Chapter 84 — Not a God
Aurora City Hall · Ninth-Floor Conference Room
2:00 PM
Outside, sunlight blazes across the skyline.
Inside the ninth-floor conference room, the atmosphere is razor-taut.
The moment YiChen steps through the door,
all conversation halts.
He wears a soft gray cashmere sweater beneath a tailored black overcoat.
His breath rises and falls subtly beneath the fabric,
brows sharply drawn, gaze quiet—carrying a cold, unwavering clarity.
“Apologies for calling you in so soon after waking,”
says Robert Carter from his position by the projection screen.
His voice is steady, authoritative—
the kind that leaves no room for dissent.
YiChen says nothing.
His gaze shifts briefly to the screen:
—nightfall.
—an ocean of Fiends surrounding a lone, black-clad silhouette.
He glances away.
Takes the seat furthest from the screen.
Silent.
—
David Coleman clears his throat.
The Deputy Mayor for Emergency Management places a data tablet on the table.
Its blue glow casts sharp reflections against his glasses.
“YiChen, we need confirmation on several aspects of last night’s Spiritual Catastrophe.
Casualty counts and footage have been logged and reviewed,
but certain anomalies still require your firsthand input.”
YiChen leans back, eyelids low.
“Speak.”
David enlarges a video still.
“First—within the core of the impact zone,
we registered an abnormal spike in half-materialized Fiends.
Does this suggest a new breach between realms?”
“No.”
YiChen’s reply is curt.
“They evolved.”
“Evolved?”
David frowns.
“Then our combat readiness levels… will fall drastically behind.”
YiChen’s eyes lift, cold light flashing in their depths.
“Then accelerate training.
Throw them into live combat.”
He lets that settle, then adds evenly:
“And as I’ve said before—
install defensive arrays immediately.”
A brief silence ripples across the room.
Several glances are exchanged—no one speaks.
—
Robert Carter steps forward.
His fingers tap once, softly, against the polished table.
“Second matter—
public sentiment.”
He doesn’t raise his voice,
yet every official in the room seems to tense.
“‘YiChen is a god.’”
“‘He saved us.’”
“‘He is our dawn.’”
Each line lands like the toll of a bell.
The room darkens slightly.
Not in lighting—
but in mood.
Carter’s eyes find YiChen’s.
“Do you understand what this means?”
YiChen looks back at him.
Calm.
Unmoving.
Like someone staring at a name carved in stone.
“It means that—
I saved this city.”
The words drop like stone into water.
The far end of the table stirs.
Several officials flinch—some frown.
Others glance toward Carter, uncertain whether to speak.
—————
Carter’s gaze flickers—something unreadable passing behind his eyes.
“Yes, you saved this city,”
he says at last, voice calm but weighted.
“But YiChen—this city cannot survive on miracles.”
“A city needs order.
It needs institutions.
It needs a future.”
“Not blind faith strong enough to wash it all away.”
—
YiChen says nothing.
He leans back, fingers tapping softly against the armrest—
tap… tap… tap…
Then:
“Robert Carter.”
The full name lands with sharp finality.
The room stills.
It’s the first time he’s spoken the mayor’s name aloud.
His tone is flat, stripped of respect or hostility—
only fact.
“If you could’ve stood at the front
when the black tide came—
I wouldn’t have minded sleeping a little longer.”
He rises.
Black coat shifting slightly, as if caught in an unseen wind.
From his height, he looks down upon the room.
“If you want to speak of order…”
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His voice turns cold—quiet, but resonant.
“Ask yourselves first—
can you even hold this city?”
—
Someone at the far end of the table stirs, ready to object—
but Carter lifts a hand.
Silence returns.
The two men hold each other’s gaze for a long, breathless moment.
Then Carter finally looks away.
And sighs.
“I understand.”
He gestures toward the projector.
The screen goes dark.
Tension drains from the room, replaced by heavy quiet.
“YiChen, we need you to continue guarding the southern line.
Stabilize the border.”
He pauses, then adds,
“And… we ask for one appearance.
