Feiyun Xing ripped his sword off and hurled it across the room. It skittered along the floor, clattering to a stop. A thin edge of the blade peeked from the sheath—shimmering, nearly transparent. A Core he had forged himself.

  He let himself drop on the bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the weapon as if it held any answers.

  “Tch. How can he see people just as toys!?” A sigh followed as he lay down. “She is no object…”

  While frustration dominated his thoughts, another day began for her.

  In the humble block that barely deserved to be called a house, Ren Lin lit a candle and unrolled a fresh sheet of bamboo paper. Sunlight made its way through her window as a sweet bamboo fragrance mingled with the waxy scent of the flame. She no longer needed to steal her materials—her business was slowly, yet surely, finding its footing.

  A dry, whispering scratch followed each stroke of her brush. The paper’s rough surface offered a gentle resistance, the friction singing softly under the brush’s delicate hairs. She guided each stroke with precision, the lines flowing from thick to thin with practiced ease. Watching her write was like watching a painting take form—graceful, deliberate, composed.

  A knock interrupted her rhythm.

  She rose, then moved to the door.

  What greeted her was a carriage—purple tinted wood, trimmed in gold. The banners tied to its corners bore the family’s crest; an arm reaching forward, its dark color contrasted the white background. The fine craftsmanship and quiet weight of its presence marked it as belonging to someone of stature.

  A single imperial guard stood beside it. He had just finished knocking—tall, expressionless beneath his helm, his armor polished enough to catch sunlight in glints. His hand, still raised from the gesture, lowered only after he saw her.

  “Lady Ren Lin?” His voice was steady, practiced—neutral but undeniable.

  She tilted her head slightly. “Yes.”

  “You are expected.”

  No immediate answer. Her gaze flicked past him, toward the villagers. A small crowd had gathered, their eyes drawn to the carriage. Confusion, awe, and suspicion filled their gazes.

  It was natural, no one came for people like them—like her. Not in carriages like that.

  Ren Lin could feel it. The shift in air, this moment would be the first ripple.

  Before stepping forward she took the mask Core. Her robe brushed against the dusty wooden steps. The guard extended a hand to assist her into the carriage, and for a moment, she considered refusing it. But this wasn’t the time to show pride.

  As she entered, the world dulled. The chatter, the staring eyes—all swallowed by the soft creak of the carriage’s door as it shut.

  Across her sat Feiyun Xing, back straight, hands folded in his lap. His posture was stiff, but his gaze softened when it met hers.

  “I am sorry for causing this scene,” he said quietly. “The king… insisted.”

  She didn’t answer right away. Instead, her eyes lingered on his for a long, unreadable second.

  “Oh?” she said at last, voice calm but unreadable. “What would he need from me?”

  “I am not sure. But do not worry, it will not be anything bad.”

  “If my dear prince says so…”

  The carriage rocked gently as it began to move, wheels creaking under the weight of gold and expectation. Outside, the dirt road gave way to smoother stone, and soon even the fields and thatched roofs faded into the backdrop of looming walls and city gates. Guards opened the gates without a word—the crest on the carriage made way for them like a blade through silk.

  Ren Lin sat in contemplative silence, watching the scenery shift. From narrow alleys to the wide avenues of the capital, every detail reminded her she was leaving one world and entering another.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Trying to ease the mood, Feiyun Xing tried to speak a little, only glancing at her from time to time. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but the weight of uncertainty hung heavy between them. Not fear of her—no, of his father.

  When the carriage came to a halt, a guard opened the doors to let Ren Lin, and the prince step out. He led them to the doors of the royal’s private training grounds. The scent of the hallways hit her first—polished wood and a sweet perfume, it felt like heaven entered her nostrils.

  The massive doors magically creaked open, revealing a broad expanse of polished floors, high ceilings lined with lacquered beams, and weapon racks arranged with surgical precision. The sun’s light poured in through narrow vertical slits in the walls, casting long shadows across the floor.

  At the far end stood the king.

  His presence anchored the space like a mountain. Cloaked in layered robes, his arms were crossed behind his back, his stance measured, calm—but the stillness was deceptive. His gaze flicked toward them with silent calculation as the heavy doors closed behind them.

  No one had even touched the doors, yet they moved—it was the king using his essence to open them from afar.

  “This female is a mortal.” His gaze turned sharp. “You have the guts to bring such filth?”

