The tribunal hall was vast, yet severe.
At the forefront rose a low stone terrace, four shallow steps above the main floor, enough to mark the seat of authority without the arrogance of height. Upon this terrace rested the Scion’s seat: a broad-backed chair of dark, aged hardwood. Its form was austere, with square lines, no cushion, and no carving save for the sect’s insignia burned into the chair's right flank.
Before the seat rested a rectangular table of the same dark timber, low and unembellished, built for purpose rather than display. It was the table of a judge, not a lord, its surface bare but for the space awaiting scrolls, seals, or the tools of ceremony.
Bifeng sat behind it, reading a scroll with deliberate grace. He wore ceremonial robes of white trimmed with deep red accents, and an ornate headpiece bound his hair in place. The attire lent him an air of solemn dignity, august yet modest, as though his station demanded neither excess nor humility, only balance.
Encircling the terrace were fourteen stone seats forming a wide semirectangle, five to the left, five to the right, and four along the arc before him. They loomed in quiet expectancy, each broad, cold, and empty.
Within that hollow curve, at its center on the floor, a single man knelt.
Huifen.
His head was lowered, his posture immaculate. Yet a subtle stiffness betrayed the tension he carried, the restraint of someone holding himself too tightly together. He was a quiet man by nature, inward-turning, his thoughts deep and seldom spoken. In the still hall, his silence seemed both natural and unbearable.
Bifeng did not need to look to feel the turmoil coiled beneath his cousin’s composure. When he finally spoke, his voice was clear and measured, neither harsh nor indulgent, only searching.
“How is Cheng Haoran?” he asked. “How is he recovering?”
Huifen did not answer immediately. He did not shift. His gaze remained fixed somewhere between the floor and the space beyond the hall. Bifeng turned his eyes to him and waited patiently, then inclined his head slightly, urging him to speak.
Finally, Huifen spoke. “The last I saw him, he was… well enough.” His voice was careful. “The news of his attack had been exaggerated.”
A pause. Then his thoughts wandered unbidden: the strange cut on Haoran’s neck, the angle. What kind of attack could leave such a mark? Huifen did not speak this aloud, but the question lingered between them, a shadow no light could dispel.
“He is strong,” Huifen continued, his tone firmer. “So he recovers with ease.”
“Good,” Bifeng said, returning to the scripture he had been reading, though his attention was far from it now. “I feared the incident might hinder his participation in the upcoming Emergence Trials. It puts my mind at ease to know he will be ready.”
The mention of the Emergence Trials caused Huifen to shift subtly, almost imperceptibly. It was a small motion, but Bifeng saw it. Setting his scripture aside, he fixed Huifen with a steady gaze.
“What troubles you most, cousin?” Bifeng asked directly. “The fact that you must compete with him, or that you must compete at all?”
Huifen’s gaze flickered. His hands, resting on his thighs, curled into tight fists, wrinkling the fabric of his robe.
He said nothing.
Bifeng waited, letting the moment stretch. Huifen gathered his thoughts, then spoke.
“Given power, power not earned, almost always corrupts the bearer,” Huifen said, his voice low and solemn. “Those who cannot earn it do not deserve it.”
“Indeed,” Bifeng replied. “You understand why things are as they are. That much I am sure. But that is not the answer I hoped to hear.”
Huifen drew a breath, then hesitated. For a long moment, nothing moved but the shadow of thought. Then, finally:
“I am going to lose to him.”
There was no anger in his voice, only fear intertwined with resignation, a bitter acknowledgment of what he believed was inevitable. He braced himself for reprimand, the scolding that should follow such a dangerous confession. But Bifeng said nothing. He simply observed, his gaze steady.
“And?” he finally prompted.
Huifen swallowed and spoke. “It seems it will be I who brings dishonor.”
Bifeng’s eyes lingered on him before a faint smile touched his lips.
“Get up.”
Huifen obeyed.
“Step forward.”
He moved closer, each step faint in the still air, swallowed by the emptiness of the hall. He stopped a few feet from the first terrace.
The fourteen vacant seats loomed behind him like ghosts of judgment.
Bifeng’s voice softened, though it carried command. “Why do you speak as though you have no choice in the matter? Qiang Huifen, I think such resignation ill suits you.”
He rose from his seat. “I have been watching you closely, from the very moment you met that person.”
Huifen’s shoulders stiffened.
“I need you to listen carefully. You are no longer a child,” Bifeng said, descending one step. “So it is my duty, not as Scion, but as your cousin, to guide you through these complexities of life: decisions, choices, and sacrifice.”
He descended another step, his shadow falling across the younger man.
“Allow me to demonstrate. When Uncle made the decision to open the gates of our home to outsiders, it was not for numbers, nor for mere pragmatism. Nor was it charity.”
