( New worries)
Two hours of travel should have felt simple.
For anyone else, it would have been nothing more than a steady walk along the carved stone path leading toward the Tournament Grounds—flags in the distance, banners fluttering, the occasional merchant stall appearing like scattered punctuation between long stretches of road.
But for Zhang Wei's group, nothing was ever just a walk.
Because Zhang Wei was present.
And Zhang Wei, unfortunately, came with curiosity.
"Zhang Wei—don't stand too close to that pond."
Zhang Lie's voice cut through the air again, already strained with the kind of exhaustion that didn't come from distance, but from responsibility.
Wei didn't hear him immediately.
Or rather—he did.
He just didn't prioritize it.
He was crouched near a shallow crawfish pond beside the roadside break area, eyes fixed with genuine fascination.
The water was unusually clear, almost glass-like. Sunlight broke across its surface in scattered fragments, making the tiny creatures beneath shimmer as they moved. Each ripple bent light into shifting patterns, like broken mirrors drifting on water.
Wei leaned closer.
"…They glow when the light hits them," he murmured.
A crawfish flicked its tail.
Wei's eyes widened slightly.
"Did it just—"
"Zhang Wei."
Zhang Lin's voice came sharper this time.
Wei finally turned his head slightly.
"Hmm?"
Zhang Lie exhaled through his nose, already rubbing his temple.
"I said don't go near the water."
"I'm not in the water," Wei replied honestly.
"That's not the point."
Wei looked back at the pond again, completely ignoring the warning.
Behind him—
Zhang Lin adjusted his grip on his sword.
Fei Fei sighed softly.
Sang Sang, standing quietly, tilted her head as if listening to something only she could sense in the distance.
Zhang Lie walked forward, stopping just behind Wei.
"…We are two hours away from the Tournament Grounds," he said flatly. "Try not to die because of a crawfish."
Wei blinked.
"That sounds unlikely."
"It's you," Zhang Lie replied immediately.
That shut him up for half a second.
The road ahead grew busier as they moved closer.
More clans.
More banners.
More uniforms.
The air itself began to feel layered—like invisible pressure stacking upon pressure.
Wei noticed it first this time.
"…It feels heavier," he said quietly.
Zhang Lie's gaze sharpened slightly.
"That's the Tournament boundary effect."
Wei turned slightly. "Boundary effect?"
Lin answered instead, voice calm but firm.
"Formation arrays spread across the region. They suppress weaker unstable Qi while amplifying stronger signatures."
Wei processed that slowly.
"So… it pushes people to show their real strength?"
Fei Fei nodded. "Exactly."
Wei frowned. "That sounds unfair."
"It is," Zhang Lie said. "That's why it's called a tournament."
As they approached the main gate, the atmosphere shifted again.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
Like stepping into a space where silence had weight.
The entrance wasn't just a gate.
It was a towering structure of carved black stone, layered with ancient seals that faintly pulsed under the surface. Above it, banners of different clans hung like suspended judgment.
And beyond it—
A massive arena complex stretched out, half visible through misted air formations.
Wei slowed slightly.
"…So many people."
His voice was quieter now.
Zhang Lie didn't look impressed.
"Too many eyes."
Zhang Lin's posture tightened subtly.
"Stay close."
Wei nodded instinctively.
But then—
He drifted half a step forward anyway.
Curiosity pulling him like always.
His eyes caught movement near a decorative lotus-shaped fountain carved into stone beside the entrance.
Light refracted through it strangely, bending in unnatural patterns.
Wei tilted his head.
"…That's not normal water."
"Zhang Wei—"
Too late.
A disciple nearby scoffed.
And just like that—
The atmosphere changed.
Murmurs started.
Low.
Sharp.
"He's the Zhang Clan's fifth?"
"He looks… soft."
"Why is he staring at a fountain like that?"
Zhang Lie closed his eyes briefly.
"…Here we go."
Zhang Lin stepped closer.
Fei Fei's expression cooled slightly.
Sang Sang's hand shifted subtly near her sword.
But Wei—
Still unaware of the ripple he caused—leaned slightly toward the fountain.
And that was when the pressure arrived.
Not from the crowd.
From above.
Silence dropped like a blade.
Two officials stood on the elevated platform at the gate.
Their robes were silver-black, embroidered with a fractured ring emblem.
Their presence alone forced the surrounding noise to thin.
One of them spoke without raising his voice.
"Entry inspection begins."
The words carried.
Everyone stiffened slightly.
