The Northern Court did not announce inspections.

  They arrived.

  Lin Chen felt it before anyone spoke of it—before the guards doubled, before Overseer Gu began sweating through his robes, before the miners’ whispers turned sharp with panic. The pressure woven into the air had changed character.

  It was no longer curious.

  It was measuring.

  He stood at the edge of the mine grounds, pretending to adjust the straps on an ore basket while his awareness stretched thin and cautious. The faint core behind his sternum responded immediately, tightening, drawing his presence inward the way he had practiced through the night.

  Be within the world, he reminded himself. Not against it.

  Even so, something brushed past him.

  Cold. Precise. Disinterested.

  Lin Chen’s breath caught for half a second too long.

  Across the yard, a man in plain gray robes walked slowly between the barracks. He looked unremarkable—middle-aged, average height, hair tied back with a simple cord. No insignia. No visible weapon.

  Yet wherever he passed, sound seemed to dull.

  Miners lowered their heads without knowing why. Guards straightened unconsciously, hands tightening on their clubs. Overseer Gu followed several paces behind, face pale, nodding and bowing at every word.

  Court agent, Lin Chen thought.

  Not a cultivator sent to recruit.

  Not an executioner.

  A reviewer.

  The gray-robed man stopped near the water trough. He dipped two fingers into the basin, watched the ripples spread, then glanced up—directly at Lin Chen.

  Their eyes met.

  Lin Chen felt it immediately: a thin filament of pressure threading toward him, not forceful, not hostile—curious in the way a scalpel was curious about flesh.

  He almost flinched.

  Almost.

  Instead, he let his presence settle.

  The filament brushed against him… and slid past.

  The man’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  Interesting.

  “Bring me the survivors from the collapse,” the agent said calmly.

  His voice carried without effort.

  Gu scrambled to comply.

  Lin Chen turned away slowly, pulse hammering.

  He felt me, Lin Chen was sure of it. But not clearly.

  That meant one thing.

  I’m on the edge.

  The questioning began by midday.

  One by one, miners were called forward. Names, origins, family ties, strange sensations felt during the collapse. The gray-robed agent listened without expression, occasionally placing two fingers against a miner’s temple.

  Some returned shaken.

  One did not return at all.

  When Hao was called, his shoulders stiffened. He shot Lin Chen a quick glance—fear, apology, something else tangled together—then followed the agent into the barracks office.

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  Minutes stretched.

  Lin Chen’s hands curled slowly into fists.

  If Hao talks—

  He cut the thought off.

  It wasn’t Hao’s fault. And it wouldn’t save anyone if Lin Chen lost control now.

  Finally, Hao emerged.

  His face was pale, eyes unfocused.

  Lin Chen was at his side instantly. “What did he ask?”

  Hao swallowed. “Everything.”

  “And?”

  “I told him the truth,” Hao said hoarsely. “That you survived. That you… felt different.” His hands trembled. “I didn’t say more. I swear.”

  Lin Chen nodded. “That’s enough.”

  Hao grabbed his sleeve. “You need to go. Now. He’s not done.”

  As if summoned, the gray-robed agent stepped out into the sunlight.

  His gaze swept the yard once.

  Then settled—inevitably—on Lin Chen.

  “Lin Chen,” he said.

  Not a question.

  Lin Chen stepped forward.

  The agent approached at an unhurried pace, stopping a few steps away. Up close, the man’s presence was unsettling in a way Lin Chen hadn’t felt before—not heavy, not sharp, but absolute. Like a law that did not care whether it was obeyed.

  “You experienced an anomalous event during the collapse,” the agent said. “Describe it.”

  Lin Chen chose his words carefully. “I was buried. I thought I was going to die.”

  “And?”

  “And then I wasn’t.”

  The agent studied him.

  “Did you hear a voice?”

  Lin Chen hesitated—just enough.

  “No,” he said.

  The agent nodded slowly, as if noting something invisible.

  “Did you feel pressure?”

  Lin Chen met his gaze. “Everyone did. The mountain fell.”

  A pause.

  Then, without warning, the agent extended a finger and pressed it lightly against Lin Chen’s chest.

  The world tilted.

  Lin Chen felt the probe immediately—a precise, invasive pressure sliding toward his core, testing boundaries, mapping resistance.

  Pain flared.

