The world stood still.
Not frozen by time, but stilled by something greater—a hush drawn across the realm like the silence inside a shrine, sacred and absolute. The dragons curled midair, unmoving; the phoenix hovered, flames suspended as if caught in glass. Even the stray calligraphy that floated in the air now hung frozen, each character gleaming faintly in the stormlight.
Raiden Shogun stood motionless, her hand raised, eyes fixed on Ji Bai.
Waiting.
No judgment in her voice, no urgency in her gaze—just expectation, deep as the earth, still as the sky before lightning strikes.
Ji Bai stood alone in the center of the ink-woven realm. The sky above him pulsed faintly with unseen tension. Beneath his feet, the ground wasn't ground at all, but something softer, alive—like parchment, stretched thin across possibility.
He looked down.
Every step he had taken had left not footprints, but strokes—each one a brush-mark, gentle and unplanned, as though the world itself had begun to write his story for him. Thin black lines trailed behind him like a path of meaning.
Raiden's voice broke the silence—not loud, but undeniable.
"Speak it," she said. "The name you carry."
Ji Bai inhaled.
His heart thudded, not with fear—but reverence. This was no ordinary moment.
He closed his eyes briefly, steadying his thoughts, then raised his brush. It glowed faintly with violet light, threads of ink gathering at its tip. Slowly, deliberately, he moved it through the air—one stroke, then another, then a third.
A single name appeared, floating in the space before him:
Raidenkyo.
As soon as the final stroke was completed, the realm answered.
Not with a roar.
But with a resonance.
A deep, low chime—like the echo of an ancient bell struck beneath a lake. The name shimmered, hovered, and then slowly dissolved, not into silence, but into Ji Bai himself.
He felt it instantly.
A pulse in his chest.
Not pain, not fire—recognition. The storm that once loomed above him now whispered beside him. The power he had feared no longer stood apart. It flowed back into him like a forgotten melody returning to its song.
He looked up—and Raiden Shogun was already stepping forward.
Her movements were soundless, but every step sent ripples through the world. She stopped before him, her presence vast and still.
"That name," she said, softly now, "was once locked away—hidden from this land. Because to speak it again is to awaken what was nearly lost."
Ji Bai met her gaze. "But it was never evil."
Her eyes glinted—less like lightning, more like understanding dawning behind stormclouds.
"No," she said. "It wasn't. But from now on, its fate lies with you."
The ground beneath Ji Bai shifted—not violently, but gently. The ink-borne terrain unfurled into new shapes and lines, blooming outward from where he stood. Patterns he did not draw appeared nonetheless—responsive, obedient. Not as servants. As listeners.
The phoenix folded its wings and bowed low.
The dragons uncoiled and faded into mist—not vanquished, but acknowledging him.
The blank sky above, once unreachable, now felt close, ready.
Ji Bai stood taller. The brush in his hand no longer trembled. It pulsed calmly—in rhythm with his heartbeat.
The trial had ended.
But the story had just begun.