The rain had not stopped.
It tapped steadily against the tiled roofs, slid down the curved eaves, and gathered into thin streams that traced the edges of the courtyard like veins of silver.
Inside the main hall of the Spirit Warden Bureau, the air felt heavy.
Not with killing intent.
Not with spiritual pressure.
But with something far more suffocating—
Expectation.
It lingered in every corner, pressing faintly against the chest, making even quiet breaths feel deliberate.
Li Shen stood among the gathered wardens, his hands tucked neatly within his sleeves. His posture was straight, unassuming, yet there was an unmistakable stillness about him—like a pond untouched by wind.
Across from him, Ma Qin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers twitched at his sides, and every so often, his gaze flickered toward the entrance.
They were waiting.
The rain filled the silence.
Then—
Footsteps.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Each step echoed clearly against the polished floor, cutting through the soft drumming of the rain like a blade.
Chu Fengge stepped into the hall.
His robes brushed lightly against the ground, the hem darkened slightly by the damp air. His expression remained indifferent, as though the entire gathering held little weight in his mind. He did not immediately look at anyone—only lifted his chin a fraction, his gaze drifting lazily across the space.
Yan Rui stepped forward and cupped his hands.
"Lord Examiner."
The others followed in unison, their voices overlapping into a respectful chorus.
"Lord Examiner."
Chu Fengge responded with a faint hum, barely more than a breath.
His eyes swept across the room—casual, detached—before settling on the two figures at the front.
"You," he said, pointing vaguely. "The candidates."
Li Shen and Ma Qin stepped forward together.
"This subordinate is present," they said.
Chu Fengge studied them, if only briefly.
One bore the look of a seasoned warden—weathered features, guarded eyes, a body honed by years of fieldwork.
The other…
Too young.
Too calm.
There was no tension in his shoulders. No anticipation in his breathing.
Nothing.
Boring, Chu Fengge thought, his interest fading almost immediately.
He waved his hand dismissively.
"I have no interest in supervising a trivial promotion."
Turning slightly, he gestured toward the attendants behind him.
"You will handle the assessment."
The attendants bowed without hesitation.
"Yes, my lord."
It should have ended there.
Yet Chu Fengge did not leave.
He paused, as if something had caught his attention—not in the room, but in his own passing curiosity.
Then, almost idly, he spoke again.
"This county…" His gaze shifted toward Yan Rui. "What is the most dangerous spirit within your jurisdiction?"
The question landed unexpectedly.
A subtle tension rippled through the hall.
Yan Rui answered after a brief pause, choosing his words carefully.
"There is an entity known as the Frostbound Maiden in the northern mountains," he said. "An ancient spirit. Highly dangerous."
The moment the name was spoken, the atmosphere shifted.
Even the attendants stiffened.
Ancient spirits were not things ordinary wardens confronted and survived.
For a fleeting instant, something flickered in Chu Fengge's eyes.
Interest.
Then it vanished.
He gave a soft scoff.
"Too troublesome," he said lightly. "What about something… less exaggerated?"
Yan Rui inclined his head.
"There is another case," he continued. "An abandoned residence outside Qingzhou territory. Known locally as the Withered Manor."
A brief pause.
"No investigator sent there has returned."
That was enough.
Chu Fengge's lips curved, the faintest trace of amusement surfacing.
Now this—
This was more reasonable.
Dangerous, certainly. But not beyond reach.
More importantly…
Interesting.
He clasped his hands behind his back, the earlier disinterest gone as if it had never existed.
"Leave it to me," he said casually.
His tone was relaxed—almost careless.
As though he were volunteering for a leisurely stroll rather than stepping into a place where multiple cultivators had vanished without a trace.
"I will deal with it personally."
Ma Qin's eyes lit up at once.
"As expected of Lord Chu!" he exclaimed, unable to hide his admiration. "Such courage is rare."
Chu Fengge did not acknowledge him.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, gaze lifting toward the rain-drenched sky beyond the hall.
"Come."
The word had barely left his lips—
When a sharp, resonant hum split the air.
A streak of light cut through the falling rain, descending from above with piercing clarity.
A sword.