  His instincts screamed to push back.

  Do not resist.

  He let his presence exist.

  The probe reached his core.

  Stopped.

  For the briefest instant, Lin Chen felt something like… confusion.

  The agent withdrew his hand.

  Silence stretched between them.

  “You are untrained,” the agent said finally. “Your foundation is unstable. Your presence is inconsistent.”

  Lin Chen said nothing.

  “Under normal circumstances,” the agent continued, “you would be classified as a latent irregular and removed.”

  Hao gasped softly behind him.

  “But,” the agent said, “you stabilized at the moment of review.”

  Lin Chen’s heart pounded.

  “That is… inconvenient.”

  The agent stepped back.

  “You are hereby Marked for Observation,” he said, voice carrying. “Seven days. If your presence destabilizes again, you will be erased.”

  A faint symbol flared briefly in the air before Lin Chen—angular, cold, unmistakably Court-made—then vanished.

  Lin Chen felt it burn into him.

  Not physically.

  Conceptually.

  The agent turned away.

  “Do not leave the region,” he added. “Flight will be interpreted as confirmation.”

  Then he walked off, already losing interest.

  The mine exhaled.

  Lin Chen did not wait.

  He returned to the barracks long enough to grab his few belongings—a water skin, dried rations, a knife too dull to be useful—and stopped only once.

  Hao stood by his pallet, staring at the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” Hao said quietly.

  Lin Chen shook his head. “You bought me time.”

  Hao looked up sharply. “What?”

  “He marked me,” Lin Chen said. “If I stay, they’ll keep watching. If I leave—”

  “They’ll chase you,” Hao finished.

  Lin Chen nodded.

  Hao clenched his jaw. “Then go.”

  Lin Chen hesitated. “They won’t take it out on you.”

  Hao gave a humorless laugh. “They already did. Best we can hope is they forget us.”

  They clasped forearms briefly.

  Then Lin Chen left.

  He didn’t use the road.

  He cut straight into the scrublands, moving fast, keeping his presence folded tight. The land rose and fell in broken ridges and shallow canyons, offering cover—but little safety.

  By nightfall, his legs burned and his lungs ached.

  Still, he ran.

  Only when the moon rose did he slow, slipping into a narrow ravine choked with thorny brush. He crouched low, breathing shallowly, and reached inward.

  The Court mark burned faintly in his awareness.

  A tether.

  So that’s how they track, he realized grimly.

  He focused, trying to still the core.

  The pressure responded—but unevenly.

  Too much focus, and it flared.

  Too little, and it leaked.

  “Clumsy,” a familiar voice said.

  Lin Chen didn’t startle this time.

  The shadowed man stood at the ravine’s edge, arms folded.

  “You ran,” he observed.

  “I was told not to,” Lin Chen replied.

  The man smiled faintly. “And yet.”

  “They marked me,” Lin Chen said. “They’ll come.”

  “Yes,” the man agreed. “A hound, most likely.”

  Lin Chen looked up sharply. “A what?”

  “A Court Hound,” the man said. “Low authority. High persistence. Designed to test whether you’re worth further attention.”

  Lin Chen’s stomach tightened. “Can I hide?”

  The man shook his head. “Not from the mark.”

  “Then teach me how to remove it.”

  Silence.

  Then the man sighed. “You don’t remove Court marks.”

  He stepped closer.

  “You outgrow them.”

  Lin Chen laughed bitterly. “In seven days?”

  “In seven days,” the man said, eyes gleaming, “you either stabilize… or you demonstrate value.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  The man crouched, meeting Lin Chen’s gaze.

  “You stop thinking like prey,” he said. “Prey flees and hides. Variables move.”

  He placed a hand over Lin Chen’s chest.

  “Your pressure isn’t wrong,” he said. “It’s undecided. Right now, it asks the world for permission to exist.”

  The pressure surged painfully.

  “You must declare,” the man continued calmly. “Not against the world. Within it.”

  Lin Chen clenched his teeth. “How?”

  The man smiled thinly.

  “Survive the hunt.”

  The ravine darkened.

  Somewhere far behind them, a presence shifted direction—slow, patient, inevitable.

  The Court Hound had picked up the trail.

  And Lin Chen, marked and moving, felt the pressure within him change—not stronger, not sharper—

  But steadier.

  The chase had begun.