A speech. Brief.
To calm the public, restore order.”
—
YiChen lowers his gaze.
Silence stretches.
Then he speaks—voice cool, distant.
“A speech is fine.”
His eyes drift toward the sunlit windows.
“But don’t expect me to comfort anyone.
I protect the border so that the people I care about…
can keep living.”
He turns.
His footsteps are near-silent.
But in their stillness, the room is left suffocating.
—
Aurora City · Central Plaza
4:00 PM
Tens of thousands have gathered in silence.
Some wear clothing still torn or damp from their escape.
Some cradle sleeping children.
Some clutch wheelchairs.
Some hold signs, scrawled with trembling hands:
YiChen is our Dawn
Please Save Us
Their faces are hollow.
Their eyes, desperate.
They stare ahead at the black platform hastily erected on the plaza’s edge.
At its side, Mayor Carter stands still,
watching the crowd with a quiet weight behind his eyes.
——————
Aurora Central Plaza · 4:07 PM
A low, steady hum rolls in from the distance—
the deep thrum of a Spirit-engine.
A black armored vehicle slowly pulls up to the edge of the plaza.
The moment its doors unlock,
an invisible pressure sweeps through the crowd—
silent, yet overwhelming.
YiChen steps out.
Gray high-neck sweater.
Black overcoat.
Wind lifting his black hair.
Eyes cold. Composed. Unreadable.
He walks toward the stage—
every step measured.
With each step, the crowd instinctively parts before him,
a corridor forming in utter silence.
Someone gasps—
“It’s him!”
“YiChen! He’s here!”
Muffled cries, suppressed sobs, broken whispers—
like water breaching a dam,
they rise and swell,
until all voices converge into one—
“YiChen!”
“YiChen!”
?
A Miraculous Silence
He ascends the platform.
Behind him:
gray sky.
Faded banners snapping in the wind.
The hem of his coat flutters sharply.
He looks down at the sea of people stretched before him.
And suddenly—
silence.
Tens of thousands.
Not a single sound.
Only the faint hiss of the loudspeakers remains,
like static scratching at the edge of the world.
He sees too many eyes.
Children’s.
The elderly.
Mothers.
Soldiers.
Survivors who have lost family.
Survivors who have lost everything.
Each pair of eyes reflects the same thing—
him.
—
YiChen lowers his gaze.
When he speaks, his voice is low—
clear, and steady.
“Some of you call me a god.”
YiChen stands alone against the winter sky, coat snapping like a banner of war.
Silence grips the plaza like frost.
“If I were a god,”
his voice carries without force—yet no one misses a syllable,
“your families would still be alive.”
“Your homes would be untouched.”
“Your children would never have to look at corpses and learn the word ‘fear’.”
A tremor—too small for anyone but himself—passes through his fingers.
“I bleed.”
“I break.”
“I grieve.”
He lifts his gaze—cold steel under sunlight, but human.
“I am one of you.”
“I just stand in front.”
Wind swallows the end of his words.
No one breathes.
Then— one woman folds to her knees, as if her spine simply gives out.
“YiChen, please—my husband is still outside the southern barrier… save him!”
“My child—she’s only five! Please!”
“You say you’re not a god—but you’re all we have left!”
Desperate voices erupt all at once.
People weep.
People kneel.
People press forward with torn signs, voices ragged.
“YiChen!”
“YiChen!!”
?
Cold Command of the Field
YiChen stands motionless on the stage.
Wind whips his coat like wings about to take flight.
His eyes—glacial.
In his Consciousness Sea, Shadowfang gives a low chuckle.
“The more you deny it, the more they worship you.”
Shixi’s voice follows—
gentle, wistful.
“YiChen… so many people long for you.”
He lowers his eyes.
His hand tightens at his side.
Then—
he looks up.
His voice lands like a blade:
“I will go.”
“I will fight.”
Wind surges around him.
His battle cloak flares behind him like starlight caught in flame.
“But remember this—”
“I am not a god.”
“Living on—
is something you must learn to do yourselves.”
—
He turns and descends the stage.
