— Lei —

  The koi pond shimmered with early light, the surface catching on pale ripples like brushstrokes on silk.

  Lei Shui stood at the edge of the stepping stones, his travel cloak folded over one arm, watching the fish drift beneath the lilies. His shoes were too fine for the road ahead, polished and embroidered with silver thread, so he stood barefoot on cool stone. Somewhere behind him, a gardener swept the flagstones with rhythmic grace, and beyond that, the household stirred with quiet preparation.

  He hadn’t told them. Not really.

  Not about the Strike Force. Not about what he meant to do, once the test confirmed what everyone already assumed—that he would carry Water in his blood, just like his father, and his grandfather, and the seven Shui ancestors whose names were carved in white jade above the main hall.

  He turned and looked once more at the villa.

  The Shui estate rose in layers of carved teak, draped silk, and fine latticework. Vines climbed the northern wall where the sun hit longest. Crane statues flanked the central courtyard, imported from the mainland, and the family crest—a curling wave coiled into a spiral—watched him from every panel, banner, and lantern.

  It was beautiful.

  It was suffocating.

  His father had spoken of the test as formality. “You’ll wear the white sash by evening,” he had said, pouring tea with flawless precision. “Once they see your resonance, the Order will guide you toward the proper path. The Ministry of Logistics has already inquired after your aptitude.”

  And Lei had smiled. Softly. Politely. As he had been trained to.

  He had not said, I want to wield a blade.

  He had not said, I dream of the battlefield, not the ledger.

  He had not said, I want to matter for something I chose.

  Instead, he’d bowed. “As you say, Father.”

  Now, the last servant bowed as Lei passed through the gate, offering a lacquered box of preserved sweets and dried lotus petals for the road. Lei took it with a grateful nod, tucking it into the satchel beneath his cloak.

  No one stopped him. There was no dramatic farewell. No watchful sibling on the balcony. No father standing proud.

  He liked it that way.

  The road from the estate wound down through the northern hills, where rain-slick stones gave way to broader merchant paths. His boots—simple travel shoes now, worn smooth from training in secret—made soft contact with the road.

  The city stretched out below, veiled in light mist.

  Chengtan.

  Even from this distance, it shimmered. The tower of the Testing Grounds peeked over tiled rooftops. The harbor beyond glinted with sails and smoke. It should have made him nervous.

  Instead, he felt something he hadn't in weeks.

  Relief.

  He was leaving the place that knew his name, but never asked what he wanted.

  He was going to a place where names meant nothing, but choices might.

  By midmorning, the mist had thinned to a soft silver thread, curling low through the city streets below.

  Lei Shui moved with practiced ease, though the pack on his shoulder was clearly made for walking—not ceremony. His travel cloak was clean but simple, too plain for his station, and yet it did little to disguise him. Not really.

  A few passersby glanced twice as he entered the city proper.

  It wasn’t just the way he moved—graceful, deliberate, like a dancer trained in etiquette before movement. It was his hair, short and tousled, colored like fallen snow. Or maybe the hazel of his eyes, warm and light, too striking to be common, too calm to be loud. He didn’t speak, but people noticed.

  He hated that.

  The scent of jasmine and fresh rice filled the air as he passed into one of the upper market districts. Children were stringing red paper charms between food stalls. A scholar scolded a chicken for stepping on his scroll. Vendors hawked sweet pears and salted plums. It was messy, alive, free.

  Lei stopped to buy a handful of dried mango slices from an old woman with a deep laugh and sharp eyes. She squinted up at him.

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  “You from the hills?”

  He nodded.

  “Thought so. You shine too much.”

  He smiled, genuinely. “I’ve been told worse.”

  She laughed and waved him off. “Bring me back stories, not bruises.”

  Further down, he paused at a small bridge overlooking a lotus canal. Children threw pebbles into the water to startle the fish, and an old musician plucked at a two-stringed huqin, eyes closed in the sun.

  Lei sat on the stone edge, chewing slowly, letting his feet rest. He watched the crowd—so many faces, so many stories—and let the noise blur into something like music.

  Somewhere across the bridge, he saw another noble youth in far flashier silks arguing with a soldier about lodging assignments. Behind them, a group of traveling students recited mnemonic phrases about the elements.

  No one knew who he was.

  That part, at least, was working.

  He drew his cloak tighter and moved on.

  The inn he chose was modest but elegant—The Hollow Fan, tucked beneath a carved awning painted with birds in flight. A traveling noble would recognize the calligraphy as tasteful. A commoner might think it faded.

  Lei thought it was perfect.

