The jade-green floor was a vast sheet of ice, and the cold shot straight from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. Lin Yi stood in the center of the Heart-Questioning Hall, his spine rigid as steel. The pressure of a Golden Core cultivator enveloped him like a physical force, congealing his spiritual energy until every breath felt like swallowing shards of ice. The ceiling soared high above, and the only light fell in a slanted blade from a narrow skylight, illuminating the dust motes drifting lazily through the air—and, directly ahead, the throne where a pair of eyes gleamed without the slightest warmth. True Person Xuanyin did not speak. But from behind the six coiled-dragon jade pillars flanking him, the scratch of six black-robed attendants' brushes against paper began to gnaw at the silence like countless insects. The jade platform stood seven zhang directly ahead. True Person Xuanyin sat upon it. He wore a deep purple dao robe, its hem embroidered with dark golden cloud-and-thunder patterns. His hair was bound in a dao crown, his face that of a man barely past forty—but those eyes... Lin Yi glanced at them once and immediately lowered his gaze... those eyes were like two deep wells, and at the bottom of each lay something cold and heavy. The pressure did not descend all at once. It was more like a slow seepage. First the air grew viscous, so that every breath required deliberate effort. Then his spiritual energy began to stagnate; that faint thread of qi in his dantian froze like a stream in winter, nearly ceasing to flow. Finally came his bones, each vertebra groaning under an unbearable burden. Lin Yi's left shoulder still throbbed with pain. The wound from Wang Zheng's short sword on the Bone-Tempering Platform had only been hastily bandaged, and now, under the pressure, it had begun to bleed again. Warm fluid seeped through the wrappings, clinging to his flesh with a sticky sensation. He clamped down on his molars, the muscles of his jaw hard as stone. He could not kneel. His knees trembled, but he poured every ounce of strength into pinning his legs in place. His nails dug deep into his palms, and the pain kept him awake. "Lin Yi." The voice came from the jade platform. Neither loud nor forceful, yet it struck his eardrums like a hammer. The echo within the hall caused the two syllables to overlap again and again, becoming something like an incantation. "Your disciple is present." Lin Yi lowered his head, his voice mostly steady, though a barely perceptible tremor lurked at the end. True Person Xuanyin did not speak immediately. Lin Yi could feel that gaze sweeping back and forth across his body like a blade scraping skin. Not a divine sense probe—that would be too obvious, too likely to provoke resistance—but something more covert. It was tracing the flow of his spiritual energy, the tension in his muscles, even the rhythm of his heartbeat. "On the Bone-Tempering Platform." True Person Xuanyin finally spoke, each word like a carefully polished jade bead: smooth, cold, and carrying an unquestionable weight. "The power you used at the end—where did it come from?" Here it came. Lin Yi drew a deep breath. His chest felt stuffed with wet cotton; the air he inhaled caught in his throat. He forced himself to exhale slowly, buying two seconds to think. "Your disciple does not know what power the True Person refers to." He raised his head, fixing his gaze on the cloud-and-thunder patterns at the hem of True Person Xuanyin's robe, not daring to meet those eyes. "At the time, it was a matter of life and death. My consciousness was blurred. I only remember..." "The Chains of Heavenly Dao." The four words drove into the air like four ice picks. Lin Yi's heart convulsed. "You bear the aura of the Chains of Heavenly Dao upon you." True Person Xuanyin's voice remained flat, but his pace slowed slightly, each word like a pronouncement of judgment. "Faint, fragmented—but this seat does not mistake it. That power—that power which devours spiritual energy and distorts the rules—shares the same source as the chains. Explain." The temperature in the hall seemed to drop several degrees further. The attendants on both sides stopped writing. Six gazes converged upon him at once, like six locks pinning Lin Yi firmly in place. Sweat slid from his temple, tracing along his jawline. It itched. But he dared not wipe it away. "Your disciple..." Lin Yi's throat was dry; he could feel the friction as his Adam Lin Yi's mind raced frantically. Mo Chen's face flashed through his memory—that silent figure in black robes within the mine shaft, that warning about ancestors who "had once known prosperity." He needed to fabricate a story, one that could explain the source of his power, its disappearance, and his own complete ignorance of it. "It was a... jade ring," he said slowly, deliberately slowing his pace to create the