"You really have the intelligence of a boiled yam," the voice growled in Shenyan's head. "Who gets chosen by a deity and runs around like a headless chicken?"
"I am not a yam!" Shenyan snapped aloud. "And if you're a deity, then I'm the emperor's left slipper!"
Yuren, who had been watching in silence, slowly blinked.
Shenyan was sitting cross-legged on his floor, gesturing wildly to no one in particular, his eyes slightly unfocused, mouth moving with fervor. From Yuren's view, it was the kind of madness that started with missed meals and ended with temple bells tolling for the insane.
"…Shenyan," Yuren said carefully, "what in the name of the Ancestors are you doing?"
"I'm talking!" Shenyan snapped.
"To who?"
"To—" Shenyan paused. He looked at Yuren, at the walls, at the floor. "…To myself."
"Clearly," Yuren muttered. "And quite aggressively."
Shenyan scratched his head and tried to explain. "Okay, listen—there's this voice, and he said I won something? A miracle, or cultivation greatness—I don't know—and now he won't shut up! He says I'm a vessel, which doesn't even make sense! Do I look like a wine jar to you?"
"…Yes," the voice said smugly. "A cracked one."
Yuren stared at him.
"You need tea," he said finally. "Lots of tea."
He disappeared into the kitchen, and Shenyan was left to mutter, "I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not—"
Yuren returned moments later with a small tray. The aroma of honeyed lotus leaf and mountain ginger filled the room as he poured a cup. "Drink. Please. Before you start gnawing on your own sleeves."
Shenyan took the cup with both hands and sipped.
And just like that—silence.
The voice in his head softened instantly. No snark. No insults. It was like someone had taken the deity and stuffed him in a distant well.
"…Hello?" Shenyan whispered in his mind.
Nothing.
He took another sip.
Silence.
His eyes widened. "Yuren," he said breathlessly, "what is this tea?"
"Something old Master Guang brewed for headaches and hallucinations," Yuren said offhandedly. "Why?"
"No reason," Shenyan lied, smiling like a man who had just bound a dragon with a teacup.
Which technically, he did.
He sat up straighter and began, this time calmly: "It all started earlier today. A voice asked me, 'Do you want a miracle?' And then it said, 'You're the chosen one' like I was the winner"
Yuren blinked. "…Winner of what?"
"I don't know!" Shenyan laughed. "But I'm apparently 'the chosen vessel' of something terrifying, foul-mouthed, and very bossy."
"Ah," Yuren said, refilling the cup. "Well. At least now you sound insane withcontext."
Shenyan leaned forward, the teacup clutched in both hands, eyes wide as though he were explaining a ghost sighting. "I'm telling you, Yuren, it was like only I could hear him. Like I was thinking about the miracle, you know? About that tale you told me—of the weakest hunter who rose to become the strongest. I was thinking about that, and then boom!" He threw his hands up. "The voice just—appeared! No poise, no divine light, not even a humble introduction. Just—just this smooth-talking, arrogant thing."
Yuren raised a brow. "Thing?"
"He says he's in my head," Shenyan hissed, "and he is. He's rude. Bossy. He speaks as if I'm the stupid one—"
"You are," came the faint whisper in his mind. Shenyan flinched.
"—See? That! That exact tone! Like silk hiding a dagger."
Yuren stared, tapping a finger against his cup. "Wait. It sounds almost like… a system."
Shenyan blinked. "A what?"
"A system," Yuren said again, quieter this time, glancing away. "It's… a tale. A myth from foreign lands. I read it in an old book from the monk-scholars of the Western Lands. They said that sometimes, cultivators receive guidance from an unseen force. Instructions. Tasks. Great rewards—if followed. Great ruin—if not."
Shenyan narrowed his eyes. "You're saying I've been hijacked by a myth?"
Yuren shrugged. "Sometimes myths are old truths in disguise."
Shenyan looked horrified. "So that voice… is a system?"
"I said like a system," Yuren said carefully. "Not that it is one. But it follows the same rhythm, doesn't it? It offers power. Direction. But also demands something."
Shenyan groaned. "Well, I don't want to obey him. I don't trust him. He's annoying, and smug, and—and—"
"Delightfully honest," the voice interrupted faintly, with a dramatic sigh.
