The Ascension of the suppressed Dragon

chapter 6:the void

The Azure Cloud Academy towered above the city like a polished insult.

White marble caught the sun and threw it back at the streets below. Gold leaf traced every edge, every arch, every unnecessary flourish. The towers were too clean, too perfect, as if no one inside them ever failed hard enough to leave a mark. This was where stolen brilliance was laundered into legacy. Where bloodlines passed as destiny and theft wore silk robes.

I leaned against a pillar near the registration marble, arms crossed, posture loose but balanced. Old habit. Eyes forward. Weight centered. The forged recommendation letter sat folded in my pocket, crisp, convincing, and worthless if anyone looked too closely.

“Name?”

The registrar didn’t look up. His brush scratched against parchment, bored, mechanical.

“Mo Ying.”

“Clan affiliation?”

“None. Wanderer.”

The brush paused.

He looked up then, slow and deliberate. His gaze skimmed my cloak—plain, travel-worn. My boots—functional, unadorned. The lack of spirit stones at my waist. The absence of insignia.

“A commoner,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. “You’re aware of the registration f*e?”

“Fifty gold,” I said.

His lips twitched. “Just to stand here.”

I reached into my sleeve and dropped the pouch onto his desk.

The clink of gold cut through the courtyard like a blade.

Heads turned. Conversations stalled. Silk sleeves stilled mid-motion.

“He actually has it,” a girl whispered behind a painted fan. “That much?”

“Probably robbed a caravan,” another murmured. “Or killed for it.”

“Look at how he stands,” a boy scoffed loudly. “Mercenary posture. He’ll wash out before the first bell.”

The registrar opened the pouch, eyes sharp now. He counted quickly. Too quickly. Fingers flicking, already satisfied.

“Fine,” he said. “Mo Ying. No clan. Entrance trials only. Plaza of Truth. Next.”

No welcome. No guidance.

I stepped through the archway without another word.

The courtyard beyond was massive, tiered stone rising like an amphitheater. Hundreds of applicants crowded the space—silks brushing against armor, laughter colliding with nerves. At the center stood the Power Stone.

Ten feet of translucent quartz, veined with faint internal light. Repeated testing had dulled its edges, left stress fractures spidering beneath the surface. White glow for low talent. Yellow for mid-grade. Crimson for the academy’s prized “geniuses.”

Reputations were made here. Futures decided in seconds.

Wei Wuji stood near the front, surrounded by voices that bent toward him naturally. Admiration came easily to those born into it. He wore confidence like another layer of silk.

He didn’t recognize me.

That was fine.

“Next!” the Proctor shouted. “Wei Wuji of the Ling Clan!”

Wuji stepped forward, smiling broadly. He rolled his shoulders once, theatrical. “Watch carefully,” he said over his shoulder, voice carrying. “This is how it’s done.”

He pressed his palm to the stone.

Light flared instantly—orange-gold, bright and aggressive. It surged upward, steady and clean.

“Level Seven Talent!” the Proctor announced. “Superb!”

Cheers erupted.

Wuji laughed lightly, withdrawing his hand. “Dim today,” he said casually. “Must be tired from killing that Serpent yesterday.”

More applause. More envy.

He turned, scanning the balconies above.

His gaze locked onto a figure standing apart.

Lin Mengyao.

Pale blue robes fell straight and severe, untouched by ornament. Her hands rested on the railing, knuckles pale. Her expression didn’t change.

She didn’t clap.

She watched.

“Next!” the Proctor barked. “Mo Ying!”

Laughter started before I even moved.

“Does he even know how to channel?”

“No sword, no stones—what’s he going to do?”

“Punch it with poverty?”

I stepped forward anyway.

The stone loomed larger up close, surface faintly warm from Wuji’s display.

“Hurry up,” the Proctor snapped. “Hand on the stone.”

I studied the quartz. “Are you sure?” I asked mildly. “It looks fragile.”

The courtyard exploded.

“Fragile?”

Wuji barked out a laugh. “That stone’s endured Core Formation strikes, idiot. Touch it already.”

I placed my palm against the surface.

I didn’t push energy.

I opened the Void.

The reaction was immediate.

The stone didn’t glow.

It darkened.

The internal light bent inward, collapsing toward my hand. Quartz bruised gray, as if shadow bled beneath the surface.

A chill rippled outward.

“Nothing?” the Proctor muttered. He tapped the stone sharply. “Stuck?”

“Maybe broken,” I said, stepping back.

He scowled. “It’s not broken. You are. Null Talent. No resonance.”

Silence—then roaring laughter.

“Null?” Wuji howled. “He’s a void! Even livestock register!”

“Begone,” the Proctor said sharply. “Refuse Dorms. Behind the stables.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Quiet suits me.”

I turned away.

“Null-boy!” someone shouted.

An apple flew.

I didn’t look back.

The apple vanished mid-air and dropped into the mud behind me, rotten flesh splattering.

“Wait.”

The single word froze the courtyard.

Lin Mengyao descended the stairs.

Each step was measured. Controlled.

“Y-Young Mistress Lin,” the Proctor stammered. “The stone—”

“Be quiet.”

She crossed the courtyard, eyes fixed on the monolith. Her fingers hovered over the place where my palm had rested.

There was a fracture.

A razor-thin line, perfect and unnatural.

It was spreading.

“Proctor,” she said softly.

“Yes?”

“You said he had no resonance?”

“None.”

Her breath caught.

“That stone isn’t dark because he’s empty,” she whispered. “It’s dark because it’s afraid.”

The fracture deepened. Sunlight bent into it and vanished.

“That wasn’t a spark,” she breathed. “That was an eclipse.”

The stone cracked again.

She turned and ran toward the Refuse Dorms.

The bell above the academy rang once—sharp, wrong.

And somewhere behind me, stone began to break.