The summons came at dawn.
A slip of jade paper, left on Chen's door:
"Lu Chen — Report to the Skyfall Crags.
Trial of Harmony begins at sunrise.
Come empty-handed."
Zhao Lei read it over his shoulder. "Skyfall Crags? That's where they keep the Stormbeasts."
Chen frowned. "Beasts?"
"Not monsters," Zhao Lei said, voice low. "Guardians. Born from lightning and mountain wind. Wild. Unbroken. The Sect doesn't train them. It listens to them."
They climbed in silence.
The path wound higher, past waterfalls that fell upward, past trees with silver leaves that chimed in the wind.
At the summit—a wide, bowl-shaped crater.
In its center, chained to three obsidian pillars by spirit-thread, stood the Stormbeast.
It was massive—twice the height of a man—but not monstrous.
Its body was woven from stormcloud and shadow, limbs like coiled thunder. Eyes glowed violet, flickering like dying stars. Wings—not feathered, but sheets of rolling mist, crackling with static.
It didn't roar.
It sang.
A low, mournful hum—like wind through a broken flute.
Elder Mo Yan stood beside the crater's edge.
"Welcome," she said. "This is Rui—last of her kind. Her storm is dying. She grieves."
She gestured to the beast.
"Your trial: Harmony.
Not subdue. Not command.
Restore."
She turned to Chen.
"You have one hour.
No weapons. No pills. No techniques.
Just you.
If she calms… you pass.
If she breaks the chains… you fail."
Zhao Lei stepped forward. "That's not a trial. It's suicide."
Elder Mo Yan's gaze didn't waver. "Cloudveil does not forge weapons. It cultivates vessels. Go."
Chen walked to the crater's edge.
Rui's head lifted.
Her violet eyes fixed on him.
Not anger. Not hunger.
Recognition.
As if she'd been waiting.
Chen didn't descend.
He sat.
Cross-legged. Hands in lap. Breath slow.
He didn't gather Qi.
He listened.
The hum deepened—grief, yes, but beneath it: exhaustion. Loneliness. A storm with no sky left to fill.
He thought of Xiao's cough.
His father's hidden pain.
The way the ginseng seed had pushed through stone.
Some things don't need force. They need space to be heard.
He closed his eyes.
And gave.
Not Qi.
Silence.
He emptied his mind—not of thought, but of intention. No plan. No desire to fix. Just… presence.
Like sitting with a friend who weeps.
Minutes passed.
The wind stilled.
Rui's hum softened.
Then—she took a step.
Not toward him.
Toward the center.
She lowered her head.
And for the first time, Chen saw it.
Wrapped around her left forelimb—a chain, not of spirit-thread, but of black iron.
Rusted. Ancient. Etched with jagged runes.
The Taker's Mark.
A fragment of the Hollow Continent's decay—somehow here.
She wasn't grieving her storm.
She was trapped in it.
Chen stood.
Walked down the slope.
Zhao Lei hissed: "Chen—!"
Elder Mo Yan held up a hand. "Let him."
Chen stopped ten paces from Rui.
She didn't move.
He knelt.
Not in submission.
In offering.
From his pocket, he pulled the last thing he'd brought: his father's flute.
He didn't play.
He held it out.
"Take it," he said, voice soft. "It's seen grief too."
Rui's head tilted.
A spark leapt from her wing—crackling toward the flute.
Chen didn't flinch.
The spark touched the ginkgo wood.
Instead of burning—it sank.
The flute glowed—warm, gold, alive.
And Rui… exhaled.
A sound like rain finally falling on dry earth.
She stepped forward.
Gently, her muzzle brushed the flute.
Then—she nudged it back toward him.
Not mine, her eyes seemed to say. Yours.
Chen understood.
He lifted the flute.
Took a breath.
And played.
Not a song.
Just one note.
Low. Steady. Full of dawn.
The note rose—clean, clear.
Rui's wings unfolded.
Not in threat.
In release.
Static faded. Violet eyes warmed to soft blue.
The black iron chain… cracked.
Not shattered.
Just… loosened. Like old bark falling from a tree.
She lifted her forelimb.
The chain slid off.
Clattered to the stone.
Silent.
Then—she bowed.
Not to Elder Mo Yan.
To Chen.
A deep, slow dip of her head—wings sweeping the ground like a scholar's robe.
Elder Mo Yan's eyes shone.
"Pass."
Zhao Lei let out a breath he'd been holding.
Chen lowered the flute.
Rui turned, leapt—wings catching an updraft—and soared into the morning sky.
Not vanishing.
Just… returning.
Back at the courtyard, Chen sat on the balcony, flute in hand.
A soft chime.
[DAILY SIGN-IN AVAILABLE]
Streak: Day 11
Rewards:
🔸 1 × Spirit Stone (High)
🔸 Technique: Stormbreath (Qi Gathering Stage 6 — Calm Amid Chaos)
🔸 Gift of the First Listener
Note: Rui's gratitude echoes.
Chen chose Gift of the First Listener.
The scroll shimmered.
✅ Reward: Rui's Feather
A single plume of storm-mist, solidified. When held, grants perfect calm in crisis. When gifted… returns ten thousandfold in trust.
Note: Only bonds to those who give without expectation.
A feather—no longer mist, but smooth, cool jade—appeared in his palm. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
He didn't keep it.
He walked to Bai Rong's door.
Knocked.
Bai Rong opened it, ink-stained fingers, eyes tired from scrolls.
Chen held out the feather.
"For the archives," he said. "In case the past gets noisy."
Bai Rong stared. Took it.
The moment his fingers closed around it, his shoulders relaxed. His frantic energy stilled.
"…I haven't slept in three days," he whispered.
"Now you can," Chen said.
In his mind:
[GIFT RECORDED]
— Item: Rui's Feather
— Recipient: Bai Rong
— Intent: Brotherhood. Peace.
Return Ready.
🔸 [QUANTITY]
🔸 [QUALITY]
Quality.
✅ Return: Primordial Alchemy Manual — Fragment II
Teaches soul-aligned refinement: how to purify herbs not for power, but for healing the root of illness.
Note: Contains cure for "Qi Deviation" — Lu Zhong's condition.
Bai Rong gasped as a new scroll warmed in his satchel.
He looked at Chen—speechless.
Then, quietly: "How do you do it?"
Chen smiled. "I just remember—some storms aren't meant to be broken.
They're meant to be carried."
That afternoon, Chen visited the ginseng clearing.
The shoot had grown knee-high.
And at its center—a single flower.
White. Delicate.
Petals layered in perfect symmetry.
A lotus.
He knelt.
Touched a petal.
It glowed—soft gold, like dawn.
The System chimed—gentle, proud:
"Ten thousand steps. One flower.
Keep going."
Chen sat beside it.
Played one note on the flute.
And high above, a shadow passed—not dark, but light.
Rui, circling the peak.
Watching.
Guarding.
Waiting.
He wasn't alone.
He never had been.