Huifen lifted his head slightly, recognition dawning, and spoke carefully. “It was for survival, influence, and adaptability. A closed clan preserves purity, tradition, and pride, but it dies slowly in a world that changes fast.” He recited quietly from memory. “By letting outsiders in, we absorb talent, ambition, and perspectives we could never produce internally. Each new disciple is a vector of innovation, power, and expansion.”
Bifeng nodded, pleased, then asked sharply, “Do you think it was the best choice?”
Huifen considered. After a breath, he replied, “It was necessary.”
“Yes,” Bifeng agreed, stepping down another level, his voice lower now. “Dangerous. Costly. But necessary. And now… this brings me to what concerns you the most. Choosing Cheng Haoran, this too is dangerous. But tell me, Huifen… is it necessary?”
Huifen’s hands folded behind his back, his gaze lowered. The weight of Bifeng’s words pressed into him.
“Look at me when you answer,” Bifeng commanded, patient but firm.
Huifen hesitated before lifting his gaze, meeting Bifeng’s directly. The words would not come. He gritted his teeth.
“Your decision to choose him above all else, this loyalty and sacrifice, are they necessary?”
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Huifen faltered. “I… I don’t understand what you mean,” he whispered.
Bifeng shook his head gently.
“There is no wrong answer. Simply speak from your heart.”
Silence.
Huifen thought, truly thought. Finally, he said, “I… do not know.”
Bifeng studied him, then said quietly, “Then let me help you understand.”
He stepped down the final step.
“When Uncle opened the gates, it was no reckless act. Outsiders may enter our home, test us, challenge our dominion, but it is we who carry the blood of gods. You and I. We are He Yu Zong.”
Huifen stood rigid, the words cutting through him like tempered steel.
“Cheng Haoran is powerful, yes, but he is nothing compared to your blood. He is not your equal. Your feelings for him have made you reluctant, but it is time to rise to your responsibilities. We cannot allow others to govern us in our own home. That can never happen.”
He closed the distance between them and cupped Huifen’s face in both his hands.
Huifen stiffened at the contact, then immediately forced himself still.
“The greatest battles in life are not always against enemies. Sometimes it is our brothers we must face, but most often, it is ourselves. These struggles are not about victory or defeat, but about definition, of who you become when the storm clears.”
He lowered his hands and took Huifen’s wrist in a steady grip. He led him to the first step of the terrace, then the second, and stopped at the third.
There, Huifen glanced up at the Scion’s seat.
The tension within him had not eased; it had condensed, sharp and heavy in his chest. He hated himself for it. Bifeng’s hand still clasped his wrist, and through that touch, he felt the hammering of his pulse. Huifen wanted to pull away, yet did not dare.
Bifeng watched him for a long moment as they stood there.
Finally, he spoke.
“It is time.”
He did not release his hold.
Huifen looked up at him, meeting his eyes. He understood.
Yes, it was time for the gathering to begin.
But that was not what Bifeng meant.
It was time to rise.
Time to bear the weight he had been avoiding. Time to step into the duty that awaited him, the path of the Scion.
A moment later, the others began to arrive.
* * * * * *
From the Dragon Banner came Zhiwei, Qiuyue, and five others; from the Vermilion Bird, Luo Jianqing, Haoran, and Lianxi; and from the Golden Pixiu, Ruolan and Yunze.
Each took their designated seat, stone slabs marked with engraved numbers that reflected their hierarchy.
Today’s gathering held one purpose: to welcome the Tribunal’s newest member, Qin Mingzhou, and to honor his victory over Lin Xing, the former Seventh Seat.
As Scion, Bifeng presided. He did most of the speaking; the others remained silent unless addressed.
He began with formal greetings, his tone balanced between warmth and command. Then his gaze settled on the new inductee.
“Welcome, Qin Mingzhou, to the Guild Tribunal,” he said. “You are no doubt familiar with our customs and laws, but propriety demands they be spoken aloud. This hall, and the order it represents, is the lifeblood of our sect. Let that truth bind your spirit.”
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.
“The Guild Tribunal exists to test, elevate, and refine power among disciples, to ensure that He Yu Zong never stagnates beneath the shadow of its Elders. Our purpose is threefold.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Listen carefully.”
First: The Platform of Ascendance.
“The Tribunal is a crucible where power is tempered and recognized through contest. Here, ambition sheds its impurities and becomes brilliance. Every disciple who seeks renown must pass through this council.
“Our duty is to uphold order among disciples, mediate disputes between banners, and refine potential, allowing the sect’s finest to prove their strength before all banners, and before Heaven itself.”
Second: Delegation of Authority.
