under the composed tone, there was strain, not fear, but urgency. Her partial seal was not simply inconvenient. It was a constraint that could become a weakness at the wrong time.
"If the seal worsens," Zhiteng said carefully, "you should not force it."
"I know," Xueyun replied, then hesitated. "The part I do not understand is why it responded the way it did. It felt as if it recognized something. Then it refused to come through."
Zhiteng's attention sharpened.
"Recognized what?" he asked.
Xueyun's eyes met his. "I do not know. That is why I am here."
Silence settled briefly between them.
Zhiteng did not want to draw conclusions too quickly. It was tempting to connect every anomaly to himself, especially after the day's spectacle, but that was how a man built myths around his own reflection.
"It could be your bloodline," he said. "Or the North's array. Or stress. Or a restriction placed long ago."
Xueyun's lips curved faintly. "Or you."
Zhiteng did not deny it immediately, but he did not accept it either.
"That is an assumption," he said. "And assumptions breed stories faster than truth."
Xueyun watched him, then lowered her gaze slightly, accepting the correction without offense.
"You speak like an instructor," she said.
"I speak like someone who has learned that guessing wrong can be fatal," Zhiteng replied.
A second knock interrupted them, heavier, more official.
Zhiteng opened the door.
An academy messenger stood outside, posture rigid, wearing the black sash that marked administrative urgency.
"Lin Zhiteng," he said. "Bi Xueyun. Instructor Gao summons you both to the northern hall. Immediately."
Xueyun's eyes narrowed slightly.
Zhiteng nodded. "We will go."
The messenger left quickly.
Xueyun set her cup down. "That is fast."
"It is a response," Zhiteng replied.
They left together, moving through corridors where conversations quieted as they passed. The academy's social body reacted like a pond to a stone. Even those who disliked them could not ignore them.
In the northern hall, braziers burned with blue flame, more for light than warmth. Frost patterned the high windows. Several instructors stood in small clusters. The Awakening Master was present, seated as he had been on the plaza, but his expression was slightly tighter, as if the day had given him work he did not want.
Instructor Gao waited at the front.
He was a disciplined man, not old, but hardened by years of field assignments. His robe carried the scent of pine smoke. A narrow scar traced his left cheek.
He looked at Zhiteng and Xueyun without ceremony.
"Tomorrow at dawn, a twelve student unit will conduct an outer sector assessment," he said. "You will both be on it."
A few instructors exchanged glances. One frowned.
"Is that wise?" the frowning instructor asked. "Given today's exposure."
Gao's voice remained flat. "That is precisely why it is wise."
Zhiteng listened carefully. This was not about training alone. It was about posture.
The Awakening Master spoke. "Explain."
Gao inclined his head toward him. "The central Marquis tested our boundary. He pushed through sparring, then attempted probing pressure. The Duke denied the probe. That denial becomes a statement only if we follow it with stability."
"Meaning?" the Awakening Master asked.
"Meaning we do not retreat into caution," Gao replied. "We do not hide our candidates. We demonstrate that the North continues functioning. If the central region sees us pulling our best seedlings away from the field, they will interpret it as weakness."
A skeptic could call that political theater. Zhiteng could also see that it was practical deterrence.
The frowning instructor spoke again. "And if someone targets them in the outer sector?"
Gao looked at him. "Then we catch the attempt where it cannot hide behind etiquette. We learn who moved, and we respond with clear cause."
Xueyun's eyes sharpened. She was reading the same logic.
The Awakening Master considered for a moment, then nodded slightly. "Proceed."
Zhiteng noted what was not said.
The Duke was not present in this hall, but his influence was. Someone had authorized a posture shift. Someone had decided that hiding was worse than risk.
Gao continued.
"This is not a hunt. It is assessment and subjugation of a reported frost-horn stag pack in the outer sector. Estimated Bronze to Silver. I do not want heroics. I want formation discipline."
He looked at Zhiteng directly.
"And I want you to understand something," Gao said. "If the situation shifts, you will not chase personal results. You will protect the unit."
