"Prove it!"
Jué challenged, lowering its majestic head until its immense, crystal-gilded face hovered above Kyorin.
Fogs of timeless essence escaped the Loong's agape mouth as the cavern fell still in anticipated reverence.
Unperturbed by this, Kyorin stepped forward.
"Are you not going to call upon your Resonating Vessel?" Jué asked, casting a sidelong glance toward DEVA, whose presence lingered at the edge of the confrontation like a silent sentinel.
"No need," Kyorin replied. He gazed at DEVA, remembering what he had told her this afternoon. "Besides, I must prove my words to her, too."
The Loong's golden eyes narrowed, puzzled. The child stood alone. Whether out of arrogance or out of ability, the distinction was unknown.
Kyorin merely smiled—calm as moonlight—and said, "Birds of a feather flap the same wings." His tone was pointed, his gaze oscillating once between Jué and DEVA.
"—!!?"
Jué blinked. The poetic line struck with uncanniness, a ripple of deeper meaning traveling through the air. Even DEVA's luminous lenses shimmered in subtle confusion.
'Wait... how does he—?' The Loong's thoughts trailed off, only for Kyorin to speak again.
"Sentinel of Jinzhou," Kyorin called out, garnering Jué's attention before explaining, "I possess a gift—a high-end mastery of Resonance—so refined, it rivals even the upper echelons of this world's powerhouses."
He gestured slowly, his fingers tracing the shape of an unseen pattern in the air, and in doing so, the intensity of the Resonance within the cavern seemed to diminish—or rather, constrict.
A barely noticeable change, but unmistakably there—one that Jué sensed, as the Loong now gazed at the mortal child with a flicker of interest, though a certain wariness had formed.
Having secured the Loong's attention, Kyorin continued. "Because of this, I perceive Resonance... differently."
"Differently, how?" Jué asked, voice rumbling with cautious curiosity.
Kyorin stepped closer, standing fearlessly beneath the Loong's vast shadow. "Differently enough to recognize that the core of Resonance—yours in particular—is a fractional extension of hers."
He gestured gently toward DEVA. "To be exact, it holds a harmonic ratio of 1 to 21."
"Amusing," Jué rumbled, impressed by the gifts the world had bestowed upon the mortal. Yet Jué reminded, "Still, this is just boasting about gifts and does not prove your claims of supremacy."
"Do I need to give another example?" Kyorin asked, his voice and expression adorned with confusion.
Jué seemed to recoil slightly, one-third of its vast serpentine body straightened, its tiny arms—insignificant compared to its massive size—visible, as it gazed down upon Kyorin.
In a confused tone mirroring that of Kyorin's, Jué uttered, "Another?" The Loong seemed stunned by the claims of the young Resonator before demanding, "Since when hast thou given any example?"
Kyorin recited the events just now, "Think about it. Did I not twist and divert our conversation about power?" He gave a small, playful shrug, stating the obvious.
Jué, realizing what Kyorin was getting at, mocked, "'Tis but trickery, thou mortal whelp."
Kyorin replied in counter, "So, to be able to influence others through speech is not power?"
"No," Jué replied, countering, "Even as thou hast spoken: a gift it is—an inborn art of speech." Jué adamantly declared.
"Fine, have it your way." Kyorin let out a slow, tired sigh, as though disappointed he had to spell it out. Then, he began again—this time, with a different kind of demonstration.
With the calm grace of someone entirely in control, he bent down and picked up a small, fist-sized stone.
"Look at me," he said, raising it slightly."I can pick up this stone…"
He let it fall from his hand. The soft clack of it striking the earth echoed in the chamber. "…and I can drop it."
Jué stared, then snarled—rage flaring in its golden eyes.
"Dost thou mock me with such jest?" Jué's voice boomed, reverberating through the cavern. The great beast felt mocked, insulted. Such a meager act could hardly be called power, not in its eyes.