Wei blinked.
"…Inspection?"
Zhang Lie muttered under his breath.
"Don't react too much. Don't speak too much. Don't exist too loudly."
Wei looked at him. "That sounds impossible."
"It's not. For normal people."
Wei frowned.
"…Rude."
Then—
Footsteps.
Measured.
Heavy in authority, light in effort.
A group entered from the elevated bridge beyond the gate.
Their robes were layered silver with black threadwork, each movement synchronized without needing command. The crest on their chests—broken ring design—seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
People parted instantly.
Whispers spread like fire held under glass.
"Imperial Observation House…"
Zhang Lie's expression changed immediately.
"…Why are they here?"
Wei tilted his head. "Are they important?"
Zhang Lin answered quietly.
"More than important."
Fei Fei added, even softer.
"They decide what gets remembered."
Wei blinked slowly.
"…That's dramatic."
No one responded.
Because one of them had already stopped.
Right in front of him.
The man looked young.
But not in a comforting way.
In a way that felt intentionally misleading.
His eyes were older than his face—measured, still, observant in a way that made people feel examined rather than seen.
He looked at Zhang Wei.
Not quickly.
Not casually.
Like reading something written in layers.
Wei shifted slightly.
"…Can I help you?"
Zhang Lie stepped forward instantly.
"Move."
But the man didn't acknowledge him.
His gaze remained fixed on Wei.
"So this is the one," he said calmly.
Wei blinked. "Me?"
A faint smile appeared.
"Not you specifically."
A pause.
"Your condition."
The word made the air tighten.
Zhang Lin's hand moved half an inch.
Fei Fei's eyes sharpened.
Sang Sang's expression changed—barely visible, but present.
Zhang Lie's voice dropped.
"Finish your sentence carefully."
The man ignored him.
"As expected," he continued, "the Zhang Clan still doesn't understand how to hide interesting variables."
Wei frowned.
"…I still don't know what you mean."
The man's gaze deepened slightly.
"Your core signature fluctuates."
That sentence landed differently.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
But precise enough to unsettle.
Wei looked down at his hand instinctively.
"…Fluctuates?"
Zhang Lie stepped forward again.
"That's enough. We're done here."
But the man finally looked at him.
Just briefly.
Then back to Wei.
"Most cultivators are stable," he said. "Predictable. Traceable."
A pause.
"Yours is not."
Wei's fingers curled slightly.
"…Is that bad?"
The man didn't answer directly.
Instead—
"Be careful in the preliminaries," he said calmly. "People like you are… watched more closely."
Then he turned.
As if the conversation had already been archived.
But just before leaving—
He stopped slightly.
Glanced back.
"One more thing."
His eyes passed over Zhang Lin.
Then Zhang Lie.
Finally Wei again.
"Try not to break your interesting one before observation concludes."
And he walked away.
Silence returned.
But it wasn't empty.
It was filled.
Zhang Lie exhaled slowly.
"…I really hate imperial people."
Fei Fei didn't smile this time.
Sang Sang spoke softly.
"He wasn't guessing."
Zhang Lin frowned. "About what exactly?"
She hesitated.
"…His core."
Wei stood still.
Looking at his own hand again.
Then slowly—
He closed it.
"…So it's not just gossip," he said quietly.
No one answered.
Because now they understood:
The tournament wasn't just competition anymore.
It was classification.
And Zhang Wei—
Had just been labeled without permission.
The entire arena changed the moment the illusion fully settled.
What had been a vast tournament ground filled with stone platforms and clan banners was now overlaid with something far more unsettling—a mirrored world of lives that were not their own.
A faint hum vibrated through the air.
Not sound.
Not wind.
Something deeper.
Like the world itself had been turned into a mind.
Zhang Wei sat cross-legged among the others on the lower trial platform, his pink robes standing out sharply against the muted colors of the other participants. The fabric shimmered faintly under the illusion-light, the crystal threads along his hem catching and scattering reflections like broken starlight.
Around him, hundreds of disciples from different clans had the same stiff posture—eyes closed, breathing uneven.
Some already frowned in discomfort.
Others clenched their jaws as if resisting sleep.
"Just mental trials…" someone whispered shakily from the side. "That's all it is…"
But no one believed it.
Not really.
Above them, the massive floating screens formed from spiritual projection stretched across the eastern sky like hanging mirrors. The thirteen elevated observation seats—where the Imperial House, the clan elders, and the ranking arbiters sat—loomed like silent gods watching ants decide their worth.
