Several dragging months had passed since her return from the Weeping Forest — bearing within her not only her first spirit ring but also the strange, lingering aftertaste of an encounter with an ancient wolf. Much had shifted in her inner world since. The strength she had gained, like an unseen thread, had woven itself tightly into the depths of her consciousness. The formal recognition from her instructors only served to underline her growing isolation. The academy had never become her home.
She still felt as though she stood behind a pane of glass, observing the frantic scurry of ant-like lives from a world not her own. The people around her seemed too loud, their emotions exaggerated, their laughter often false, and their interests petty and fleeting. In their eyes, she saw fleeting awe at her talent, or a shy unease toward her aloofness — but never a spark of true understanding. They did not fear her as a threat, but as something foreign, unfathomable. Like a strange butterfly behind glass, she had once thought, with a chill of clarity.
Every evening, with almost manic resolve, Fu Huan would descend into meditation. It was more than a ritual to enhance her spirit power or hasten her rank. It was her only tether to herself — a way to acknowledge another meaningless day had passed. Only when her eyes closed and the world faded into calming darkness did she remain: herself, the strange, shimmering spirit ring, and the phantom echoes of the lone beast's consciousness whose soul she had devoured.
She remembered him vividly, as if it had happened only yesterday. The old, wise Phantom Shadow Hound Wolf. He did not impress with brute strength or size, but his gaze… within it surged a bottomless weariness, as though he bore the weight of centuries upon his back. The strangest part was — he had barely resisted. It was as if he had been waiting for her, silently embracing his fate. That quiet acceptance had frightened her more than anything else. He had not fought for life as a beast should have — as though he had not sought death, but… a successor. Someone to whom he could entrust something deeply hidden.
Now, she carried his legacy — the ability to distort the perception of time. Sharp, vivid illusions capable of confounding even seasoned Spirit Masters. Yet Fu Huan understood well: to possess a gift was one thing; to master it was another entirely. It demanded not only years of cultivation, but unwavering will, absolute self-control, and rich battle experience — all of which she had yet to attain.
The days at the academy passed slowly, filled with monotonous lectures and repetitive training. Her seventh birthday loomed — another quiet milestone in her solitary existence. Beyond her nightly cultivation, she labored to refine her methods of absorbing and assimilating the spiritual energy that lingered in the air. She knew the great clans hoarded secret techniques passed down through bloodlines, while common students were fed only superficial scraps. It's not enough, she often thought, feeling precious energy slip through her fingers.
And so, despite her youth, Fu Huan walked her own path. Night after night, she experimented alone, gradually refining her meditation method. The effectiveness of her practice had increased by at least thirty percent compared to what she had been taught as a child. Her new technique, demanding complete focus and mental stillness, exceeded the academy's system by as much as eighty percent. But it came at a price: the slightest distraction during the day led to dizziness and searing headaches. Thus, she adhered to standard methods under daylight, reserving her refined approach for the solitude of night.
She recalled fragments of conversations between her parents, of their own unique cultivation techniques, said to far surpass conventional methods. Intuitively combining these vague memories with her self-devised practices, Fu Huan had shaped a method all her own.
During the day, she trained diligently to control her unstable space-time spirit energy — sometimes reinforcing individual parts of her body, sometimes, in rare impulsive moments, everything at once. She was acutely aware of her vulnerability in close combat as a support-controller. Privately, she prepared herself for solo combat, understanding she would likely never have a team — never companions to whom she could entrust her back. Nor did she hope for any.
Time flowed on. Unnoticed, another year slipped by, and she turned eight. Her spiritual rank had reached the eighteenth level — enough to cause visible unease even in the seasoned dean of the academy. He knew well that an innate spirit power of level eight was the mark of a true genius. But ten ranks in just two years? That was astounding — nearly impossible. Even those with the highest talents rarely progressed so swiftly.
Still, the dean, a wise and discerning old man, asked no unnecessary questions. He respected her tireless dedication, her unrelenting drive, and the iron discipline she displayed day after day. More than that, he offered her a quiet but profound piece of advice: never reveal her true strength to anyone. For her own safety — in a world teeming with envy and scheming. Fu Huan, with her sharp mind, understood this well. She had even tried, rather clumsily, to conceal her rank with a self-made mental technique. It had limited success — effective against teachers below rank forty, whose senses could not pierce her veil. But to the dean — whose spirit and mind were like a vast, tranquil lake — her power was impossible to hide.
With a respectful nod and silent gratitude, she left his office — feeling even more alone within her swift ascent.