impression of difficult recollection. "A broken jade ring. Given to me by my mother on her deathbed, said to be a relic left by our ancestors, something that might preserve my life in moments of peril. But how to activate it, what power it held—she never explained in detail." "Where is this jade ring now?" "Shattered." Lin Yi raised his right hand, palm upward, making a gesture of display—though there was nothing there. "After the power erupted, it turned to dust. This disciple's consciousness was clouded at the time. I only remember a burning pain in my palm, and then... nothing." Here he planted a hook. Memory loss. This was truth, and also the best cover. The contract rune had devoured his memory of his mother's final instructions—this was the real price he had paid. Now, he would make that price part of the lie. Xuan Yin Zhenren's gaze fell upon the palm of his right hand. Lin Yi could sense a faint thread of spiritual consciousness probing toward him, like a cold silk thread brushing lightly across his skin. He forced himself to relax his hand, not allowing any abnormal tension in his muscles. The contract rune in his palm lay dormant as death now, without the slightest ripple. "The Lin family." Xuan Yin Zhenren withdrew his gaze and leaned back once more into his chair. "This seat remembers that the Lin family ancestors did indeed produce several notable figures. But that was three hundred years ago. Now the Lin family has declined, without even a proper Foundation Establishment cultivator to speak of. This so-called ancestral magical artifact you speak of... why does it appear in no sect records?" "The family has long been in decline." Lin Yi lowered his head, allowing a trace of bitterness to enter his voice. "Much of the heritage has been severed. This jade ring was perhaps... the last of it." "Perhaps?" "This disciple dares not speak with certainty." Lin Yi's fingertips tapped lightly against his thigh at his side—this was his habitual gesture when thinking, but now he deliberately slowed the rhythm, making each tap seem heavy and hesitant. "When my mother gave it to me, she only said, 'This is something your father left you to preserve your life.' As for its origins, she said no more." He was gambling. Gambling that Xuan Yin Zhenren's knowledge of the Lin family was limited to surface records. Gambling that he would not dig deep into the old affairs of a declining family for the sake of an outer disciple. More importantly, gambling that he would have some scruples about the "father" in his words—Lin Zhenyue was, after all, the Lin family patriarch, and between the sect and the great families, there were always countless entangled threads. A very soft tapping sound came from the jade platform. Xuan Yin Zhenren's index finger drummed against the armrest. The sound was light, yet in the silent great hall it rang clear and grating. Thud. Thud. Thud. The regular rhythm was like a countdown. "Memory loss." Xuan Yin Zhenren suddenly changed the subject. "You just said that after the power erupted, you remembered nothing. Specifically, what is missing?" Lin Yi's heart tightened once more. This was the truly dangerous question. He could not be too specific, or it would be easily verified; nor could he be too vague, or it would seem like evasion. "This disciple... cannot recall clearly." He chose the safest and most dangerous answer. "Only some fragments remain. The stones of the Tempering Bone Platform. Senior Brother Wang Zheng's face. And... a light. After that, nothing but blankness, until I was helped down the platform by the duty senior brother." "You have even forgotten your mother's final instructions?" These words were like a blade of ice, thrust directly into Lin Yi's chest. He jerked his head up, meeting Xuan Yin Zhenren's eyes for the first time. Those eyes, deep as wells, held no emotion whatsoever—only pure, cold scrutiny. He was testing. How did he know? Was it a guess, or... "What makes the Zhenren say this?" Lin Yi's voice turned cold. This was no pretense—he had truly been touched upon his reverse scale. "This seat merely hypothesizes." Xuan Yin Zhenren said indifferently. "Since your memory is damaged, naturally you might Lin Yi's back was instantly drenched in cold sweat. His clothes clung to his skin, icy and piercing. "This disciple does not know what the Zhenren refers to." He could only repeat this sentence, grasping at it like a final straw. "You do not know." Xuan Yin Zhenren slowly rose. This movement caused the pressure throughout the great hall to suddenly escalate by a level. Lin Yi felt his kneecaps emit groaning sounds of unbearable strain, and the edges of his vision began to darken. He desperately mobilized that pitiful amount of spiritual power, attempting to steady his body, but it was like a mantis trying to stop a chariot. "Then do you know," Xuan Yin Zhenren descended from the