Even the air felt thinner under their gaze.
The Illusion Begins
Zhang Wei's vision snapped.
Not like closing eyes.
Like falling through them.
He opened his eyes again—
And he was no longer on the platform.
Warm light.
Soft incense.
Wood polished by time.
He stood in a palace corridor.
His hands—smaller.
Smoother.
Not trained.
Not scarred.
Servant robes.
But not low status robes.
Fine stitching along the cuffs.
Gold-thread trimming at the collar.
The weight of silk resting against his shoulders like responsibility rather than clothing.
Zhang Wei blinked.
"…What is this?"
His voice came out wrong.
Not weak.
Not strong.
Just… different.
Familiar in a way that made his chest tighten without reason.
A maid passed by and immediately lowered her gaze.
"Your Highness," she said softly. "The king requests your presence."
The title struck him harder than any blade.
His fingers twitched.
Highness?
Before he could respond, his body moved.
Not willingly.
Not forced.
But… familiar.
Like muscle memory belonging to someone else had taken his joints hostage.
He turned.
Walked.
Every step precise.
Every movement measured.
The fabric of his robes shifted smoothly with each stride, brushing against polished floorboards. The scent of sandalwood clung to the air, mixing with distant ink and parchment.
Zhang Wei's mind raced inside a body that refused to slow.
This isn't mine.
This isn't real.
And yet—
The warmth of the palace sunlight felt real.
The pressure of authority behind every bowed servant felt real.
The echo of his footsteps in long halls felt real.
Outside the Illusion — Tournament Ground
In the real world, the clans were frozen watching the projection.
Gasps rose sporadically across the crowd.
"Is that… royal memory imprinting?"
"No—he's too young for that level of inheritance illusion…"
"The Zhang boy is in that layer?"
Fei Fei's hand tightened unconsciously.
Sang Sang tilted her head slightly, her newly recovered vision focusing on the shifting screen as if trying to read beyond it.
Zhang Lin's expression darkened.
Zhang Lie clicked his tongue.
"…Mental trial my foot," he muttered. "That's a memory extraction domain layered with identity distortion."
Even the Bi Clan elders leaned forward slightly now.
Grandpa Tang's smile faded into something more serious.
Ning, standing behind restraints from his elders, narrowed his eyes.
"That's not normal selection criteria," he said lowly. "They're probing lineage response…"
Back in the Illusion — Zhang Wei
Zhang Wei reached a set of massive doors.
Two guards stood on either side.
They didn't look at him.
They bowed.
"Your Highness."
The doors opened without him touching them.
Inside—
A throne room.
But not cold like he expected.
It was alive.
Golden light spilled from chandeliers shaped like blooming lotuses. Red silk banners hung from the ceiling, embroidered with flowing script that shifted when not directly observed. The floor reflected faintly like shallow water, mirroring the ceiling above.
At the far end—
A man sat.
The king.
Zhang Wei's breath caught.
Because the man looked at him—
Not as a ruler.
But as a father would look at a child returning late.
"You are late," the king said gently.
Zhang Wei hesitated.
"…I don't understand."
The king smiled faintly.
"That is because you are still pretending this is not yours."
The air tightened.
Zhang Wei felt something press against his chest—not physical, but conceptual. Like the illusion was trying to recognize him into existence.
He took a step back instinctively.
His sleeve brushed the air—
And for a brief moment—
He saw his reflection in the polished floor.
But it wasn't his face.
It was someone else's.
Someone who looked like him—
If he had never been weak.
Never been broken.
Never been "protected."
A version of him that stood tall in silence.
A ruler.
Not a child.
Zhang Wei's breathing quickened.
"No," he whispered. "That's not me."
The king's eyes softened.
"Isn't it?"
Outside — Rising Tension
The projection flickered.
A few disciples in the lower ranks began sweating heavily.
Some collapsed entirely, pulled out by attendants.
"This is too deep for first-stage mental trial," one elder from a minor clan snapped. "They're inducing identity fracture!"
The Imperial observers remained silent.
Watching.
Evaluating.
Fei Fei stepped half a pace forward before Zhang Lie stopped her lightly with two fingers.
"Don't interfere," he said quietly.
Her eyes flashed. "That's Wei in there."
"I know," he replied. "That's why we don't interrupt."
Sang Sang's voice was almost inaudible.
"…He's resisting it."
Back in the Illusion
Zhang Wei clenched his fists.
The palace around him began to shift.