Within the academy walls dwelled one Yu Xiao Gang — known behind his back as the "trash theoretician." Accused of plagiarism, of merely compiling scattered fragments of older works into a theory of spirit masters deemed laughable by many, he was mockingly called Grandmaster — a title steeped in irony. He had seen Fu Huan in passing, but never paid her much mind, failing to perceive the true nature of her spirit. She, in turn, had no particular interest in him, though she had read several of his controversial writings — finding them riddled with errors, oversimplifications, and unproven assumptions.
A new semester dawned, bringing with it fresh waves of students. Fu Huan — eight years old, still distant and introspective, yet armed with encyclopedic knowledge from the dusty tomes of the academy library — stood apart. Few of her peers dared venture into those silent archives. Some instructors respected her — if not for her growing strength, then for her tenacity and razor intellect.
She had one peculiar trait, contradictory to her otherwise closed nature: she always found time to aid the rare few who truly sought knowledge. She could effortlessly procure rare books from restricted sections, clarify difficult lecture points, or share her own insights. Yet still, she had no friends. She remained a solitary summit in a world of mediocrity.
Then, a few days into the new semester… the academy welcomed a fresh batch of first-year students — brimming with hope and uncertainty.
Among them was a boy with remarkably deep, sapphire-blue eyes. His movements were precise and deliberate, as if every gesture had been measured in advance. Fu Huan took note of him instinctively, sensing something different about him.
Months passed. The academy shifted, charged with a new energy — a blend of ambition, expectation, and faint rivalry. During this time, despite her reclusive nature, Fu Huan did not remain invisible. Her name became known even among students too indifferent to remember their instructors' names. Her theoretical grasp, analytical depth, and uncanny ability to systematize complex knowledge turned her into a living legend. Reluctantly, even teachers admitted: in the fields of spirit studies and tactical theory, Fu Huan surpassed them all. She was often invited to assist in classes — occasionally even to explain difficult concepts outright.
Tang San noticed this immediately. He was not one to overlook details. As his own intellect and perseverance began to shine, he found himself comparing his growth to hers. She didn't just know more — she understood deeper. Students came to her first, only then to the instructors. And Tang San — still anchored by the experiences of a past life — began to wonder: was his unseen master truly worth following?
Xiao Wu was the rare bridge connecting Fu Huan to others. She made several attempts to draw the girl into conversation — asking innocent questions or inviting her to share a meal. Each time, she received a polite but cold "not now." Still, she was undeterred. Fu Huan's silence was not a wall to her — but a mystery waiting to be solved.
Two months after Tang San's enrollment, his first meeting with Yu Xiao Gang occurred. An unremarkable man with a stubborn gaze and coarse features approached Tang after class, having noticed something unusual in the boy's spirit control.
Their exchange was brief, yet telling.
"You have two spirits." Yu's voice held no question — only certainty.
Tang San nodded silently.
"You're wise not to speak of it," Yu continued. "That path draws trouble. But if you wish to grow stronger, I can help. I've studied dual spirits."
In another time, Tang San might have seized the offer. But now, after all he had learned from Fu Huan, and how little he'd gained from official instruction, he sensed the truth: even if this man knew of dual spirits, he could not match her depth of insight. He thanked Yu Xiao Gang — but felt no urge to follow him.
That evening, in their dormitory, he turned to Fu Huan.
"You knew I had two spirits from the start, didn't you?"
She didn't lift her gaze from the scroll, but nodded.
"It was clear from your energy manipulation. Dual flows, varying tension in the spirit field."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because you needed to decide who to trust." There was a subtle undertone in her voice — not rebuke, but a test.
After that, Tang San never brought up the subject of teachers again. He began to spend more time near Fu Huan — not so much in conversation as in quiet observation. They sometimes discussed spirits, sometimes history. More and more, he realized: what he once saw as the summit of knowledge was merely its foundation.
As for his Blue Silver Grass — Fu Huan offered a surprising classification. One afternoon in the library, she laid out a diagram before him.
"You think your spirit is weak because it's just grass. But the truth lies in the source. Let me show you."
— Ordinary Silver Grass: Innate Spirit Power: 0–1
— Benevolent Mutation: Blue Silver Viscount: 3–5
— Blue Silver Duke: 5–7
— Blue Silver King: 8–9
— Blue Silver Emperor: 10
"Yours… is an Emperor. Or it once was. It has degenerated — for now. The first ring is merely the beginning of its return. Currently, I'd say it's at the Viscount level. But the true Emperor… lies ahead."
"You think I should seek spirits of similar nature?"
—[Chapter continues]