Weeks had passed.
The morning routine had become second nature—before dawn, Shenyan would quietly slip from his chambers, don looser, less regal robes, and train in the secluded courtyard under Xuanzi's cryptic yet sharp guidance.
No one knew.
No sword hung at his side. No cultivation aura marked his body. Shenyan remained the same elegant, porcelain-featured second prince the court always whispered about—graceful, distant, and, until recently, pitifully weak.
But his body was changing.
Lean muscle formed beneath silk. His once frail frame no longer trembled with every breeze. Xuanzi hadn't taught him to draw in spiritual energy—not yet. The deity claimed Shenyan's body wasn't ready.
"You want to cultivate?" Xuanzi had said, blunt as ever. "Try stuffing spiritual power into that brittle shell of yours. You'll explode like a melon."
So Shenyan trained. Ran. Pushed. Fell. Bled. Repeated.
And the whispers began.
---
"Have you seen His Highness lately?"
"He walks straighter now. His eyes don't look as… haunted."
"You mean the second prince? He used to scare my nephew. Thought he was a ghost."
Now, curiosity circled through the hallowed cities s of the esteemed empire of Tiansheng. Commoners exchanged knowing glances. Nobles watched him from the corners of their eyes. They didn't see a warrior—but something had shifted.
---
In the main palace, incense curled like fog around pillars of jade and marble. Gold embroidered silk draped over the thrones and tables. Emperor Bai sat among a ring of trusted ministers and high officials, his wine cup half full, his laughter echoing off polished stone.
"The east trade routes are flourishing," one said, raising a goblet.
"Indeed," another chimed in. "All under His Majesty's guidance. Tiansheng owes its golden age to your wisdom, my Emperor."
Emperor Bai lifted his cup in modest thanks, but pride glimmered in his eyes.
Talk turned to recent politics, harvest yields, a debate over tax reform—then drifted, as it often did, to more personal matters.
"I've heard," one official said with a knowing grin, "that His Highness, the second prince, has looked brighter of late. Less gloomy. Happier, even."
"Oh?" Emperor Bai arched an eyebrow, his cup pausing mid-air.
"Yes," the man chuckled. "Perhaps Your Majesty is not only a good emperor—but a good father as well."
The room burst into laughter.
Emperor Bai chuckled with them. "I care deeply for Shenyan," he said, his voice composed, though his gaze momentarily darkened. "He is my son. And yes… I do not permit him to cultivate. But I have my reasons."
No one asked what those reasons were.
They never did.
But as the conversation turned back to court affairs, the emperor sat quietly for a moment, swirling his wine. A flicker of a thought passed through him.
What could be making the boy smile again? Had he found… a girl?
He frowned, not with anger—but with uncertainty.
And outside the palace walls, the second prince trained in silence—under moonlight, sweat, and the eye of a banished god.
_____
Shenyan sat cross-legged before a scroll of rice paper, brush in hand, the scent of ink mingling with that of the warm spring air. His strokes were calm, his expression unreadable. On the parchment, a quiet mountain scene was slowly coming to life—a trail of mist, a lonely tree, and a shadowed figure that looked suspiciously like himself.
"You made my nose too big," came Xuanzi's voice, annoyingly chipper.
"I wasn't painting you."
"Oh? Could've fooled me. That aura of sorrow is familiar."
Shenyan sighed, dipping his brush back into the inkstone. "Must be your lingering self-pity."
Xuanzi snorted. "You wound me."
"Not enough," Shenyan muttered.
The banter continued, as it always did. Shenyan had grown used to the deity's voice weaving in and out of his thoughts like an obnoxious breeze.
But then he paused.
His brush hovered over the paper.
He closed his eyes.
The silence stretched.
"What is it?" Xuanzi asked, unusually serious.
"Someone's approaching."
"You can hear that?"
"The footsteps are distinct. Steady. Not hurried, but not idle." Shenyan stood slowly, his robes flowing like water around him. "And I can still hear your voice. That's how I know it's not in my head."
A knock echoed at the door.
"Second Prince Shenyan," came a formal voice. It was one of the emperor's personal guards, known for his stoic discipline. "His Majesty has summoned you. He requests your presence immediately."
Shenyan approached the door and opened it, his face calm, already dressed in his usual graceful silks embroidered in soft gold. "I understand. I'll be there shortly."
The guard bowed and left.
Shenyan watched him go, then turned back to the room. Why? What does father want with me?
"Are you worried?" Xuanzi chimed in. "It can't be bad. He's your father."
Shenyan's lips curled into something between a smile and a grimace. "A father who speaks of his son without but disgust and shame. Very comforting."
"Still your father."
Shenyan rolled his eyes. "Keep jesting."
That made Xuanzi laugh—a light, amused sound that echoed through Shenyan's thoughts.
And for a moment, Shenyan laughed too. Just a small one. The kind of laugh that slips out when you least expect it, one that stays longer than it should.
But the smile faded the moment he stepped into the grand hall.
Emperor Bai sat on his throne, draped in imperial silks and surrounded by silence more oppressive than thunder. Shenyan bowed low, every movement refined to perfection.
"Your Majesty."
A jar of the emperor's finest plum liquor had been set between them—a silent offering of peace, or perhaps nostalgia. Shenyan sat opposite his father at a lower seat, back straight, face calm. He reached for the jar, fingers brushing the porcelain—
"No."
Xuanzi's voice hissed through his mind.
"Alcohol will mess everything up—really bad."
Shenyan's hand stopped mid-air.
Then, with practiced ease, he withdrew it, as if he had only ever intended to admire the jar's craftsmanship.
Across from him, Emperor Bai raised a brow in surprise. Shenyan had never once turned down a drink. Not when he was called a cursed child. Not when the servants whispered. Not when the court pitied him. Drinking had been his rebellion. His refuge.
And now?
The Emperor didn't comment on it. Instead, he began asking questions—mundane things. Idle things. Court politics. The spring festival. A new painting in the Hall of Reflections. Shenyan answered politely, but his attention drifted. This… wasn't what he expected.
The air was heavy with things unsaid.
Then, without warning, the Emperor stood from his throne.
His ceremonial robes whispered across the floor as he approached, the rustle like leaves in a forgotten forest.
He didn't speak until he'd seated himself beside his son.
"You know…" he began slowly, "is everything well with you now?"
Shenyan turned to him like he'd grown three heads.
"What are you saying, Father?" he said flatly. "I am okay. I am good."
It was too smooth. Too perfect. The mask worn by someone too used to pain.
The Emperor looked at him for a moment longer, nodded to himself, then reached for his own liquor. But as he lifted the cup, it tilted, slipping from his fingers—
—falling
Without even thinking, Shenyan moved. His body reacted before his mind did.
A flicker.
A blur.
The porcelain cup landed safely in his palm, not a drop spilled.
The silence that followed was dense.
The Emperor stared at him, eyes wide—not in fear, but in quiet realization.
Wonder. Confusion.
"How… are your reflexes this sharp?"
Shenyan looked up—and their eyes met.
Oh no!