"If we are to speak of stone-lifting," Jué thundered, "then mark me well—I could upheave the whole of Mount Firmament!"
Its chest swelled with pride, head rising high as if to assert its claim.
But Kyorin's reply came calm and flat, almost disappointing in tone: "You cannot."
Kyorin's words fell like a final note, and the cavern held its breath—silence pressing in from every stone.
"…What words dost thou utter?" Jué growled, its massive form coiling slightly as if to strike.
Gone was Kyorin's soft smile. In its place was a stern, almost scolding expression—the kind a teacher might wear when correcting a presumptuous student.
He raised a single finger. "O Sentinel of Huanglong," he said, voice sharp but not disrespectful, "you dare speak about status, and be presumptuous to forget about it?"
"You are a Sentinel. The guardian of Mt. Firmament," he continued, voice steady as the unceasing river. "Yes, you possess great strength—but not the power to upheave that which you are meant to protect."
"You are the guide and shield of humanity here." He stepped closer, unwavering, reminding the Loong of its duty. "To upheave the mountain would be to endanger them all."
The words struck deeper than expected. Jué's fury softened, the light in its eyes flickering not with rage, but with thought.
"You may ask, 'How is this power?'" Kyorin's voice deepened, the edges sharp with disappointment.
"But it is." He declared it not with arrogance, but with unwavering conviction.
Then, pointing at Jué, his tone turned stern. "As a Sentinel, you must not be blinded by perception. See the truth."
"I did what I said I would." He turned slightly, casting a glance toward the fallen stone. "You claimed to do what you cannot. That… is the difference."
He let the words settle for a moment, then continued. "Power is the ability to act despite limitations. To do something not just with force, but with understanding, and a strict control."
He took a slow step forward, inching closer now, his voice patient but bountiful with wisdom.
"Remember—an ant can lift twenty times its body mass. A human cannot." His eyes narrowed as he spoke, as if revealing an obvious, but elusive truth.
"Yet we see a human lift what the ant cannot, and call that power..." A cold mockery drove his voice, as if peeling back the veil of a common lie. "... Ignoring the limits of the ant."
Kyorin looked up at Jué once more, his expression firm. "That is where true power lies—acting within the 'limitations' of the self, and still achieving."
"You speak of upheaving Mt. Firmament, yet you cannot—not because you lack strength, but because it is a limitation you are bound by," Kyorin spat, his words concise and unwavering.
"To upheave Mt. Firmament would be to cross that boundary—and true power," he added, "always respects boundaries."
He leveled his gaze at Jué.
"Earlier, you had said it—status and situation define respect. And I believe," Kyorin said with quiet certainty, "that you are not one to act without respect."
"And…" As if delivering the final note of a symphony, Kyorin's voice lowered with gravity. "…if you still doubt my power, first, look at yourself."
He raised both hands, open-palmed. "You, the guardian of humanity, were driven to anger by a mere child."
He let the words hang in the air like a quiet indictment. "I sensed the restlessness in your heart… but that doesn't excuse misjudgment."
Kyorin took a deliberate breath, his tone shifting from reproach to responsibility. "Remember, as the Sentinel of Huanglong, you carry a duty."
His voice held deliberate restraints. "Before anything—before your pride, before the problem now, before you, you must think of the people of Huanglong." He drilled that responsibility into Jué.
There was a long silence before Jué finally murmured, "Think of the folk, aye?"
"Yes." Kyorin nodded slowly. "Any ruler, guardian, or being responsible for the lives of others must place those lives above their own. That is the role. That is the burden."
"To hold power," Kyorin said calmly, "is to hold control over that which you claim power over."
He took some steps back, the quiet echo of his footfalls reverberating in the stillness, as he picked up the stone again. "I possess power per my claims. But you…"
He paused, gaze locked on Jué. "Senses rule over you."
There was a quiet edge to his voice now—unforgiving, steeped in a kind of resentment too vast to name, and laced with the hush of grief too old to mourn.
