The rooftop was quiet.
Too quiet for a school in the middle of Beijing.
The city's glow rose in layers beyond the railing—neon, traffic, distant sirens—yet the rooftop itself felt insulated, as though the air had decided to listen rather than speak.
Su Qingxue arrived first.
She stood near the edge, fingers resting lightly on the cold metal railing, Spiritual listening gathering technique circulating instinctively. Since last night, her Qi had been unusually obedient—no turbulence, no resistance—just a smooth, steady pulse.
That frightened her more than instability ever had.
Fang Ze arrived without sound.
No footsteps. No pressure.
Just presence.
"You felt it," he said, not as a question.
She nodded. "Something changed. Not just you—everything."
Fang Ze joined her at the railing. Below them, the school grounds were dark, empty. Above, the sky carried a faint distortion, like heat haze that shouldn't exist at night.
"The Golden Era crossed a threshold," he said calmly. "Last night wasn't an ambush. It was a signal."
"To who?"
"To everyone who knows how to listen."
Su Qingxue swallowed. "And us?"
Fang Ze turned to her fully now. His expression was steady—but honest.
"You're standing at a fork," he said. "If you keep walking with me, you won't stay ordinary. You won't stay safe in the way normal people define it."
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she asked, "If I stop?"
He didn't lie. "You'll be protected. But you'll always feel like you stopped too early."
Silence stretched.
Then Su Qingxue straightened, breath steadying.
"I don't want to watch from behind," she said.
Fang Ze nodded once.
"That's enough."
At that exact moment—
The city screamed.
Not audibly. Energetically.
A surge erupted three kilometers west—violent, unfiltered, public.
Fang Ze's gaze snapped toward it.
"Public incident," he said. "And badly handled."
The shopping complex on West Chang'an Avenue was chaos.
Glass had shattered across three floors.
Vehicles lay overturned like discarded toys. At the center of it all stood a man in a torn training jacket, veins glowing faintly red beneath his skin.
"I can feel it!" he shouted, voice cracking with exhilaration and fear. "I'm stronger than all of you!"
Unstable Qi leaked from every pore.
A failed body-refinement method. Force-fed. Accelerated. Irreversible.
HSAB personnel had already cordoned the area, but none dared step closer. The man's strength fluctuated wildly—enough to kill civilians, not enough to be cleanly neutralized without collateral damage.
Above the scene, on a nearby rooftop.
A young man in a tailored coat watched with interest.
Murong Jing.
"So that's the cost of rushing," he murmured.
"How inelegant."
An elder beside him frowned. "Should we intervene?"
Murong Cheng smiled. "No. We observe."
"And Fang Ze?"
"That," Murong Jing said softly, "is why this is useful."
Fang Ze arrived without spectacle.
No descent from the sky. No aura release.
Just a calm figure stepping through broken glass.
The raging man turned toward him instinctively, pupils dilated, Qi flaring.
"Get back!" he roared. "I can't control it!"
"I know," Fang Ze said evenly.
He raised one hand—not to strike.
The Sword-Drawing Gesture traced itself once.
Not outward.
Inward.
The violent Qi convulsed—then collapsed, drawn into a controlled spiral that sank harmlessly into the ground. The man dropped to his knees, gasping, power draining away like water through sand.
No explosion. No death. No miracle.
Just precision.
HSAB agents froze.
Cameras malfunctioned.
Across the street, Murong Cheng's smile finally faded.
"…So that's how he does it."
By the time Fang Ze left, the narrative had already begun to twist.
Online clips blurred. Witnesses contradicted each other. Officials spoke of "gas explosions" and "stress-induced hysteria."
But cultivators knew.
And more importantly—
They knew who.
That night, a visitor arrived at the Fang family bookstore.
He did not knock.
He stood in the doorway and waited.
An older man, robes understated but ancient in cut, eyes sharp with centuries of patience.
"Yan Family," he said once Fang Ze looked up.
"We wish to discuss cooperation."
Fang Ze didn't invite him in.
"You're late," Fang Ze replied.
The man chuckled. "So I've been told."
From across the street, unseen observers took note.
From above, satellites adjusted angles.
From within the city, something deeper stirred.
The Golden Era was no longer subtle.
And Fang Ze—
He wasn't hiding anymore.
He was choosing.