Dawn cracked through the clouds like a breath held too long, and the stone paths of Dawnyu Sect steamed beneath the early light. A pale silence settled over the outer training courts, yet within it, Zhen Hu moved.
Each breath, heavy.
Each step, deliberate.
The first layer of the Aethonix Realm was unlike anything before. The Kyrekh Realm had felt like crawling through fog—uncertain, grasping at form. But now, in this new realm, the fog had thinned, revealing both the path ahead… and the drop below.
The world breathed differently here. Zen flowed with texture—thick, warm currents that responded not just to will, but to emotion, to memory. Zhen Hu could now feel the sadness etched in old stones, the rage buried beneath ancient roots. He could no longer pretend he was normal. Something inside him had turned—was turning still.
But with power came weight.
And it was growing heavier.
It had been three days since his father's confrontation. Three days since he'd lied to the only man who still looked at him as a son rather than an anomaly. The silence between them afterward had been colder than any punishment.
The Patriarch had accepted his words, yes—but he hadn't believed them.
Zhen Hu had seen it in his eyes.
Now, word of the Inner Disciple Examinations echoed through the sect like distant thunder. The air itself felt tenser. Disciples sharpened blades, not for enemies, but for rivals. Even among the outer disciples, rumors blossomed: "Who will ascend? Who will be discarded?"
Zhen Hu's name wasn't mentioned.
And he was grateful.
Because while others trained for position, for rank, he trained to survive.
"You've softened," Aelira said.
Her voice cut into him during meditation, sharp as broken ice. Zhen Hu didn't respond. He didn't need to. She could feel his hesitation pulsing through the Nytherion lines in his veins.
"I've seen spirits crushed by less," she continued. "Are you waiting for the pain to stop?"
"No," he muttered through clenched teeth. "I'm waiting for it to mean something."
That made her pause.
Then she stepped into the clearing beside him.
She never fully appeared the same way. Sometimes a silhouette of stars, other times a ripple in the shadows. Tonight, she shimmered faintly, wearing the echo of her former divinity like a broken crown.
"You want meaning?" she said. "Then let's carve it into your bones."
The training that followed was nothing like before.
Aelira dragged him through ancient forms drawn from forgotten wars. Not the graceful dances of sect cultivation—but raw, primal movements born from desperation, from civilizations that died screaming.
His fingers bled from gripping rusted blades. His lungs tore themselves ragged learning to hold Zen under silence. His mind frayed as he balanced on the edge between clarity and instinct.
One night, as the stars spun slowly overhead, Aelira spoke:
"You are at the first layer of Aethonix now. That means the world sees you differently—feels you differently. But your power is not rooted in Zen alone. It is rooted in what you've lost."
She guided him through a forbidden form—Flesh Without Memory—a stance that drew Zen not from the air, but from the shadows left behind by those who had died. It was meant to be a reflection of one's self through the loss of others.
He collapsed during the final movement.
Blood dripping. Chest heaving.
And she did not comfort him.
Because he didn't need comfort. He needed to burn.
But through it all, something else was happening.
He was learning. Slowly. Painfully. But truly.
He studied scrolls left untouched by disciples who had long given up. He watched others fight and broke apart their movements. He listened in courtyards as senior disciples spoke of flow, of intent, of what Zen meant when it wasn't just energy—but soul.
And quietly, he began crafting something of his own.
On the twelfth night, Aelira spoke with weight.
"You are nearing the edge," she said. "There is a move I will not teach you. Not yet. Not until you understand the cost."
"What kind of move?" he asked.
She looked away. "One that doesn't just kill the body. One that silences the soul."
"Why show me it exists, then?"
"Because one day, you will beg for it. And I need you to remember that power is not given—it's survived."
Now, as the sect buzzed louder with preparation, Zhen Hu walked its stone paths not as a shadow—but not yet as a flame.
He was something else.
Something growing beneath the cracks.
And though he didn't say it aloud, as he passed disciples who would one day kneel or rise beside him, a quiet fire flickered in his chest:
I will not break quietly.