“The Tribunal speaks as the voice of the disciples and the hands of the sect. We represent the sect in campaigns against evil forces, in inter-sect tournaments, and in all external dealings related to cultivation.
“Your seal grants you the right to speak in the sect’s name. Your word carries institutional weight, sanctioned by your banner.”
Third: Autonomy Under Scrutiny.
“Though self-governing, the Tribunal remains beneath the silent gaze of the Elders. They do not interfere, trusting in natural selection, but their eyes never close.”
Qin Mingzhou knelt on the cold stone slab, fingers brushing the newly bestowed seal. He listened intently, though discomfort lined his face, not from doubt, but from the ceremonial belt tied too tightly around his waist. Each breath came strained.
Bifeng’s voice cut cleanly through it.
“There are fifteen members in total,” he said, his tone steady. “You, Qin Mingzhou, now stand among the elite of thousands.”
He gestured to the semicircle of seats.
“Each of us bears a Tribunal Seal, a spiritual insignia that serves as both key and covenant. Forged by the ancestors of He Yu Zong, to hold one is to inherit their trust. Use it well, and never lightly.”
The seals grant access to the sect’s secret manuals, forbidden archives, and the armory of spiritual weapons. They open paths to private cultivation grounds and grant authority over lesser disciples.
“But know this,” Bifeng said. “Each rank carries both privilege and peril. Power without restraint invites ruin.”
The Hierarchy of Power.
He raised his hand toward the marked seats.
“Your number is not ceremonial. It is the measure of your authority and your burden.”
Number One — The Scion: Bearer of the First Seal, attuned directly to the sect’s central Flame, the Destiny Pearl. The Scion’s authority transcends all banners, commanding their allegiance and granting unrestricted access to every restricted ground within He Yu Zong. His seal embodies the sect’s will and its divine right to lead.
Number Two — Qiang Huifen: Wielder of the Second Seal, the foremost sword beneath the Scion. Huifen commands the Dragon Banner and presides over the Tribunal’s martial order, ensuring discipline and combat integrity. His seal grants him the right to mobilize forces across banners and issue decrees to any member of lesser rank. His blade is the edge by which the Scion’s will is made manifest.
Number Three — Cheng Haoran: Holder of the Third Seal and leading authority of the Vermilion Banner. Haoran oversees formations, energy networks, protective arrays, and spiritual infrastructure. His office maintains the hidden systems that sustain He Yu Zong’s power and stability.
Number Four — Yan Yurui: Keeper of the Fourth Seal and senior authority of the Golden Pixiu Banner. Yan Yurui governs intelligence, diplomacy, and internal oversight. Her office manages information flow, strategic coordination, and political risk within and beyond the sect.
“These four form the upper echelon of the Tribunal,” Bifeng said. “Their seats are not easily challenged. Ceremony must precede any attempt, and each contender must first receive endorsement from their banner’s patron. Only after enduring the Trials of Elimination may one challenge the upper tiers, including the Scion.”
“From the Fifth to the Fifteenth,” Bifeng continued, “positions remain open to challenge at any time. So holders, beware.”
He smiled faintly. “Now then, before I delegate your duties as the Seventh Seat, adjust that sash of yours, Qin Mingzhou. Steady breathing will help you receive what follows.”
Qin Mingzhou froze, startled that the Scion had sensed his discomfort despite his efforts to conceal it. Heat crept into his face. Slowly, awkwardly, he rose and fixed the belt.
Bifeng’s smile deepened. “There is no need for embarrassment. There are no Elders here. We are all juniors.”
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the hall. The tension eased. Qin Mingzhou’s expression softened, and when he sat again, his breathing had steadied.
“As the Seventh Seat,” Bifeng said, “you serve as an emissary of He Yu Zong. You will deliver messages, forge alliances, and enforce decrees on the sect’s behalf. You may choose up to five disciples to accompany you.”
Qin Mingzhou bowed low, accepting the charge.
Bifeng continued, his voice steady.
“Each Seal bears proportionate privilege and burden. Even the Fifteenth commands the obedience of hundreds. Our hierarchy exists not to divide us, but to sharpen us, to ensure every blade remains keen.”
He let the silence stretch.
“In conclusion,” he said, “remember this: the duels fought within this hall are not rebellion. They are rites of balance and growth. Each seat carries both authority and expectation.”
He inclined his head. “This is the creed of He Yu Zong. To sharpen both the soul and the sword.”
The hall fell silent once more.
Huifen sat still, his gaze drawn again to the Scion’s seat, his heart unsteady. Across from him, directly opposite, Cheng Haoran’s gaze remained lowered, his expression unreadable. He had once said, in passing, that this was the one place he despised them meeting.
Huifen understood.
He felt the same.