jade platform, his dao robe's hem sliding silently across the green jade floor, "what crime it is, according to sect law, to use forbidden power and disturb the order of Heavenly Dao?" He stopped three paces before Lin Yi. At this distance, Lin Yi could clearly see the details of the cloud-and-thunder patterns on his dao robe—not embroidered, but woven from some kind of silver thread that would flow slightly under light, like actual lightning. He could also smell his scent, a mixture of sandalwood, aged paper, and some kind of cold medicinal herb. "This disciple... has not disturbed the order." Lin Yi forced these words through clenched teeth. "Only sought to survive." "Sought to survive?" Xuan Yin Zhenren tilted his head slightly, this movement making him appear as if examining a strange insect, "Using forbidden power to survive is itself a crime. The existence of the Heavenly Dao chains is precisely to prevent 'variables' like you from appearing. And you, not only bearing the aura of the chains, but also stirring power of the same origin..." He extended his hand. Not to attack, merely raising his index finger to point at Lin Yi's dantian. "Let this seat see what that 'jade ring' has left behind." The instant these words fell, Lin Yi felt his dantian being hollowed out by an invisible hand. Not physical, but a stripping at the level of rules. That wisp of dark golden aura—homologous to the contract runes, dormant in the depths of his dantian since the Spirit Appraisal Trial—began to surge uncontrollably. He was going to be exposed. Lin Yi's mind went blank. He could feel that aura being forcibly drawn out, like dragging a struggling fish from deep water. Once it was fully exposed before Xuan Yin Zhenren, the lie about the jade ring would instantly collapse. This wasn't residual artifact power—this was a brand at the level of rules, the mark of a contract— Right at this moment. A sound came from outside the hall. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound of a wooden staff tapping the ground. Slow, clear, carrying a unique rhythm. Not the uniform footsteps of enforcement disciples, nor the ceremonial procession of some elder's arrival. Just an ordinary wooden staff, striking the green stone steps, step by step, from far to near. Xuan Yin Zhenren's movement halted. He withdrew his finger, turning his head to look toward the hall entrance. His brows furrowed slightly—an almost imperceptible minute expression, but Lin Yi caught it—that was displeasure, the irritation of a plan being interrupted. The sound of the wooden staff stopped outside the hall doors. Then, the doors were pushed open. Xuan Yin Zhenren's gaze did not move from Lin Yi's face. "Oh?" The rhythm of his fingertips tapping the armrest stopped, "The Lin family possesses such a legacy? Why... have I never heard of it?" The ice shards in his voice scraped against eardrums. Lin Yi's Adam's apple rolled. His throat was dry as if stuffed with sand. "The family has long since declined," he heard his own voice, steadier than expected, "this object... was only revealed by my mother on her deathbed. Entrusted for use in times of crisis, but at tremendous cost." He deliberately bit down heavily on those final four words. Cost. The hollow of his memory still ached dully. His mother's face... remained only a blurred outline. Xuan Yin Zhenren said nothing. Only the sound of Lin Yi's own breathing remained in the great hall, along with the sticky, icy sensation of cold sweat soaking through his clothes. The chill of the green jade floor crept upward from the soles of his feet, his calf muscles tensed to soreness. He maintained his bowed posture. His gaze fell upon the silver cloud patterns embroidered on the hem of Xuan Yin Zhenren's dao robe. Those patterns were so complex they made one's eyes dizzy, like some kind of formation, or perhaps some ancient script. "Cost." X He knew it, of course. These sect elders probably had the genealogies of the major clans memorized better than the clans' own descendants. "Yes." Lin Yi pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, forcing his voice not to tremble. "Mother was indeed unskilled in artifact refining. This object... is said to be a family heirloom from my maternal grandfather's side. His family was originally a branch of an artifact-refining sect, but later declined." Half true, half false. His maternal grandfather's family had indeed fallen into ruin. But had they passed down any secret treasures? He didn't know. His mother had never mentioned it. Xuanyin Zhenren's silence stretched even longer. Long enough for Lin Yi to count his own heartbeats. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen... His chest felt stretched taut as a drum, each pulse vibrating through his ribs until they went numb. Then he heard Xuanyin Zhenren let out a soft "heh." Not a laugh. More like a confirmation. "Since that is the case," Xuanyin Zhenren finally spoke, his voice returning to that flat, authoritative tone, "the 'secret treasure' within your body has already been destroyed, so let that be. However, the spiritual energy disturbance you triggered on the Bone-Tempering Platform involved fluctuations in the chains of heavenly law. This cannot go uninvestigated." He paused. "According to sect law, anyone involved in anomalies concerning heavenly law must remain in the side hall of the Law Enforcement Hall to reflect upon their faults. The matter will be decided only after the cause has been thoroughly investigated." Lin Yi's breath caught for half a beat. Reflect upon his faults. House arrest. He jerked his head up, meeting Xuanyin Zhenren's bottomless eyes. Those eyes held no emotion whatsoever—only a pure, cold scrutiny. As if looking at an object. A dangerous object that needed to be properly contained and closely monitored. "Disciple..." Lin Yi's throat tightened. "This disciple has already passed the trial. According to law, I should enter the outer sect. On the Bone-Tempering Platform, I acted only in self-defense. I absolutely had no intention of—" "Absolutely had no intention of what?" Xuanyin Zhenren interrupted him. His voice wasn't loud, yet it struck against Lin Yi's eardrums like a muffled hammer. Lin Yi opened his mouth. No sound came out. "Absolutely no intention of defying heaven?" Xuanyin Zhenren finished for him, the corners of his mouth pulling into an extremely faint arc that held not the slightest warmth. "Lin Yi, you must understand. The chains of heavenly law maintain the balance of this realm. Any anomalous fluctuation may trigger ripples in the rules. At best, you harm yourself. At worst... you bring calamity upon the sect." He leaned forward slightly. That pressure suddenly intensified. Lin Yi's knees went weak. He nearly collapsed to the ground. He bit down hard, nails digging into his palms, using pain to fight against that instinct to kneel. The edges of his vision began to darken. "Therefore," Xuanyin Zhenren's voice came from very far away, "until it is determined whether any 'anomalies' still remain within you, you must stay in the Law Enforcement Hall. This is for your own good, and for the sect's good." The moment his words fell, the two law enforcement disciples who had been standing silently in the shadows of the great hall moved. Their footsteps made no sound, like two shadows, approaching Lin Yi from left and right. The green jade floor reflected their elongated silhouettes. Closer and closer. Countless thoughts flashed through Lin Yi's mind. Resist? Flee? Explain? Every thought was extinguished the moment it arose. Before a Golden Core cultivator, inside the Hall of Heart-Questioning, any superfluous movement was courting death. His fists clenched. His knuckles turned white. Just then— *Tap.* *Tap.* *Tap.* A series of light yet distinct knocking sounds approached from the corridor outside, growing from distant to near. Unhurried, carrying a unique, slightly halting rhythm. Xuanyin Zhenren's brows furrowed almost imperceptibly. The two law enforcement disciples also halted their steps, turning to look toward the hall entrance. Lin Yi followed the sound. What he saw first was the tip of a dark brown wooden staff, tapping against the green jade threshold. Then, a hand with distinct knuckles and fine wrinkles gripping the staff. Mochen leaned on his staff and walked in slowly. He walked very slowly. Each step seemed precisely calculated—the position where the staff touched the ground, the height his foot lifted, the weight of his landing—all maintained a nearly rigid pattern. The washed-out gray robe he wore had dark "...regarding next month's standard-issue flying swords for the inner disciples." The sound of the wooden staff tapping the ground stopped. Mo Chen stood at the edge of the halo of light cast by the palace doors, his gaunt frame like a withered bamboo stake driven into the earth. His left hand gripped that dark-stained wooden staff; his right held a half-unrolled ledger. Sunlight slanted in behind him, cutting his whole figure into a silent silhouette—only those cloudy eyes moved slowly, sliding from Xuanyin Zhenren to Lin Yi, then back again. A new scent entered the air. Not the cold, crisp sandalwood that clung to Xuanyin Zhenren, but something more complex: a mixture of metal shavings, aged medicinal herbs, and a faint, rusty, blood-iron tang. With each breath Mo Chen took, it seeped thread by thread into the palace's stagnant atmosphere. Lin Yi's spine went rigid. He knew this smell—in the Cold Pool Gorge, in those moments teetering on collapse, it had wrapped around him like a shell of ice. Why was Mo Chen here? Coincidence? Or... Xuanyin Zhenren's hands, straightening his dao robe's collar, went still. His fingers hovered half an inch above the collar, the tips