The calm did not last.
It never did.
By the third day after the first awakenings, the world appeared to have settled—but only on the surface. News broadcasts returned to regular programming, emergency alerts were quietly downgraded, and public discussion shifted from panic to speculation.
Yet beneath that fragile calm, something was moving.
At Beijing No. 3 High School, the atmosphere had subtly changed. Students spoke more softly. Teachers paused mid-lecture, occasionally distracted by an inexplicable pressure in the air. Even the morning bell seemed sharper, its echo lingering longer than it should have.
Fang Ze noticed everything.
He sat by the window, one hand resting lightly against the desk, eyes half-lidded as he circulated Qi with deliberate restraint. The Spiritual Listening Gathering Technique spread outward in fine, invisible threads, sampling the environment.
The spiritual field was stabilizing—but not naturally.
Someone was interfering.
Not forcefully. Not openly. Just enough to suppress the growth rate.
"A net," Fang Ze thought calmly. "Crude… but effective for the masses."
The Huaxia Special Affairs Bureau had moved faster than expected.
Across the campus, Su Qingxue felt it too. Her cultivation no longer surged freely as it had the previous day. Instead, it flowed like water through narrow channels—guided, restricted.
She leaned closer to Fang Ze during a break. "Something's different again."
He nodded faintly. "They're afraid of uncontrolled awakenings. So they're pressing down the tide."
Her brow furrowed. "Can they stop it?"
"No," Fang Ze replied quietly. "Only delay it."
As if to prove his words, a sharp fluctuation rippled across the courtyard.
A student near the sports field collapsed to one knee, gasping. The spiritual energy around him surged chaotically, clashing against the imposed suppression. Teachers rushed forward, alarmed.
Before panic could spread, the disturbance faded.
The student stood up moments later, confused but unharmed.
No one noticed Fang Ze lower his hand.
Just a fraction.
Enough to redirect the turbulence before it drew attention.
From a rooftop several buildings away, a man watched through layered lenses.
He wore a plain black coat, unremarkable in every way—yet his presence felt oddly detached from the world around him. A Dragon Division insignia rested beneath his collar, hidden from view.
"Target area stabilized again," he murmured into his earpiece. "Same pattern. Disturbances neutralized before escalation."
A pause.
Then a calm female voice responded, "Internal correction or external interference?"
The man hesitated. "Undetermined. But it's precise. Too precise."
"Continue observation," the voice ordered.
"No contact. No provocation."
The call ended.
The man's gaze returned to the school courtyard—specifically, to one student standing beneath a tree, posture relaxed, expression indifferent.
"…Interesting," he muttered.
That evening, Fang Ze walked home under a sky washed in muted orange and gray. The city felt heavier now, as if an invisible layer had been laid over it. Ordinary people would chalk it up to weather or exhaustion.
He knew better.
At home, Fang Yubo stood in the study, reviewing a thin dossier projected above the desk. Fang Linying poured tea calmly, her expression unreadable.
"They've deployed observers," Fang Yubo said. "Dragon Division. Low-level for now."
Fang Linying smiled faintly. "As expected.
They're cautious—but curious."
"They haven't linked it to him yet," Fang Yubo continued. "But they will."
"Only if he allows it," she replied lightly.
Across the room, Fang Ze paused near the bookshelf, fingers brushing against old spines.
"They're suppressing the city's spiritual flow," he said evenly.
Fang Yubo looked up. "Can you move within it?"
"Yes."
"Can you grow?"
"Yes."
Fang Linying's eyes gleamed with quiet pride. "Then let them tighten the net. Pressure reveals flaws—especially in systems built on fear."
That night, far from Beijing, something else responded.
Deep within a sealed underground chamber, a cracked stone tablet trembled. Ancient symbols flared briefly before dimming once more. Somewhere, a long-dormant inheritance had sensed a familiar rhythm.
A resonance.
Back in his room, Fang Ze stood by the window, gazing at the city lights. His Qi circulated smoothly, threading through restrictions without resistance.
He was no longer merely observing the Golden Era.
He was beginning to move within it.
Slowly. Deliberately.
And unseen by most, the true game had finally begun—one where calm was not weakness, restraint was not passivity, and patience itself was a weapon.
Fang Ze closed his eyes.
"Let them watch," he murmured softly. "The deeper waters haven't even stirred yet."