It halted beside him, suspended in midair, its surface gleaming faintly as spiritual energy pulsed along its edge. The surrounding air seemed to tremble in response.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Even the rain beyond the hall appeared to falter, its rhythm subtly disturbed.
Without hesitation, Chu Fengge stepped onto the blade.
His robes lifted in the rising current of spiritual energy.
Then—
He ascended.
Like a figure brushed into the sky, he rose above the rooftops, his form cutting cleanly through the gray clouds. In the span of a breath, he became a streak of light—
And vanished.
Silence lingered in his wake.
Ma Qin stared upward, his mouth slightly parted, eyes wide with awe.
"That…" he murmured, almost to himself. "That's the Fourth Spirit Realm…"
Flight.
True liberation from the earth.
Even among Spirit Wardens, such power was rare—something most would spend a lifetime chasing, never to touch.
Li Shen watched the empty sky a moment longer.
Then he lowered his gaze.
The ripples in his thoughts settled just as quickly as they had formed.
—
The hall was cleared soon after.
The promotion assessment would proceed as scheduled.
No spectators.
No distractions.
Only the candidates—
And the examiners.
Two desks were placed at opposite ends of the room.
Inkstones.
Brushes.
Stacks of sealed scrolls.
The attendants lined the walls, their expressions stern, their presence silent yet watchful.
Ma Qin took his seat.
As his fingers touched the inkstone, he realized they felt slightly stiff.
Focus, he told himself.
This was his moment.
Years of experience.
Countless encounters with spirits.
Everything he had endured—everything he had learned—had led here.
He began grinding the ink slowly, the rhythmic motion helping to steady his breathing.
Across from him, Li Shen had already finished preparing.
He leaned back slightly, eyes half-lidded.
Calm.
Unbothered.
As though this were nothing more than an ordinary day.
Ma Qin's jaw tightened.
How could he be so relaxed?
Did he not understand what was at stake?
Or…
Was he simply that confident?
The thought coiled in his chest, tightening with each passing second.
Time stretched.
Then—
A bell rang.
Clear. Sharp.
It sliced cleanly through the silence.
The attendants stepped forward in unison, placing sealed scrolls upon each desk.
"Review only," one of them said coldly. "Do not write."
Ma Qin unrolled his scroll.
His eyes moved quickly across the contents.
Nine pages.
Dense.
Lines upon lines of tightly packed text.
Questions covering spirit classifications, behavioral patterns, weaknesses, countermeasures, historical anomalies—
His throat went dry.
So many…
He had studied.
He had prepared.
Yet now, faced with the sheer volume, his thoughts felt scattered—like fragments drifting just beyond reach.
He forced himself to continue.
Across the hall, Li Shen opened his scroll.
His gaze moved steadily from line to line.
Unhurried.
Focused.
There was no tension in his expression.
Only quiet attention.
Another bell rang.
"Begin."
The command echoed.
Ma Qin immediately dipped his brush into the ink and began writing.
He skipped the first few questions.
Too intricate.
Too time-consuming.
He needed to secure the easier marks first.
Ink spread across the paper in slightly uneven strokes as his hand moved faster than his thoughts could fully settle.
Time was slipping.
He could feel it.
Across from him—
Li Shen dipped his brush.
Then paused.
Not in hesitation—
But in quiet organization.
The rain outside softened, fading into a distant whisper against the walls.
Within that steady rhythm—
His brush moved.
One stroke.
Then another.
Smooth.
Controlled.
Each character formed with effortless precision, ink settling cleanly into the fibers of the paper.
The first question.
A low-tier spirit.
Its form.
Its habits.
Its weakness.
Li Shen wrote without interruption.
There was no searching.
No strain.
The answers surfaced naturally—
Like reflections rising from still water.
He turned the page.
The next question flowed just as easily.
Then another.
His brush danced lightly, each line neat, balanced, and quietly confident—so steady it bordered on indifference.
To him—
This was the simplest part.
Knowledge of spirits.
Patterns of death.
Methods of exorcism.
These were not passions.
They were necessities.
In a world where spirits walked among the living—
To know was to survive.
And survival…
Everything was.
The hall remained silent.
Only the rain endured—
And the soft, unbroken rhythm of ink meeting paper.