slightly pale. For the first time, a faint crease that could only be called displeasure appeared on that face perpetually shrouded in solemn majesty—two faint vertical lines between his brows. "Elder Mo Chen." Xuanyin Zhenren's voice was colder than before, like iron left frozen overnight. "This is an inquiry of importance." Mo Chen gave a slight nod. He did not speak. He only extended the ledger in his right hand a little further. The scroll case was a dull bronze, its edges worn smooth. His movements were slow, carrying an unyielding insistence. Then a hoarse, sandpaper rasp of breath emerged from his throat. "Zhenren." The sound was barely musical, each word forced from shattered lungs. "The Star-Steel accounts show discrepancies." Mo Chen's rasp came in fragments, yet was startlingly clear. "They must be verified at once... regarding next month's standard-issue flying swords for the inner disciples." The stewards on either side of the hall exchanged a glance. No one dared speak, but the tension in the air loosened slightly. The material losses of the Forging Hall, the supply of flying swords to inner disciples—these were practical affairs of the sect's operation, entries written into the detailed rules and verified monthly. Mo Chen's reason stood on the side of "regulation." Xuanyin Zhenren's fingertips returned to the armrest. The rhythm of his tapping changed. No longer the steady *dok-dok* sound, but lighter, faster consecutive taps, as if calculating something. His gaze rested on Mo Chen's face for three breaths, then turned to Lin Yi, and finally settled back on the ledger. "Such a minor matter of forging materials requires an elder's personal attention?" Xuanyin Zhenren's tone betrayed no emotion. "Is the Steward Hall so devoid of manpower?" Mo Chen's cloudy eyes turned toward one side of the hall. There stood a young steward responsible for record-keeping, who instinctively shrank his neck under that gaze. Mo Chen withdrew his eyes and rasped again: "Last month's losses... exceeded the norm by thirty percent. The Steward Hall's report was vague." He paused, then added, "According to the law, anything over ten percent requires elder review." The word *law*. Lin Yi seized on it. Mo Chen had mentioned "according to the law" a second time. This was no casual remark—it was a sword, a sword forged from the sect's own established rules, and its point was now aimed at Xuanyin Zhenren's practice of detaining and interrogating him. Xuanyin Zhenren fell silent for a moment. In the hall, only the minute sound of dust swirling in the shifting sunlight remained. Lin Yi felt the Golden Core pressure enveloping him undergo an extremely subtle fluctuation—not weakening, but diverting. A portion of Xuanyin Zhenren's attention had been drawn away by Mo Chen and the ledger in his hand. This was an opening. Small beyond measure, like a single thread of light slipping through the bars of a cage. Lin Yi's fingertips lightly tapped his own thigh at his side—his habitual gesture when thinking—but he forcibly suppressed the following rhythm. He could not reveal anything, could not draw any unnecessary attention. He lowered his head, letting his shoulders take on a more submissive curve. "Elder Mo Chen." Xuanyin Zhenren finally spoke again, his voice recovering that resonant, solemn tone, but with a layer of ice beneath. "Since you speak of 'according "However," Xuanyin Zhenren's tone turned like a blade, "at the final juncture of his trial, the source of his power was bizarre, and its fluctuations touched the alert threshold of the 'Heavenly Dao Chains.' According to Article Seven of the *Sect Anomaly Disposition Code*, the Law Enforcement Hall has the authority to detain and investigate thoroughly any matter involving Heavenly Dao anomalies, until the hidden danger is made clear." With every word he spoke, the pressure grew heavier. It was no longer an indiscriminate blanket of force. It was like countless icy needles, precisely piercing the acupoints around Lin Yi's body. Lin Yi's spiritual energy circulation ground to a complete halt. Even breathing became difficult, and the taste of blood rose in his throat. Mo Chen seemed entirely unaffected. He merely lifted his head slightly, letting the sunlight fall upon his face—lined with fine wrinkles, yet utterly expressionless. His cloudy eyes turned toward Lin Yi once more, lingering a fraction longer than before. In that instant— A voice abruptly rang out in Lin Yi's mind. No, not a voice. It was more like a segment of will, forcibly inserted, carrying a distinct "flavor." The will was cold, concise, devoid of any emotional fluctuation, yet wrapped in an intensely real bitterness—the scent of medicinal roots being crushed and ground, diffusing directly within the depths of his consciousness. The content of that will consisted of only two words: *Bow your head.