A cool breeze, smelling faintly of distant spirit arrays and the unwashed robes of over-eager initiates, swept through the Grand Plaza. Zhuo Qianfeng’s focus, however, remained fixed on the mirage-like distortion in the higher firmament far above. The Empyrean Throne. He had dismissed Lei Ban, the self-proclaimed rival, as a low-tier irritant useful only for generating noise. His true concerns resided far beyond the petty squabbles of the junior novices. The formal assignments arrived with the morning dew. A stern-faced elder, draped in robes the color of bruised plums, read names from a scroll with the rhythmic drone of a funeral dirge. “...Lei Ban, Blade Arts Hall, under Master Xifeng. Zhang Hu, Spirit Inscription Hall, under Elder Qian. Zhuo Qianfeng…” The proctor paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled youth, lingering on Zhuo Qianfeng with an expression that bordered on pity. “...Apothecary Hall, under Lin Suyin.” The plaza rippled with hushed snickers and poorly concealed gasps. The Apothecary Hall. It was the destination for those with abysmal combat potential, or whose talents were so unidentifiable that they were shunted into the least demanding discipline to fade quietly into obscurity. Zhuo Qianfeng merely blinked. The Apothecary Hall, with its access to rare botanicals and secluded gardens, was an excellent place for quiet observation and resource acquisition. The campus structure was indeed quite efficient, just not in the way they imagined. He arrived at the Apothecary Hall’s main building, a structure of weathered timber and moss-covered tiles, a stark contrast to the gleaming spires of the Blade Arts or Spirit Inscription Halls. Inside, the air hummed with the faint scent of potent herbs and something sweet, like jasmine. Lin Suyin sat behind a heavy wooden desk, her fingers tracing the rim of a ceramic tea cup. She was a woman of quiet grace, her dark robes unable to fully conceal the delicate curve of her frame. Her eyes, the color of twilight, held a depth of melancholy that Zhuo Qianfeng found… familiar. She looked up as he entered, her gaze soft, yet piercing. “Zhuo Qianfeng,” she murmured, her voice like the rustle of autumn leaves. “Welcome to our hall.” There was no judgment in her tone, only a gentle curiosity. “Most youngsters assigned here… lack certain foundational strengths. But I sense a stillness about you. A quiet depth.” Zhuo Qianfeng inclined his head. “Observation and precision are strengths, Mistress Lin.” She offered a faint smile, a fleeting warmth that touched the corners of her eyes. “Indeed. Come, let me show you the gardens. A practitioner's connection to the earth is often overlooked, even by those who aspire to grand heights.” Meanwhile, in the ninth firmament, within the glittering confines of the Sovereign Palace, Empress Yao Shimei sat enthroned upon a dais carved from solidified astral quartz. Her robes, woven from threads of condensed nebulae, seemed to absorb the very light around her, casting her features into sharp, imperious relief. Before her, a vast scrying pool, fed by streams of pure astral milk, swirled with cosmic dust. Her slender fingers, tipped with jade-green nails, danced above the rippling surface. “Show me… the anomaly,” she commanded, her voice an icy whisper that echoed through the vast, silent chamber. The light condensed, forming a nebulous image: a young boy, slight of build, standing in a humble garden within the Nimbus Jade compound. It was Zhuo Qianfeng, or rather, the vessel containing his reborn soul. A flicker of something unreadable crossed Yao Shimei’s face. Not quite surprise, not quite fear, but a cold, calculating assessment. “So, he returns. A pale echo, a phantom of the man he once was. His meridians are shattered, his spirit channels starved. The heavens truly have a cruel sense of humor.” Her lips, painted a dark crimson, curved into a mirthless smile. “But an echo can still carry a memory. Let us see if the will of the former Sovereign truly still resides within that broken shell.” With a flick of her wrist, an Umbral Shade detached from her side, coalescing into a vaguely humanoid form, a fragment of her will imbued with lethal intent and capable of striking unseen across vast distances. “Go,” she commanded, her voice resonating with ancient power. “Test him. A gentle prod. See if the puppet stirs.” In the botanical plots, Zhuo Qianfeng, under the soft gaze of Lin Suyin, was performing the mundane task of weeding. The sun warmed his back, and the rich scent of damp earth filled his nostrils. He moved with an economical grace, plucking tiny plants from the soil. “Mistress Lin,” he remarked, his voice devoid of inflection, “this ‘common creeper’,” he held up a delicate vine with bell-shaped flowers, “is actually a highly potent Solar-Vein Vine. Its sap, when concentrated, can regenerate shattered bone marrow.” Lin Suyin knelt beside him, her expression a mixture of surprise and fascination. “Solar-Vein Vine? But… it’s considered a noxious weed, only good for choking out more valuable flora.” He pointed to a patch of dull, broad-leafed plants. “And these ‘Whisper-Grass’ are, in fact, juvenile Sun-Kissed Reishi, renowned for purging demonic qi. Most masters would spend fortunes searching for a single mature specimen.” He pulled one out, revealing a network of fine, golden roots. “The common practice of tilling them into fertilizer is… wasteful.” Lin Suyin stared, her gentle demeanor giving way to a flicker of genuine wonder. “How… how do you know this? Even our oldest texts don’t mention these properties.” Zhuo Qianfeng merely shrugged. “Observation.” He paused, his fingers stilling above a patch of thorny brambles. A minute tremor ran through the air, a faint ripple in the very fabric of space. It was the signature of a sovereign-tier projection, a wisp of divine energy imbued with lethal intent. He recognized the familiar coldness, the scent of ozone and betrayal. Yao Shimei. He did not look up. He did not stiffen. Instead, with a practiced motion, he plunged his gardening trowel into the soil beside the brambles, levering up a clump of dirt and roots. The Umbral Shade, an almost invisible blur of cosmic motes, shot forth, aiming for the base of his neck, a strike designed to sever the nascent connection between soul and body. It was swift, silent, and, to any ordinary martialist, utterly unavoidable. But as the shadow reached its apex, Zhuo Qianfeng, without a trace of urgency, flicked his wrist. The dirt-laden trowel, still clasped firmly in his hand, arced upwards, not to block, but to redirect. The shade, designed for penetrating living flesh, found itself deflected by the mundane earth and metal, its ethereal form momentarily snagged on the sharp edge of the trowel. It dissipated into a shower of harmless sparks, the attack dissolving into nothingness. Lin Suyin, who had been marveling at a peculiar iridescent beetle, looked up, startled by the brief flash of light. “What was that?” she asked, her voice laced with confusion. “A glint… like the morning dew on a spiderweb?” Zhuo Qianfeng slowly turned, his gaze distant, fixed on the empty sky, toward the apex where the Empyrean Throne resided. A ghost of a smirk played on his lips, a cold, knowing curve. The faint ozone, the precise geometry of the strike, the barely perceptible sliver of her divine intent. He knew she was watching. “Just a stray mote of dust,” he said, his voice a low, almost inaudible murmur as he addressed the empty air. “Is that all, little Shimei?”

Whispers from the Empyrean Throne