The noise outside the Sword‑Star Stone Tower had long faded.
Dù Jīn led the three of them in silence, not saying a word until they reached the steps before the Dean's Pavilion. The tall building stood quietly under the deepening night. There were no guards at the entrance, yet something about the place made one instinctively restrain their breath, even soften their footsteps.
Dù Jīn straightened his robes, a rare solemnity settling over his expression. He cupped his hands.
"Dean, I've brought the three."
A moment of silence.
Then a calm, low voice drifted out:
"Mm. Come in."
The door slid open.
Warm lamplight filled the Dean's chamber. The furnishings were simple, orderly. Scrolls and documents were neatly arranged; the walls bore diagrams of past defensive formations and martial displays. The main desk faced the entrance, stacked with organized files, brushes standing like a small forest, the faint scent of ink lingering in the air.
Outside the window, the last slant of dusk cut across the floor, dividing the room into light and shadow.
Gǔ Líng sat behind the desk.
He wasn't facing them fully—slightly turned, as though still lost in thought.
But the chair beneath him did not match the rest of the room at all.
It wasn't the traditional wooden seat common in the Central Plains. It was a strangely structured chair, its base seemingly able to rotate, its back draped with a layer of dark fur. The fur was dim, like flowing night mist, catching faint glimmers under the lamplight.
Xuán Chén's gaze paused on it for a heartbeat.
Then moved on.
Dù Jīn remained silent. The three of them did as well.
Only the soft crackle of the lamp filled the room.
Xuán Chén, Xiǎo Chén, and Bǎi shì tōng stood side by side, their auras restrained. Gǔ Líng sat with his eyes closed, as though he had forgotten anyone else was present.
Time passed, little by little.
Bǎi shì tōng's legs began to tingle, but he didn't dare shift his stance.
Just when Bai Shi Tong almost thought the Dean had entered meditation—
Gǔ Líng suddenly spoke.
His voice was not loud, yet it landed clearly in every ear.
"What is a rule?"
The room fell silent again.
As though he were asking the three of them. As though he were asking himself.
Bai Shi Tong's throat bobbed slightly.
He had always been well‑informed, had seen more people and matters than most students, and naturally understood one thing better than anyone—
When the Dean asked a question, it was never as simple as it sounded.
After a brief pause, he stepped forward half a pace and cupped his hands.
"Dean, this student dares to offer a thought."
Gǔ Líng did not open his eyes. He merely gave a soft "Mm."
With permission granted, Bai Shi Tong finally spoke.
"In this student's view, rules… exist so that most people can live in stability."
He spoke slowly, as if weighing each word.
"The academy is large, with many people and many matters. Without rules, the strong would act as they please, and the weak would have no place to stand. When rules exist, at least everyone knows what can be done… and what cannot."
He paused, his voice lowering slightly.
"But… rules are not entirely good."
Dù Jīn's gaze shifted faintly, though he said nothing.
Bai Shi Tong let out a small, bitter smile.
"Once rules are fixed too rigidly, someone will always be left outside. Sometimes things are clearly wrong, yet because they 'follow the rules,' nothing can be changed."
He drew a deep breath.
"So this student believes—rules are necessary, but not always correct."
With that, he fell silent immediately, stepping back into place.
The room grew quiet once more.
The lamplight flickered softly.
Gǔ Líng still kept his eyes closed, offering no immediate judgment, as though waiting for the next answer.
After Bai Shi Tong stepped back, Xiǎo Chén frowned slightly.
He clearly hadn't intended to speak— but after the question circled in his mind a few times, he finally couldn't hold back.
He stepped forward.
"Dean."
He cupped his hands.
"This student also wishes to say something."
Gǔ Líng still did not open his eyes.
"Speak."
Xiǎo Chén drew a deep breath, as though gathering his thoughts.
"I think… rules are made by people."
Bai Shi Tong glanced sideways instinctively.
That sentence was already far heavier than his own.
But Xiǎo Chén didn't stop.
"Since they're made by people, they can naturally be changed by people."
His tone wasn't heated— if anything, it was calm.
"Good rules should be kept. Rules that no longer fit should be changed."
He lifted his head, looking toward Gǔ Líng behind the desk.
"If rules can never change, then they don't protect people. They trap them."
The air in the room tightened slightly.
Dù Jīn's brow moved, but he didn't interrupt.
Xiǎo Chén thought for a moment, then added:
"So in this student's view—"
"Rules can be made. And they can be broken."
Once the words left his mouth, he seemed to realize he had spoken too bluntly. He scratched his head and stepped back into place.
Silence returned to the Dean's chamber.
This time, the quiet lasted even longer.
Gǔ Líng's fingertip tapped the armrest once.
Very softly.
Yet it felt like a kind of acknowledgment.
Xuán Chén remained silent for a while.
As though weighing what should be said, and what need not be.
After a moment, he finally spoke.
His voice was not loud, but it carried clearly.
"In this student's view… rules are like a river."
Bai Shi Tong and Xiǎo Chén both froze for a moment.
Xuán Chén's gaze remained calm.
"A river has no inherent good or evil."
"Some follow the river's course. Some use it to carry their boats. And some… use the water to drown others."
He paused briefly, his eyes settling on Gǔ Líng.
"The river itself never changes."
"What changes is the one holding the rudder."
The Dean's chamber grew so quiet that only breathing remained.
Xuán Chén added one final line:
"So the rules themselves do not change."