* Lin Yi obeyed almost instinctively. He lowered his head further, his gaze locking onto a natural vein in the azure jade floor tiles beneath his feet. At the same time, he felt Xuanyin Zhenren's divine sense sweep over his body once more like a probe, this time focusing on the palm of his right hand. His palm was calm. The contract rune lay dormant beneath his skin, showing no reaction whatsoever. It seemed to have no interest in Xuanyin Zhenren's inspection—or perhaps, it simply hid itself too well. Xuanyin Zhenren's divine sense swept over him a second time, then a third. Time in the great hall stretched out, each breath like grinding upon a knife's edge. Lin Yi's back was soaked through with cold sweat, the fabric clinging to his skin in an icy patch. He could hear the dull thunder of his own heart pounding in his chest, and the increasingly rapid, light taps of Xuanyin Zhenren's fingers against the armrest. Finally, the divine sense withdrew. "Enough." Xuanyin Zhenren uttered two words, his voice carrying a trace of barely perceptible irritation. He looked at Mo Chen, his gaze sharp as a blade: "Since Elder Mo Chen insists on handling matters according to the code, then so be it." He paused. Each word fell like beads of ice crashing to the ground. "Lin Yi, you have passed the Tempering Bone Platform trial. From this day forth, you shall be entered into the outer disciple registry of the Tianyan Sect, residing in Room Seven, Wing Bing, of the Listening Bamboo Pavilion." Lin Yi's breath caught. "However," Xuanyin Zhenren continued, his tone brooking no dispute, "the hidden danger within your body remains unclear, and the source of your power is suspect. For the safety of the sect, and for the sake of your own cultivation path—from this month onward, on every new moon, you shall report to the side hall of the Law Enforcement Hall to present your cultivation progress and the details of your spiritual energy circulation, which this seat shall personally verify." He leaned forward slightly, and his shadow loomed. "Without a written token from the Law Enforcement Hall, you are not to set half a step beyond the mountain-guarding grand array. Should you disobey..." Xuanyin Zhenren's voice dropped lower, yet it became even more hair-raising, "you shall be treated as a sect traitor." Sect traitor. Two words, spoken lightly, yet heavier than a thousand jun. That meant pursuit, crippling of cultivation, even the annihilation of body and soul. Lin Yi bowed, his throat so dry it hurt: "This disciple... obeys." "Go." Xuanyin Zhenren waved his hand as if brushing away a speck of dust. His attention had already returned to the ledger in Mo Chen's hands, as if the interrogation that had just decided a man's future were nothing more than an insignificant interlude. Two Law Enforcement Hall disciples stepped forward to signal Lin Yi to leave. Lin Yi turned, his footsteps somewhat unsteady. He walked toward the hall doors, toward the sunlight pouring in. Mo Chen still stood at the edge of that halo, leaning on his wooden staff, like a silent statue. The two passed each other. At their closest point, less than ten feet separated them. Lin Yi could clearly "If that is the case," True Lord Xuanyin spoke, the coldness in his voice lowering the temperature in the hall by several degrees, "then we shall follow Elder Mochen's counsel." Lin Yi's spine tensed like a fully drawn bow. "Lin Yi, now that you have entered the outer sect, you must abide by the sect's rules." True Lord Xuanyin rose slowly, the hem of his dao robe utterly still. "From this day forward, you must report your cultivation progress to the Law Enforcement Hall on the first day of each month. Without permission, you are not to step beyond the mountain gate." He paused, his gaze sweeping across Lin Yi's right palm—where everything now lay calm and unrippled. "The hidden danger within your body, the sect shall keep watch upon," True Lord Xuanyin said. "Should there be any irregular movement, report it immediately. If there is any further... conduct beyond the ordinary, you will be punished without mercy." Lin Yi bowed. "This disciple understands." His voice was steady, but his throat felt packed with sand. Monthly reports. Confinement. This was worse than house arrest—house arrest was temporary, while this was long-term, public, institutionalized surveillance. He had become a living specimen, labeled "requires observation," filed away on the shelves of the Law Enforcement Hall. "You may withdraw." True Lord Xuanyin waved his sleeve. Two law enforcement disciples emerged from the shadows at the hall's side, standing to Lin Yi's left and right. Not an escort, but a guard—or rather, a monitored release. Lin Yi turned. His legs felt somewhat weak, a prickling numbness at his knees—the aftereffect of forcing himself to stand for so long under crushing pressure. He took his first step, the chill from