  Before the prince could talk back, Ren Lin knelt. “Forgive me, King. Though I’m just a mortal, I bring a gift for Your Highness.”

  “This gift of yours should be good enough to justify your existence.”

  Retrieving the mask Core, she handed it over. “With this, you can change not only your face, but your whole body. If you were to use it when older, you could make yourself younger. Sadly, it can only be used once.”

  Both their eyelids widened in surprise. The quality of this Core was enough to prove what she said had been right!

  “How did you get this?”

  “It was an heirloom, I hope Your Majesty is satisfied.”

  After nodding, he gestured to a stone bench along the side of the hall. A silk cushion had been laid across it—clearly prepared beforehand.

  She bowed in acknowledgment then crossed the hall with graceful steps. Her movement was filled with utmost cautiousness, while her mind spun. Just the slightest offense could cost her life.

  Feiyun Xing turned toward his father, brow furrowed. “What is this for?”

  The king picked up a wooden sword. “This shall be enough for you. A prince who lies, who sneaks away and loses focus, must be reminded of discipline.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Draw your weapon.”

  His voice was unbreakable as steel. Cold. Absolute.

  Feiyun Xing hesitated. His eyes flicked briefly toward Ren Lin—then lowered. With a slow breath, he stepped into position and unsheathed his sword. The transparent edge reflected a dot of light.

  “Are you sure you just want to use a wooden blade, Father?”

  “Insolent son. Must I really remind you of what essence is used for?” The king sneered. “Even if I just enhanced my finger with it, it would be too much for you.”

  Ren Lin sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap. She wanted to watch every movement with the intensity of a strategist.

  Feiyun Xing took his stance as the hall fell silent. Even the air seemed to hush in reverence or fear.

  “Begin,” the king said.

  The prince lunged forward, swinging from his right side with all his weight behind it. His form was sharp—astonishingly refined for someone so young.

  But the king barely moved.

  He slightly raised his arm, then with a tilt of his wrist, brought his wooden blade down in a clean, brutal arc.

  Bang!

  He met his son’s strike with punishing force.

  The impact rang through Feiyun Xing’s arms like iron striking stone. His grip faltered. The sword nearly flew from his fingers.

  Gritting his teeth, he twisted with the momentum, turning it into a rotation. Using the force against itself, he spun and came back around—a horizontal sweep, fast and heavy.

  Feiyun Xing’s horizontal sweep cut through the air with fierce intent, but it just whistled past the king’s midsection as he took a small step back. The force carried Feiyun Xing too far, and he struggled to regain balance.

  “Use essence to protect yourself now,” his father commanded before he aimed against his son’s open spot.

  “Oh no!”

  It was too late; his father’s strike was too fast. In a last-ditch effort, Feiyun Xing used his essence to strengthen his side. But even that wouldn’t help much.

  A sharp, stinging strike landed squarely against Feiyun Xing’s ribs.

  The breath was ripped from his lungs in a sudden, painful gasp. His chest constricted like iron bands tightening around it, each inhalation heavy as if he was being drowned.

  Staggered, Feiyun Xing clutched his side as his knees threatened to give out. The world tilted for a moment—distant sounds muffled, the hall darkening at the edges of his vision.

  His sword wavered helplessly in his grasp, fingers trembling.

  “Ask me again if a wooden blade is enough.” The king stepped towards him. “Come on, son, you have a core in your hands. Use it.”

  Feiyun Xing swallowed hard, the ache in his ribs sharp enough to steal his resolve. Yet beneath the pain, a flicker of something else—anger, frustration—ignited deep within.

  He straightened, forcing his shoulders back despite the burn. The king’s eyes gleamed with expectation, waiting for a response that would admit defeat.

  But Feiyun Xing gritted his teeth. “You think I’m not trying?” he spat, voice strained but fierce. “You haven’t seen everything I can do.”

  His fingers tightened around the hilt, the hidden core embedded in the sword glowing faintly—a subtle shimmer, barely perceptible but alive.

  “Then show me.” The king’s smirk deepened.

  Watching, Ren Lin held her breath. Even if there were no dazzling techniques, no grand displays—it was one of the most thrilling things she had ever witnessed. A movie from her old world felt like child’s play compared to this.

  Her fingers curled into fists, not in fear, but in yearning.

  To overwhelm others like this… this kind of power would be hers, one day.