As Shenyan stepped back into the grand halls of the palace, his presence stirred not a single ripple. No worried maids rushing forward, no elder cousin demanding answers, not even a passing glance from the guards. It was as if his ten-day disappearance had gone entirely unnoticed—forgotten like yesterday's incense smoke.
Weren't family supposed to be worried that something happened? Where's father? Or Shenglie-ge? Am I really unwanted?
He sighed, pulling his hood lower as he walked the familiar path to his quarters. Once inside, he told the servants coolly, "Leave me. I want to rest."
They bowed and left without question.
Shenyan was a cultured prince and that was a fact. He was royalty at it's apex but when he gets mad, the room gets shaken and the perfect regal personality disappears. He becomes a literal tyrant.
It happened once and the few palace servants who were present learned and passed on the stories.
The heavy wooden door shut with a dull thud. Shenyan locked it, then leaned against it for a moment before drifting to the bed. He collapsed face-first onto the silken sheets, burying his face in his arms.
Silence.
Then—
"I don't know why you get so miserably sad every time you realize your family doesn't care about you."
The voice. Smooth. Dry. Distantly amused.
"It has always been like that, hasn't it?"
Shenyan turned over, eyes narrowing. "What do you know?" he muttered, not bothering to keep the bite from his tone.
"A lot of things. Enough to know that if I hated that arrogant cousin from earlier, I'll likely despise your entire bloodline."
He could almost hear the deity smirking in his skull.
"Do you know what they would do to me if they ever discovered I was in your head?"
Shenyan sat up, arms crossed. "This isn't about you."
"Of course not," the voice said silkily. "This is about you finally growing a spine."
Shenyan didn't reply. Not immediately. But a ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips.
This damn voice was growing on him.
Still sitting on his bed, Shenyan kicked off his boots and sank deeper into the mattress, arms tucked behind his head. The conversation with the voice had shifted from emotional landmines to petty jabs and sarcastic quips—much more their style.
"So," the voice drawled lazily, "your father never let you learn martial arts? Never appointed a master to teach you cultivation?"
Before Shenyan could answer, the deity's tone turned mockingly thoughtful. "Now, why didn't you just disobey him?"
Shenyan snorted. "Because maybe if your father was the Emperor of the strongest empire in the realm, and the entire capital breathed reverence every time he coughed, you'd think twice before sneaking off to learn some sword tricks."
He sat up, glaring into the empty room as if the deity were lounging somewhere by the window. "Where would I even go? A hidden mountain village? Live like some butterfly in hibernation? Grow a beard and meditate under a waterfall for five years?"
"Yes," the voice answered without missing a beat. "That's exactly what you should've done. Better than wasting your life playing the delicate flower in a poisoned garden."
Shenyan hissed and flopped back down. "I don't need your philosophy. I need you to get out of my head."
A soft chuckle echoed inside him.
"I can't. Not until I help you. You might hate my methods, Shenyan, but you can't lie to me. I know what you want—power. Dignity. Vengeance. Freedom. And I intend to give it to you."
He didn't reply. His fists tightened around the fabric of his bedding. The silence hung like incense smoke—long and suffocating.
The annoying voice wasn't lying. As a prince, Shenyan had gotten all he wanted. From silk robes to expensive jade rings or custom made artifacts, he had it at his disposal but he was still a shame.
'A prince in title only, wasting his days in brothels, drunk on perfume and laughter, always crawling after what lies beneath a courtesan's robe.' This had become a song in the mouth of both noble-borns and peasants.
He was tired of pretending not to care about the whispers and gossips so he just sighed and closed his eyes.
Then came a whisper:
"And the day you stop pretending you don't want it… is the day you finally become something worth fearing."
Shenyan turned his head toward the window, letting the moonlight spill over his face as he smirked.
"Fine," he said, tone deliberately casual. "I'll listen to you. But on one condition—teach me just one technique. Not some flashy move. Something that's impossible to learn. Something ancient. Something that needs real meditation. One that doesn't even need a rude voice whispering in my head every two seconds."
The voice chuckled, low and rich like thunder grinning behind a mountain.
"Ah… I see what you're doing, little prince. You want me to shut up."
Shenyan raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say that. But if it's a side effect…"
"No, no," the voice said, voice curling like smoke around his mind. "I won't let you run from this. So I'll ask again, and you'd better mean it this time—do you want a miracle?"
Shenyan stared up at the ceiling, blinking slowly, his smirk fading into something quieter.
Then, with a resigned sigh, he whispered, "Okay. Yes. I want a miracle."
Silence.
The room seemed to breathe with him, shadows dancing gently against the walls. The voice said nothing else.
Shenyan stood, stretched, and padded across the room to blow out the last candle. He slid beneath the covers of his bed, eyes fluttering shut with the last wisp of thought.
"Just one miracle. Justone."
And with that, he slipped into sleep, unaware that something unknown had already begun to awaken within him.