the green jade floor penetrating through his thin-soled cloth shoes straight to the soles of his feet. Mochen still stood near the hall's entrance, leaning on that ebony staff. As Lin Yi passed him, his footsteps paused almost imperceptibly. No exchange of glances. Mochen's clouded eyes gazed at some void beyond the hall, his withered fingers tapping lightly on the staff's shaft—three short, one long, then two short. The rhythm was strange, not like an unconscious motion. Lin Yi's fingertips unconsciously mimicked that rhythm in his sleeve. Three short, one long, two short. What did it mean? A signal? Or some kind of... warning? He continued forward. Sunlight flooded in through the hall's entrance, making him squint. The light was too bright, too warm, forming a cruel contrast with the hall's chill. For a moment he felt dizzy, tiny golden stars dancing at the edges of his vision. Just as he was about to cross the threshold— A thread of extremely subtle fluctuation brushed across the surface of his consciousness like a spider's silk. It was not sound, but information fragments imprinted directly into his mind, carrying the bitter aftertaste of crushed medicinal herbs, and a trace of... the metallic tang of cooling metal. *Be careful of shadows.* Lin Yi's breath caught. *The price is far more than memory.* The fluctuation vanished, as quickly as if it had never appeared. Lin Yi's footsteps did not stop; he steadily crossed out of the Heart-Questioning Hall. Sunlight fell upon his face, bringing genuine burning heat. Behind him, True Lord Xuanyin's gaze still prickled like thorns on his back—even through the heavy hall doors, he could feel that cold scrutiny. The two law enforcement disciples stopped at the edge of the plaza outside the hall. One of them spoke, his voice flat: "Junior Brother Lin, please go as you will. Do not forget the appointment on the first day of the month." Lin Yi nodded without turning back. He walked down the stone steps of the main peak. His steps were initially somewhat unsteady, but soon found their rhythm. One step, two steps. The steps were baked hot by the afternoon sun, heat rising through his soles to war within his body against the chill of the Heart-Questioning Hall. Shadows. He chewed on those two words. Mochen's warning was deliberately vague, yet it precisely struck at his deepest doubts. Who did shadows refer to? True Lord Xuanyin? That elder was indeed like a shadow descending to envelop everything. Or Xiao Han? That sworn brother who always appeared at appropriate moments, with his warm and gentle smile—was his shadow not longer, more concealed? Or perhaps... himself? Lin Yi raised his right hand and opened his palm. Sunlight fell upon his skin, the palm lines clearly visible. No runes, no faint blue light, only a few shallow old scars. But that cold, hungry sensation had never truly departed. It lurked deep in his flesh and blood, like a hibernating venomous snake The roadside tree shadows dappled the ground, sunlight leaking through gaps in the leaves to cast shifting patches of brightness. He stepped through one shadow, then into another pool of light. His shadow followed him always, lengthening, shortening, distorting with his movement. He suddenly realized something: from this moment forward, every step he took within the sect would fall under at least two pairs of eyes. Xuan Yin's, seeking to cage him within rules. Mo Chen's, purpose unclear but equally dangerous. And what of himself? He stopped, standing in the shade of an old scholar tree. The canopy was dense, nearly blocking out the sun. He looked down at the blurred darkness beneath his feet, merged with the tree's shadow. I am my shadow. The thought arose, cold and clear. That thing on the Tempering Bone Platform that devoured spiritual energy and plundered memories—that thing Xuan Yin Zhenren watched with caution, that Mo Chen had marked—was no foreign invader. It was part of himself. The twisted survival instinct left behind in the ruins when the "Heavenly Punishment" shattered him three years ago. He raised his hand, fingertips lightly touching the rough bark. The sensation was real, the cracks running across the bark like some ancient cipher. The price. He needed power. Needed speed. Speed enough to outpace the crushing weight of rules, speed enough to seize the tail of truth before his family cast him aside completely. And the contract offered this shortcut—at the cost of... himself. Footsteps sounded behind him. Lin Yi withdrew his hand and turned. A young man in the gray robes of an outer disciple jogged up, his face bearing a simple honest smile, sweat beading on his forehead. "Lin—Junior Brother Lin Yi?" The young man panted. "Finally found you. I'm a steward disciple from the Menial Peak, surname Zhao. Your quarters are arranged—Bamboo Listening Pavilion, Room Seven of Bing Ward. Here's the key, and this