Zhiteng nodded. "Understood."
Gao's gaze moved to Xueyun.
"You," Gao said, "will maintain restraint. Your seal instability is noted. If you strain, you signal immediately."
Xueyun's posture remained steady. "Understood."
The Awakening Master finally spoke to them both, his voice quieter, more private in tone despite the room.
"You have both attracted attention," he said. "From nobles. From instructors. Possibly from forces we do not yet see. Your first task is not to become powerful. Your first task is to remain alive."
Zhiteng replied, "Yes."
Xueyun answered the same.
The meeting ended quickly after that. The instructors dispersed, some satisfied, some uneasy.
As Zhiteng and Xueyun exited the hall, Xueyun spoke quietly.
"This is not just training," she said.
"No," Zhiteng replied. "It is a message."
"To the central region," she said.
"And to whoever is watching from farther away," Zhiteng added.
Xueyun glanced at him. "You assume there is someone else."
Zhiteng shook his head slightly. "I do not assume. I observe. The Marquis came too quickly. That means someone told him. Someone wants motion."
Xueyun's eyes narrowed. "A push."
"A test," Zhiteng said.
They returned to their quarters separately. The academy's corridors grew quieter as night deepened. The lamps dimmed. The wind outside sharpened.
Zhiteng sat again in his room, this time not to meditate, but to prepare.
He checked his equipment carefully. Rope. Knife. Basic healing powder. Two emergency talismans. Signal flare. He did not overpack. Overpacking suggested fear. Underpacking suggested stupidity. He aimed for function.
He lay down only after the lamps in the corridor had gone low.
Sleep came in fragments.
Not from anxiety, but from the sense that the academy itself had changed posture. A place that usually moved according to schedules now carried a different rhythm, like soldiers adjusting before a march.
Near midnight, Zhiteng woke briefly.
He did not know why at first.
Then he realized the wind had stopped.
The forest beyond the walls held its breath. The silence that had occurred in the morning returned faintly, but it was distant, not inside the academy, more like a pressure in the landscape.
Zhiteng sat up, listening.
No alarms. No shouts. No footsteps.
He exhaled slowly and lay back down, not allowing the mind to build stories.
Still, the weight inside him felt marginally closer to the surface, as if aware of movement beyond the walls.
At dawn, the expedition unit gathered near the outer gates.
Instructor Gao stood waiting. Twelve students formed ranks. They carried basic gear. Their faces showed a mixture of pride and nerves, the standard look of youth stepping beyond controlled grounds.
Xueyun arrived with her cloak drawn tight and her hair bound cleanly. She did not look at the spectators. She looked at the tree line.
Zhiteng joined the formation without fanfare.
Gao's gaze moved across them.
"Remember," he said. "This is assessment. We do not chase. We do not scatter. We return as a unit."
He paused, then added something that was not in yesterday's briefing.
"If you see anything that feels wrong, you report it immediately. Do not decide that it is nothing. The outer sector has been quiet recently. Quiet can mean absence. Quiet can also mean preparation."
No one spoke.
The gates opened.
Cold air poured in, sharp and clean.
The frostline waited.
As the unit crossed the boundary markers, Zhiteng felt the subtle change again. Not a presence, not an attack, but a density in the world, as if the land itself had shifted from academy order into wilderness truth.
He did not look back at the gates.
He walked forward with measured steps, keeping formation, listening.
And far above the tree canopy, where the academy watchtowers could not see clearly, a woman in dark steel armor moved along a ridge line with silent precision, cloak pale against the frost.
Sky War General Xue Feng did not follow them closely.
She did not need to.
She observed the wider pattern, the flow of territory, the silence inside the forest, and the slight misalignment that should not have existed in the outer sector at all.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Not stags," she murmured, voice lost to the cold.
She turned and descended along the ridge, not rushing, but adjusting her position so that if the quiet became a rupture, she would arrive before it became a funeral.
Below, the expedition unit moved deeper into the trees.
The academy behind them shrank into stone and smoke.
Ahead, the North listened.