Walls flickered.
Silk banners warped like water.
The king remained unchanged.
"Accept it," the voice said gently. "This is the path you were meant to inherit."
Zhang Wei's breathing slowed.
Not calm.
Not peaceful.
But controlled.
His fingers slowly loosened.
Then—
He shook his head.
"…I don't want it."
A pause.
The entire hall stilled.
Even the light seemed to hesitate.
Zhang Wei looked down at his hands again.
Small.
Human.
Not perfect.
Not powerful.
But his.
"I don't want a life that isn't mine," he said more firmly.
The king studied him for a long moment.
Then—
Very softly—
He smiled.
Not disappointed.
Not angry.
Almost… approving.
"Good," the king said.
And everything shattered.
Return
Zhang Wei gasped as he snapped back into his body on the trial platform.
Cold air hit his lungs.
The illusion layer peeled away like glass breaking into dust.
Around him, several disciples were still trembling.
Some were crying.
Some were laughing hysterically.
A few had already collapsed unconscious.
Zhang Wei blinked rapidly, his pink robes suddenly feeling too real again, the crystal threads along his hem dimming as the trial stabilized.
He looked down at his hands.
Still his.
Still small.
Still alive.
From above, one of the Imperial observers finally spoke quietly.
"…Interesting."
And for the first time—
All eyes on the arena shifted slightly more toward one direction.
Zhang Wei had passed the trial.
But not in the way anyone expected.
Not by strength.
Not by willpower alone.
But by refusal.
And that, in this tournament—
Was far more dangerous.
The air in the arena did not settle after Zhang Wei returned.
It tightened.
Like the illusion had left something behind in the bones of the world.
Zhang Wei sat there on the lower trial platform, one hand still lightly pressed to the ground as if confirming it was real. His pink robes had dulled slightly after the collapse of the illusion layer, the crystal threads along the hem no longer shimmering as brightly—though they still caught stray light whenever he moved.
His breathing was steady now.
But his eyes weren't.
They kept blinking, slow and measured, like someone who had just learned the difference between a dream and a memory.
Around him, the other participants were recovering in uneven waves.
A boy two rows away suddenly laughed once—then stopped, covering his mouth like he didn't understand why.
A girl behind him was crying silently, tears falling without expression.
One disciple had gone completely still, staring at his own hands like they belonged to someone else.
The illusion didn't just test strength.
It left echoes.
Above them, the massive projection screens still hovered across the sky, but the earlier shifting imagery had stabilized into a faint, rotating seal pattern—slow, deliberate, like the tournament itself was re-evaluating what it had just witnessed.
The thirteen elevated observation seats remained silent.
But silence here was not peace.
It was assessment.
Outside the Illusion Layer
Fei Fei was the first to move.
She stepped forward half a pace again, this time Zhang Lie did not stop her.
Because even he was watching differently now.
Zhang Wei's name had already been marked.
Not loudly.
Not announced.
But noted.
Sang Sang's fingers tightened slightly around her sleeve.
"I felt it," she said quietly.
Zhang Lin didn't take his eyes off the projection.
"What did you feel?"
A pause.
"…He refused something that wasn't supposed to be refused."
Zhang Lie clicked his tongue.
"That wasn't just an illusion trial," he muttered. "That was a forced identity resonance. Someone tried to overwrite his inner pattern."
Fei Fei's expression darkened.
"And he broke it?"
Zhang Lie didn't answer immediately.
Because "broke" wasn't the right word.
Wei hadn't shattered it with force.
He had simply… stepped away from it being true.
That was worse.
And rarer.
Imperial Seats
A faint shift passed through the higher tiers.
One of the imperial observers leaned forward slightly, fingers resting on the arm of his seat.
"The rejection was clean," he said.
Another voice responded, lower.
"No backlash inversion?"
"None."
A pause.
"That means his mind didn't fracture under rejection," the first voice continued slowly. "It stabilized instead."
A third voice, older, colder:
"…That should not be possible at Body Tempering stage."
The first observer finally looked away from the arena.
"Then either the illusion misread him…"
"…or it read him correctly," the second voice finished.
That silence lingered longer this time.
Back in the Arena
Zhang Wei slowly pushed himself upright.
His movements were careful, not weak—but aware, like he was still adjusting to the idea that his body belonged entirely to him again.
He glanced around.
The other disciples avoided his gaze.
Not out of disrespect.
Out of uncertainty.
People who survived illusions like that usually came back… changed in a way others instinctively felt but couldn't explain.