month's allowance." He held out a brass key and a small cloth bundle. The bundle was light, likely containing a few low-grade spirit stones and basic pills. Lin Yi accepted them. "Thank you for the trouble, Senior Brother Zhao." "No need for formalities." Steward Zhao wiped his sweat, lowering his voice. "Ah... Elder Xuan Yin instructed that after you settle in, you should go to the Steward Hall to register your name. Also, you know about reporting to the Law Enforcement Hall on the first of each month?" "I know." "Good then." Steward Zhao looked left and right, his voice dropping further. "Junior Brother, I'll speak out of turn... Those who come down from the main peak, we on Menial Peak always give extra consideration. But some things—seen is unseen, heard is unheard. Living long matters more than anything." With that, he patted Lin Yi's shoulder and turned to leave. His steps were hurried, as if fearing to attract some trouble. Lin Yi stood holding the key and bundle. The teeth of the key pressed into his palm with faint pain. Through the cloth, he could feel the rough edges of the spirit stones. Room Seven of Bing Ward, Bamboo Listening Pavilion. He walked in that direction. The path gradually narrowed, the bamboo groves on both sides growing denser. Bamboo leaves rustled in the wind, the sound dense and continuous, like countless people whispering. Sunlight was shredded by the leaves, scattering across the ground in shifting patterns that induced a kind of trance. He found Room Seven of Bing Ward. A solitary stone house sitting at the edge of the bamboo grove, some distance from the other disciples' quarters. The stone house was small, its door heavy wood, its window narrow enough to admit only a hand. The key slid into the lock and turned. A click—the lock opened. Lin Yi pushed the door and entered. The furnishings were simple to the point of austerity: a plank bed, a rough wooden table, one chair. In the corner stood a ceramic water jar, its rim chipped. The bed was spread with a straw mat, its edges already blackened. The air held dust and mildew, and something else... a faint, almost imperceptible fragrance. Not bamboo. Something colder, like pine needles after snow. Lin Yi closed the door. Light shot through the narrow window, casting a small slanted patch of brightness on the earthen floor. He leaned against the door panel and slowly slid to sit. The roughness of the straw mat came through his trousers, mixed with the ground's chill. He closed his eyes. The pressure from the Heart-Questioning Hall still lingered in his body, like the ache after frostbite. Every question Xuan Yin Zhenren had asked replayed in his mind. The steady *tuk-tuk* of Mo Chen's wooden staff. That thread of bitter mental transmission. The key. The bundle. Steward Zhao's hesitant gaze. He suddenly recalled the sensation on the Tempering Bone Platform, when that black energy devoured Wang Zheng's spiritual power. It wasn't pleasure. It was something far more terrible—a hollow, mechanical satisfaction, like rusted gears meshing, completing an action it had been designed to perform. No emotion. No good or evil. Only execution. Was that part of the price? Gradually becoming one of those gears himself? Footsteps sounded outside the door. Light, but Lin Yi heard them. They halted before the stone hut, lingering for roughly three breaths, then continued forward, fading into the depths of the bamboo grove. Not someone passing by. Someone who had come specifically to look. Who? A spy sent by True Person Xuanyin? One of Mo Chen's people? Or some other faction interested in the "anomaly of the Tempering Bone Platform"? Lin Yi didn't move. He maintained his seated posture against the door, slowing his breathing, his ears catching every sound beyond the threshold. Bamboo leaves rustled. In the distance, a disciple's shout from training. Farther still, the bell on the main peak rang out, deep and drawn-out, three times total. The hour of Shen. He should go to the Affairs Hall to register his name. Should collect the gray robe and wooden identity plaque of an outer disciple. Should begin playing the part of an ordinary disciple who had "barely passed the trial and required strict observation." But he didn't move. The patch of light slowly crept across his palm, shifting to his wrist, its warmth fading bit by bit. The shadows in the room lengthened, spreading from the corners like ink bleeding across rice paper. Lin Yi lowered his head, looking at the shadow beneath him. As the angle of the light changed, that shadow was stretched long and thin, twisted, its head merging with the shadow of the door panel until its outline could no longer be distinguished. Be careful of your shadow. He slowly stood up. His knees gave a soft click—the protest of having held one position for too long. He walked to the table and set the cloth bundle upon it. The spirit s