  The room was small, but clean. Pale wood, silk screen, a cushion by the window, and a small lacquer desk. He stood in the doorway for a moment after the innkeeper left, staring at the empty room.

  Then he exhaled.

  Letting go of home, even in pieces, still felt like peeling something off his skin.

  He untied his sash, unrolled his pack, and took out a single folded slip of paper—unmarked, untouched.

  He thought about writing something to his father. Or his sister.

  He didn’t.

  The barracks smelled faintly of polished wood, wet stone, and the kind of incense used to mask sweat.

  Lei Shui sat cross-legged on his assigned cot, cloak folded neatly beside him, a lacquered envelope resting on his lap. His name was written on it in precise brushstrokes. The wax seal—blue, marked with the spiral crest of the Shui family—had not been broken.

  He didn’t open it. Not yet.

  Around him, dozens of other candidates were gathering their things in hushed tension. Some fidgeted. Others spoke quietly in corners. A few simply sat like he did—composed on the surface, waiting for something inside them to shift.

  The first name was already being let through the door.

  The Testing Grounds were just outside, beyond a short walk down a narrow stone corridor. Lei could hear the faint footsteps, the low murmur of examiners, and the creak of wood as the barrack door was opened and closed again. One at a time.

  No announcements. No drums. Just one person, one test.

  It was said that only one in a hundred would ever resonate.

  He smoothed a crease from his sleeve.

  The envelope felt warm in his hand—maybe from his own nerves, maybe from the rising sun. He wondered, absurdly, whether Water would respond better if his hands were cold. Then he smiled at himself.

  It won’t matter.

  Everyone expected him to pass. A Shui with no affinity would be a scandal. His lineage flowed with Water—eight generations of it, if the stories were true. His father never said it aloud, but the implication hung in the air every time he mentioned the Ministry of Logistics, or “when the Order places you.”

  But Lei wasn’t going to the Ministry.

  He hadn’t said a word about the Strike Forces. About combat training. About the bow he practiced with behind closed doors. About wanting to become someone the Empire called not to count crates, but to fight.

  Maybe the element would choose for him.

  Or maybe, just this once, he’d get to choose back.

  His name was waved forward by a silent soldier. Lei rose smoothly, cloak over one arm, envelope in hand.

  The hallway was short, but each step echoed.

  He stepped into the courtyard. It was quiet as he crossed it— no family, no titles here.

  Only the stone.

  Only the test.

  At the center of the open circle, resting on a pedestal of pale stone, was a crystal sphere, roughly the size of a rice bowl. Clear and flawless, it shimmered faintly in the morning light, its surface completely still.

  An examiner waited beside it, eyes half-lidded, fingers resting lightly on a lacquered scroll. She held out her hand. Lei Shui offered his sealed envelope, and she slid it into a slot beneath the pedestal without ceremony.

  “Place your hand on the sphere,” she said. “When ready.”

  He nodded and stepped forward.

  The crystal felt cool, smoother than glass, almost soft in texture—not physically, but in the way it received him. Like the surface of still water.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then the sphere clouded.

  A swirl of vapor coiled inside, slow and graceful—like mist rolling over a river at dawn. The shape deepened, changed—until the crystal glowed faintly blue, touched at its edges with silver light.

  Water.

  Soft murmurs rippled behind him. A whisper of motion. Someone muttered, “Of course. Shui heir.”

  Another voice, half-mocking: “Strike the banners, the prodigy has arrived.”

  He closed his eyes for half a second. Breathed.

  When he opened them, the examiner had already made a mark beside his name.

  “Report to the designation office,” she said, gesturing toward an inner gate. “Through the archway. You’ll be asked to declare your preferred path of service.”

  He bowed and turned to go.

  The path curved inward, away from the stone courtyard and into a quieter compound—lower buildings with sloped roofs and pale wood doors. Everything here was hushed, almost private.

  A scribe at the next threshold waved him into a narrow office lined with scrolls and cubbies.

  “Lei Shui,” the clerk recited, scanning a list. “Water resonance confirmed. Eligible for administrative or scholarly track placement.”

  He dipped a brush in ink.

  “What is your preference?”

  Lei’s voice was even. “Strike Force.”

  The scribe looked up.

  “You have noble standing.”

  “I am aware.”

  A pause.

  Then a quiet nod. The scribe marked the scroll.

  “Proceed to processing,” he said, handing Lei a lacquered tag with a stamped seal. “Next door. They’ll explain your intake.”

  Lei accepted the tag without a word.

  He turned toward the final doorway, its frame carved with the imperial seal and a line of text:

  Service is strength. Strength is sacrifice.

  He reached for the handle.