Never looks back.
The black overcoat trails behind him,
sweeping across the steps
like dark wings folding into nightfall.
Behind him, cries rise again—
“YiChen!”
“YiChen!”
But no one can reach him now.
?
When the wind dies,
the plaza remains.
Signs lie trampled.
Photographs are scattered across the stone.
The black coat, the silver flash of light—
gone.
Yet no one leaves.
People stay, murmuring, voices trembling—
“He said… he’s not a god…”
“But I saw it. He was standing on a dragon’s head.
The swordlight… tore the monsters apart.”
“He says he’s human—
then who else could do what he did?”
“I saw his hands glow.
Like stars. I swear—like stars.”
A woman cradles her child.
Her voice breaks as tears slip down her cheeks.
“He saved us…
No matter what he says—
he is a god.”
—————
When the black sedan turns into No. 112 Azure Radiance Street,
the clock has already slipped past seven in the evening.
Inside the car, YiChen rests his fingers against his brow.
The frenzied chants from Central Plaza still echo in his ears—
resonant, relentless.
A tight ache coils beneath his ribs,
faith-energy surging far beyond what his meridians can comfortably bear.
It isn’t desire.
It’s overload.
“Your energy balance is unstable,”
Shixi murmurs from his Consciousness Sea, voice subdued.
“You’ve absorbed far more than you discharged today.”
YiChen exhales slowly, eyes closing for a brief moment.
He knows.
That pressure—dense, restless—has been building since the speech ended.
“Sir, we’ve arrived.”
The driver’s voice pulls him back.
The butler steps forward, lowering his voice discreetly.
“Miss Lin just woke up. She slept through most of the afternoon.
She should be in the bathroom now.”
Moments later, Elena emerges from her room.
She’s wearing a pale pink T-shirt and black cotton pants,
hair still damp from a hurried wash, trailing loosely down her back.
The moment she spots YiChen, her eyes brighten.
“YiChen! You’re back!”
“Mmh.”
He answers quietly, turning his head aside as he steps inside.
Dinner is simple—shrimp stir-fried noodles, fragrant and warm.
Elena eats with visible enthusiasm, while YiChen barely touches his plate.
Shadowfang’s voice rumbles irritably through his consciousness.
“You’re wasting time. That energy pressure isn’t going to resolve itself.”
YiChen ignores him.
But Elena notices.
His chopsticks are still.
His face has gone pale again, a faint sheen of sweat at his temple.
“The black thorns…”
She sets her chopsticks down at once.
“They’re acting up again, aren’t they?”
“I’m fine,” he says automatically.
She doesn’t believe him.
“YiChen,” she says, more firmly this time.
“Come on.”
He hesitates only a second before standing.
?
The room is dim, curtains half-drawn.
YiChen sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense.
Elena takes a steady breath and focuses.
When her Spiritflame ignites, it is soft and controlled—
rose-gold light flowing with careful precision.
She places her hand against his chest.
The effect is immediate.
Energy surges through his meridians,
not pleasant—
but sharp, disorienting, like pressure being forced through channels too narrow to contain it.
YiChen’s fingers tighten against the mattress.
His jaw locks as he rides out the wave.
Black thorns fracture under the Spiritflame’s touch,
breaking apart in bursts of blinding pain before dissolving into nothing.
“Slow down,” he says, voice rough—not from strain of restraint,
but from the sheer effort of staying conscious through the backlash.
Elena nods at once, adjusting her flow.
Her brow knits in concentration.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.
“I’ll keep it stable.”
The pressure eases gradually.
Not comfort—
but control returning piece by piece.
When the last surge subsides, YiChen lets out a long breath.
“That’s enough,” he says quietly.
“…Thank you.”
Elena withdraws her hand immediately.
“You should rest,” she says, worry lingering in her eyes.
“You pushed yourself too hard today.”
YiChen nods once.
After she leaves, he sits alone for a long moment,
waiting for the tremors in his meridians to settle.
The energy hasn’t vanished.
But it’s contained.
And for now—
that will have to be enough.