Wei exhaled softly.
"…That was weird," he muttered.
Then, as if trying to return to something familiar, he patted his robe once and straightened it.
The crystal-thread hem caught light again—just faintly—and flickered like a restrained star trying to remember how to shine.
A small voice from behind him spoke.
"You came back early."
Wei turned.
A disciple from a mid-tier clan was looking at him with cautious curiosity.
Wei blinked.
"I guess?"
The disciple hesitated.
"…What did you see?"
Wei opened his mouth—
Then stopped.
For a moment, the throne room flashed in his mind again.
The king.
The illusion of a life that wasn't his.
The version of himself that looked complete… but felt wrong.
Wei looked down at his hands again.
Then simply said:
"Something that wasn't mine."
The disciple frowned, not understanding.
But before he could ask more—
A bell rang.
Deep.
Clear.
Final.
The illusion field dissolved entirely, and the arena's original structure reasserted itself—stone platforms, banners, wind, and distance returning all at once like a world exhaling after holding its breath.
The trial phase had ended.
And the ranking silence began.
Higher Platform Reaction
Zhang Lie's eyes narrowed slightly.
"…He passed," he said.
Fei Fei exhaled slowly, only then realizing she had been holding her breath.
Sang Sang gave a small nod.
Zhang Lin's gaze remained steady.
"But not like the others," he added.
Zhang Lie smirked faintly.
"No," he said. "Not like anyone we've seen."
His eyes drifted back to Wei.
Who was now stood in the of platform, pink robes catching faint wind, expression calm again—but different in a way no one could easily name.
"…That boy," Zhang Lie muttered under his breath, almost amused, almost wary.
"He's becoming a problem in ways even he doesn't understand yet."
And above them—
The imperial seats remained still.
Watching.
Waiting.
As if the real tournament had only just found something worth paying attention to.
The arena had gone completely still.
Zhang Wei and the other eighty-nine participants stood in a wide circular formation, suspended above the original stage by an ancient illusion array. Beneath them, the stone floor had been replaced with flowing light—runic rivers of gold and silver twisting together like living script.
The host's voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"Now that the first phase is complete…"
A pause.
"…we begin the true taste."
A ripple passed through the formation. Not energy—judgment.
"This trial will strip you of memory. You will not be yourselves. You will live as someone else entirely. A life that is real within the illusion, and complete in its emotional logic."
The words settled heavily.
Some participants frowned. Others looked unsettled. A few already tried to circulate spiritual energy—
But it was useless.
The host continued calmly.
"Be careful. Your choices will affect not only your life, but the lives of others within that world."
Another pause.
"This is not a simulation."
A faint hum rose beneath their feet.
"This is written destiny."
Before anyone could respond—
The world collapsed.
Not violently.
Silently.
Like a breath being taken away.
Zhang Wei woke with a sharp inhale.
Cold air filled his lungs.
He was lying on soft bedding.
For a moment, there was nothing unusual.
Then reality settled in.
He had no memory.
Only fragments—like ink stains on paper.
A sense of identity without context.
His body felt familiar.
A young boy's frame—slight but healthy, dressed in loose green robes that flowed naturally around him. The fabric was soft, woven from light spirit-cotton, cool against his skin and slightly textured at the edges where it had been repaired carefully by hand.
His white hair fell freely around his shoulders, unbound, catching faint morning light through the wooden lattice window.
Outside—
Birdsong.
Wind brushing through bamboo leaves.
A courtyard filled with quiet life.
And voices.
"Wei!"
The door slid open quickly.
A boy slightly older than him rushed in, grabbing his arm.
The movement was rough—but not unkind.
"Stop daydreaming. Father's looking for you."
Wei blinked.
No resistance.
Only instinctive familiarity.
He laughed softly as he was pulled along, bare feet brushing across polished wooden flooring. The halls of the estate were wide and clean, supported by dark lacquered beams carved with protective sigils. Red lantern strings hung even in daylight, swaying slightly with the wind drifting through open corridors.
Servants bowed as they passed.
"Second Young Master."
"Fifth Young Master."
Their voices were low, respectful.
Wei didn't question it.
It felt… normal.
They crossed into a courtyard filled with morning sunlight.
Stone paths cut through neatly trimmed gardens of white plum blossoms. A koi pond shimmered in the center, its surface reflecting branches like fractured glass. The estate was large—clearly noble—but not oppressive. Instead, it felt lived in.
Warm.
Familiar.
