Beijing did not react loudly to the Golden List.
It reacted carefully.
Within an hour of the list's appearance, the original post vanished. Screens refreshed. Links broke. Accounts were wiped clean.
Yet the damage—or rather, the effect—had already spread.
Screenshots circulated.
Names were memorized.
And questions had begun to ferment.
Inside the Huaxia Special Bureau Authority's main conference room, the atmosphere was calm but dense.
Director Zhao Mingyuan sat at the center of the long table, fingers interlaced, eyes fixed on the projection hovering before him. The Golden List—reconstructed from dozens of captured images—floated silently in the air.
Number One sat at the top.
No photo.
No confirmed cultivation realm.
Only a line of carefully neutral text:
FangZe
Suspected upper-stage Qi Gathering Realm
Combat aura: stable, compressed, non-aggressive
Battlerecord: limited data, overwhelming suppression observed
Affiliation: unknown
One of the younger analysts couldn't help himself.
"…Sir, this ranking methodology—whoever released it understood internal circulation patterns. This isn't something a random netizen could fake."
Zhao Mingyuan nodded slowly.
"Which is why we're not treating it as provocation."
A man from the intelligence division leaned forward.
"Director, some families are already moving. Quietly."
"Of course they are," Zhao replied. "That's how Huaxia works."
He tapped the table once.
"But we move first—and we move clean."
The room stilled.
"Fang Ze is not to be pressured," Zhao Mingyuan continued. "No summons. No forced registration. No probing under the table."
Someone frowned. "And if hostile factions approach him?"
Zhao's lips curved faintly.
"Then we remind them," he said softly,
"that stability is also a national resource."
Across the city, in a Murong family residence tucked behind manicured walls and old trees, Murong Jing finished reading the same reconstructed list.
He didn't look angry.
If anything, he looked amused.
"So that's him," he murmured, folding the tablet and setting it aside.
An elder nearby studied his expression. "You're not upset about your ranking."
Murong Jing laughed lightly.
"Why would I be? Rankings without blood are just weather reports."
He leaned back, hands behind his head.
"But number one…" he added, eyes sharpening slightly.
"That means people will test him."
"And?"
"And I hope," Murong Jing said casually,
"that he's as interesting as the rumors suggest."
At a quiet teahouse near Chengdu's old quarter, Tang Wanru sat alone by the window.
Steam curled from her cup.
Outside, rain traced faint patterns against the glass.
She hadn't been in Huaxia long—barely two months since returning from overseas—but she could already feel it. The difference.
The air was alive.
Her phone buzzed once.
The GoldenList image filled the screen.
Tang Wanru's gaze lingered on the top name longer than necessary.
"Fang Ze…" she murmured.
She didn't know why the name felt familiar.
Only that her heart beat once—just a little faster.
Far to the northwest, beyond cities and beyond polite society, a campfire crackled in the desert wind.
Mo Chen sharpened a blade slowly, methodically.
The GoldenList sat open beside him on a cracked tablet.
He read it once.
Then closed it.
"Number one," he muttered, eyes calm.
"Good."
To him, it wasn't a challenge.
It was a direction.
Back in Beijing, Fang Ze himself was completely unaware of most of this.
He was standing inside his mother's bookstore.
Specifically—behind the counter.
Fang Linying eyed him suspiciously.
"You don't usually help without ulterior motives."
Fang Ze grinned. "Can't a son enjoy quality time with his mother?"
She snorted. "Say what you want."
He did want something.
But not yet.
The bookstore was quiet, afternoon sunlight filtering through tall shelves. Fang Ze's gaze drifted—seemingly casually—across the spines of old texts, discontinued prints, unsold academic works.
Then it paused.
A thin, unassuming book sat wedged between two medical journals.
No title on the spine.
Wrong paper texture.
Wrong smell.
Fang Ze didn't reach for it immediately.
He chatted with a customer. Helped his mother organize a stack of receipts. Even teased Fang Xiaoyu when she tugged at his sleeve asking for snacks.
Only when the shop emptied did he pick it up.
His fingers brushed the cover—
—and the Qi inside his body responded.
Not violently.
Not greedily.
Like recognition.
Fang Ze's smile widened, this time genuine.
"Well," he murmured under his breath,
"looks like someone didn't mean to lose this."
Fang Linying glanced over. "What?"
"Nothing," Fang Ze said lightly, slipping the book under his arm.
"Just borrowing something old."
That night, at home, Fang Ze finally opened it.
No ancient script.
No grand inheritance.
Just dense, meticulous notes.
On how the human body adapts during early-stage spiritual resurgence.
Case studies. Observations. Failures. Marginal annotations by someone who clearly didn't care about fame.
Fang Ze laughed softly.
"Practical," he said approvingly.
"I like practical."
This wasn't a miracle.
It was a tool.
And tools—when used properly—changed outcomes.
Outside, Beijing continued to breathe.
Families speculated.
Factions watched.
Prodigies stirred.
And Fang Ze, seated comfortably on his bed with one leg crossed over the other, looked nothing like a looming overlord.
He looked like a young man enjoying himself.
The board had been laid out.
Now—
It was time to play.