"You possess strength, Jué. But no control over the sense that drives you," Kyorin said, his words cutting like a cold wind.
"You claim to hold power, yet currently your senses hold power over you." He raised his voice slightly—not in anger, but in urging clarity. "So tell me, who truly commands it—you, or your emotions?"
Jué levitated in silence, absorbing the pearls of wisdom Kyorin spoke as the agitation of dissaprence of the so-called 'Lord Arbiter' began to ease.
"Rise above, O Arbiter of Fate." He called upon the Loong, "Do not let attachment to your predicament become the downfall of both yourself and your people."
A long silence followed—resonant, heavy.
And in that silence, the weight of Kyorin's words pulled something ancient from Jué's mind.
The old memories—fragments from the dawn of civilization—flickered like lanterns in a fog. Times when the foundations of Huanglong were first laid, when balance had been more than a duty; it had been sacred.
Finally, Jué stirred. Its immense head lowered in quiet reverence, eyes glinting with timeless awareness.
"Through the twinkling of stars and the rivers of time," Jué intoned, voice like a hymn from the abyss, "I do declare thee… the wisest among all who tread upon Sol III."
"..."
Kyorin did not answer.
He did not smile.
He did not flinch.
He merely stood there, unmoved by the Loong's reverent decree—a mountain listening to a river praise its stillness.
"Yet take heed—" Jué began, voice steady, intent on continuing. But then—
"Jué, STOP!"
DEVA's voice rang out, sharp and urgent, cutting through the cavern like a siren. Panic cracked her usual mechanical composure, fear lacing every syllable. Her core trembled—something was wrong.
Just moments ago, Jué had praised Kyorin. It should have been a moment of reverence. But instead of gratitude or quiet pride… something dark began to surface.
An unfathomable rage.
It bloomed from Kyorin—not loud or explosive, but so dense, so absolute, that it silenced the Resonance in the air. A stillness so heavy it pressed on the spirit like a sealed tomb.
And DEVA, as Kyroin's Resonating Vessel, felt it profoundly. This was not ordinary anger. This was primordial—older than language, deeper than vengeance.
A force that shook her to her core, leaving her to utter in a quiet thought, 'Exactly what part of Jué's speech has offended him?'
Yet, she was unaware that Kyorin's anger was not meant for Jué, but instead, the one who made Jué speak that speech.
As DEVA observed, something had shifted—imperceptible to most, but real enough to twist the air around him.
Deep beneath skin and bone, his blood surged through every unseen stream, as if rivers were trying to carve their way out of stone.
His heart thundered—not from anger, nor fear—but with the aching force of a star compressed into flesh, an unmanifested potential pressure threatening to tear loose.
That heart... It no longer beat for survival. It beat to shatter the mortal shell that held him, to cry out into the open: "You are committing a grave sin, O writer of Fate..."
But he held.
Just barely.
And in that stillness, even the world forgot to breathe.
However, this anger, this violent pulse rising within Kyorin, was never inked upon the Book of Fate. Thus, it was… unwritten.
And because it was never written, it never happened.
Thus, Jué continued, unknowing. "Yet take heed—"
Jué's voice remained steady, unperturbed by the strange tension in the air—neither the actor nor the scriptwriter aware of what was yet to manifest.
"Thou art reckless in deed. Thou mightst have forfeited thy life in affronting a Sentinel." Jué's tone had shifted—no longer filled with hostility, but with a deep, solemn warning.
As the words of Jué following the written script echoed, a thought outside of the script bloomed within Kyorin's mortal shell: 'Perhaps, I need to make some distinction clear.'
The scriptwriter continued, yet remained elusive, their hand guided by an unseen string, "writing a part of the story not yet written, only in thought, yet to manifest."
A/N: This is the key turning point of this whole story. Also, the next portion can be "considered" non-canonical.
***
Unaware, the puppeted hands began to write.
To be continued...