Shenyan twitched. "And he never shuts up!"
Yuren chuckled softly and reached to pour more tea. "Then I suppose you'll need more of this."
---
After another long sip of tea, Yuren set his cup down gently. "You should return to the palace," he said, voice soft but firm. "You were gone for ten days. Unconscious for most of them. Your family might be worried."
Shenyan scoffed, his expression sharpening like a blade. "Worried? About whom?" He laughed once, bitter and dry. "The same family who would rather see me buried beneath the snow than lifted above my station? Don't jest, Yuren."
There was a beat of silence.
Then—"Ohheavens," the voice drawled in his head, amused. "You're sad. That's adorable."
Shenyan flinched, his grip tightening around the cup. "Shut up!" he barked aloud. "You're invading my thoughts! Leave!"
Yuren's eyes widened. "Shenyan…"
He dragged a hand down his face, breathing harshly.
Yuren's tone was gentler now, almost cautious. "Maybe… maybe you should go home. Get some proper rest. Perhaps this voice is only—hallucination. You've been through a lot."
Shenyan looked up slowly, the flicker of hurt pride glinting in his eyes. "So now I'm mad? Is that what you think? That I'm raving like a drunk under the moon? Calling your friend insane?"
"I didn't say that," Yuren said quickly. "I just mean… maybe your mind needs stillness. You've been—unwell. I'd offer for you to stay here, but I think it's better if you go to the palace. Do you… want me to walk with you?"
Shenyan shook his head. He stood abruptly, pulled on his hooded cloak, and fastened the mask over the lower half of his face. The familiar weight of it steadied him. "No. Thank you, Yuren. For the tea."
He bowed stiffly, then turned and disappeared into the dusk.
---
The street outside Yuren's home was quiet, the lanterns flickering with a soft gold light. Shenyan took the back alleys, not wanting attention. He was almost near the palace wall when a sharp voice rang out.
"Even the dead wear masks these days?"
He froze.
A figure leaned lazily against the peach-blossom archway, arms folded, one brow raised in mocking amusement. The rich silk robes fluttered in the breeze. That smug, unmistakable tone could only belong to one person.
"Bai Renzhi."
Shenyan turned slightly, not enough to show his face. "I'm not in the mood."
"Then you shouldn't have shown your shadow outside the palace." Renzhi pushed off the wall and walked toward him with that practiced, swaggering grace. "You disappear like a whisper, return looking like a thief, and expect not to draw attention? Are you finally ready to spar, cousin?"
Shenyan took a step back. "I don't fight, Renzhi."
"You never fight. Even when you should."
Shenyan said nothing.
Inside his head, the voice stirred again, low and entertained. "That one smells like trouble. Do you bleed easily? I'm curious."
Shenyan gritted his teeth.
As Renzhi stepped closer, smirking like a cat toying with a mouse, Shenyan braced himself for another humiliating encounter.
It wasn't new.
"He's fast, but arrogant," the voice murmured. "You want to shut him up? Listen closely."
Shenyan froze.
"Channel your breath through your left palm. Twist your heel inward. When he lunges, duck, and redirect. Strike at his rib—not to break, but to knock the wind out. Just once."
"I don't—" Shenyan whispered.
"Do it. I dislike this brat way more than I do you."
Renzhi raised a brow. "Talking to yourself again?"
Then he lunged.
Time seemed to slow.
Shenyan did as told—half out of panic, half out of instinct. Left palm. Heel. Duck.
His body moved perfectly. He had always been a quick learner.
His palm slammed into Renzhi's ribs with a precise, fluid strike. Renzhi gasped, staggering back, arms clutching his side as he doubled over.
Shenyan blinked, stunned. "I… I hit him?"
Renzhi groaned. "What—was that?"
"Not even a full technique," the voice said, smug. "A child's move. But it worked, didn't it?"
A strange thrill coursed through Shenyan. For once, he had the upper hand.
He stepped forward, lifting his chin behind the mask. "Still want to spar, cousin?"
Renzhi narrowed his eyes. "You cheated. That wasn't a Bai family technique and how did a weakling like you know martial art."
Shenyan turned his back to him. "I learned."