A man stood ahead.
Old—but not fragile.
Straight posture, calm presence.
Dressed in simple general's attire—dark gray robe layered beneath a short armored vest of muted bronze plates. His hair was tied back with a plain band, and his eyes carried the weight of authority softened by exhaustion rather than cruelty.
General Pi Lang.
Wei's body reacted before his mind did.
He slowed.
Then instinctively stepped behind his elder brother.
The elder didn't stop him.
Just exhaled lightly, as if used to it.
"Father," the elder greeted.
Pi Lang nodded once toward him.
Then his gaze shifted to Wei.
It softened slightly.
But concern lingered.
"You've been running again," the general said.
His voice was calm.
Not angry.
Just tired in the way of someone who has repeated the same warning too many times.
"Your heart condition is not stable. You shouldn't be outside like that."
Wei tilted his head slightly.
"I was simply playing," he replied.
Honest.
Simple.
Pi Lang sighed.
A servant stepped forward immediately, bowing.
"Fifth Young Master, please return to your room."
Wei hesitated—but only briefly.
Then turned.
He followed without protest.
The corridor back to his room felt longer than it should have.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
His chamber was large.
Too large for a child.
Yet it felt strangely empty.
A carved wooden bed stood near the center, draped with light blue bedding embroidered with silver threads. A small desk sat by the window, scattered with wooden puzzles, ink stones, and neatly arranged brushes.
On a nearby table—
A box.
Open.
Filled with candies, dried fruits, small trinkets shaped like animals and stars.
Gifts.
Many.
But Wei only glanced at them.
No excitement.
No joy.
Just a quiet absence.
Outside the window, he could see the courtyard again.
His brothers.
All healthy.
Laughing.
Training with wooden swords under the supervision of guards. Their movements were energetic, their voices loud, their presence bright with life.
And in the distance—
His father stood watching them.
For a moment, the image lingered.
Warm.
Complete.
Wei looked away.
A faint ache formed in his chest, but he couldn't name it.
A maid entered quietly carrying a bowl.
Dark liquid.
Thick.
Bitter aroma immediately filled the room.
"Master Fifth," she said softly, "please drink your medicine."
Wei frowned.
"Do I need it?"
The maid hesitated.
Then nodded.
"…Yes."
He accepted the bowl.
The liquid was warm.
Almost metallic in taste.
He drank it slowly.
His expression tightened instantly.
Disgust.
Without thinking, he reached for a candy from the box and placed it in his mouth, trying to erase the bitterness.
It helped.
A little.
But soon—
His body grew heavy.
Sleep pressed against him like a gentle tide.
He moved to the bed and lay down.
The ceiling above him was carved with intricate floral patterns.
He stared at them.
Thoughts drifted.
Slow.
Soft.
Then gone.
Elsewhere—
The arena above the illusion world erupted into murmurs.
Massive floating screens displayed each participant's "life."
Blacksmith apprentices forging destiny-defining weapons.
Scholars solving ancient formation equations.
Princesses navigating political betrayal.
Generals leading wars not yet fought.
And Zhang Wei—
The sickly fifth young master of a noble household.
A silence spread among the Zhang disciples as they watched.
Zhang Lie's hand tightened slightly on his sleeve.
"…This is his life?" someone muttered.
Fei Fei's expression darkened.
"That household… it's suffocating him."
Sang Sang said nothing—but her eyes sharpened, tracking every detail of Wei's movements on the screen.
Even Ning, usually composed, looked unsettled.
"This is not just illusion," he said quietly. "The emotional imprint is real. He feels everything."
Across the hall, Ji clan disciples whispered.
"…He has everything. Wealth, family, safety."
"But he looks… lonely," another replied.
Zhang Lin's gaze did not move.
But his voice was low.
"Something is wrong with that body."
On the screen again—
Wei's room dimmed as evening arrived.
Lantern light outside flickered gently through the window lattice, casting soft gold lines across the wooden floor.
The estate remained peaceful.
Alive.
But Wei slept alone.
Far too quietly for a child surrounded by "family."
And somewhere deep within the illusion—
Something inside him shifted.
Not memory.
Not awareness.
But a question forming without words.
Why does everything feel complete… and still empty?
Back in the real world—
Zhang Lie leaned forward slightly.
"…I don't like this trial."
Fei Fei nodded once.
"Neither do I."
And far away, unseen by most—
Elder Mi watched Zhang Wei's screen without blinking.
For the first time…
His expression had lost its calm.
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