"What changes… is how people choose to use them."
He said no more.
A long silence followed.
Then—
A soft creak from the chair.
Gǔ Líng finally turned toward them.
The slanting dusk from the window lit his face—aged, steady, and unreadably deep. His eyes were open now. Not sharp, yet impossible to fathom.
He regarded the three quietly, fingers brushing his beard, a faint smile touching the corner of his lips.
Not praise. Not judgment.
More like… weighing something.
After a long moment, he sighed inwardly.
—It seems… these two children were destined to change this generation.
He did not speak the thought aloud.
Only his fingertip tapped lightly against the armrest.
Like a chess player placing a stone.
Then, at last, Gǔ Líng truly spoke:
"Good."
Xiǎo Chén frowned slightly. Xuán Chén lowered his gaze in thought. Bai Shi Tong was still turning the earlier question over in his mind.
A moment later, Xiǎo Chén's pupils suddenly tightened.
Xuán Chén's eyes shifted as well.
The two lifted their heads almost at the same time, their gazes meeting briefly.
A single thought formed in both minds at once.
Before Bai Shi Tong could sort it out, Xiǎo Chén had already spoken:
"Dean… you want us to prove it?"
Xuán Chén followed:
"To use the rules themselves… to test the rules."
Gǔ Líng's hand, which had been stroking his beard, paused for the faintest instant.
Not in surprise.
But as though— he had finally been waiting for this.
He nodded lightly.
"A principle that cannot be grounded in action is, in the end, merely the words of youth."
His tone was calm.
"Of course, you may refuse."
Bai Shi Tong's pupils trembled.
Xiǎo Chén's eyes, however, lit with battle‑bright resolve.
Xuán Chén was silent for a moment before lifting his gaze.
"Dean, do you seek the result… or the process?"
Gǔ Líng did not answer immediately.
He looked toward the window.
The sunset stretched long across the academy rooftops, pulling shadows thin.
Only after a long moment did Gǔ Líng speak:
"What I want… is for the academy to still believe in its rules."
The room stilled.
"In this academy, some uphold the rules to stand upright. And some… hide within the rules."
All three felt their hearts jolt at the same time.
Gǔ Líng did not name anyone. He simply continued:
"If you believe rules can be kept, can be made, can be changed—"
"Then go prove it."
With those words, he no longer looked at them.
He merely picked up a brush, opened a dossier, and said lightly:
"Go."
The voice was soft.
Yet it felt like an invisible boundary dissolving.
Dù Jīn stepped aside.
The three bowed and withdrew.
The door of the Dean's chamber closed slowly behind them.
The soft thud of the wooden door echoed clearly down the corridor.
The three walked side by side, none speaking at first.
The slanting evening light fell through the long windows, stretching their shadows across the floor.
Bai Shi Tong walked in the middle, visibly uneasy. He hesitated several times before finally whispering:
"Did we just… take on something really serious?"
His voice was barely audible.
He knew better than anyone the methods of Silver Mirror, the schemes of Sītú Jìng. This wasn't a matter of winning or losing on the arena.
This was the kind of thing that made people disappear without a sound.
Bai Shi Tong was silent for a moment, then lowered his voice further:
"You two just arrived, so you might not know…"
He glanced around before continuing.
"Three years ago, an inner‑courtyard student publicly accused Silver Mirror of abusing their authority."
"What happened to him?" Xiǎo Chén asked.
Bai Shi Tong let out a bitter smile.
"Silver Mirror didn't touch him."
"Instead, they filed the investigation for him… and even invited three elders to oversee it."
He paused.
"In the end, they found that the student really had violated the rules—he just didn't know it himself."
"The entire process followed procedure perfectly. When he was expelled, he even had to thank Silver Mirror."
The corridor fell silent.
Bai Shi Tong added quietly:
"The second time… someone challenged Sītú Jìng."
"The day before the match, that person suddenly discovered he had signed a 'voluntary postponement agreement.' The handwriting was his. The seal was his. But he had no memory of signing anything."
He looked up at the other two.
"Sītú Jìng never breaks the rules."
"He just makes sure you walk into them yourself."
Xiǎo Chén, however, reacted completely differently.
He stretched lazily, a grin tugging at his lips, eyes glinting with a faint excitement.
"Isn't that perfect?"
"Compared to training every day, I'd much rather see what expression those so‑called rule‑keepers make… when the rules corner them instead."
There was no arrogance in his tone.
Only pure anticipation.
Bai Shi Tong could only give a helpless laugh.
"That's what you call anticipation. What I'm feeling is panic…"
Halfway through the sentence, he suddenly realized something was off.
Xuán Chén had not spoken at all.
Both he and Xiǎo Chén turned toward him.
Xuán Chén walked on the outer side, his pace steady. At first, his gaze still carried the weight of thought— as though replaying every word spoken in the Dean's chamber.
Then—
His expression shifted.
Within the calm, a faint spark lit.
He murmured:
"So that's how it is…"
Xiǎo Chén raised a brow. "Figured it out?"
Xuán Chén lifted his head, looking toward the distant academy towers.
His voice was quiet, steady.
"The Dean doesn't want us to deal with anyone."
"What he wants to see is—"
"Whether the rules can be used again."
At the end of the corridor, the last of the sunset dimmed.
The shadows of the three stretched long across the floor.
The wind had not yet risen.
But the game had already begun to move.