The road home was smoother than anyone expected.

  YiChen walked at the front, steps soundless over the packed earth, voice low as he ordered Han Yue to pull back his Soulwhisper perception and conserve strength. The squad settled into rhythm: half-hour marches, brief rests, the measured routine of survival.

  By two in the afternoon, the trees thinned into gray daylight.

  The mouth of the Black Pine Forest opened before them—wide, silent, waiting.

  A gray tactical transport crouched beneath a web of camouflage, its frame blending into the soil like a predator waiting to strike.

  “Finally…” Ryan exhaled, shoulders slumping.

  They moved in weary coordination, hoisting sacks of Moonshadow Wheat into the cargo bay, each bundle stacked in disciplined order until the hold was full. When the rear hatch sealed with a clean mechanical click, something in their chests unclenched.

  Board. Start up. Head home.

  The truck’s engine rumbled awake. Trees blurred backward through the windows, the forest receding into a smear of green and gray.

  For three days they had been cut off—no signal, no news, no certainty that the city still stood or that their families were alive.

  Then—

  ding-ding-dong-dong!

  Phones chimed all at once, a cascading symphony of alerts.

  YiChen opened his messages instantly, fingers flying:

  Mission complete. Heading to City Hall first. Home later.

  Send.

  He frowned when the message above it remained unread.

  That wasn’t like her.

  “Dude!” Logan blurted, shoving his phone toward him. “You’ve blown up again! Every clip’s viral—hundreds of millions of views! And your family’s—”

  YiChen took the phone. His pupils contracted.

  A headline screamed back at him, black on white:

  SPIRIT USER’S TRUE IDENTITY EXPOSED!

  Below it lay everything: his university record, elective lists, dorm photos, home address—unredacted.

  The next image hit like a blow.

  Crowds outside his apartment complex—hundreds of them—some holding Save Us! signs, some kneeling and sobbing, a few scaling the outer walls.

  His mother’s last three messages blinked quietly at the top of the feed:

  Stay safe.

  Don’t worry about home.

  I’m proud of you.

  Not a single word about the chaos.

  “The government will step in,” Han Yue said, gripping his shoulder. “They’ve probably already relocated your family—”

  “Drive faster.”

  YiChen’s voice was low. Cold.

  David pressed the accelerator. The truck surged forward, the roar of the engine drowning the rattle of phones—each vibration another strike against YiChen’s ribs.

  Minutes bled into silence. Then Han Yue’s screen lit with a secure municipal message:

  Family transferred to safe house. Location classified. No rear threat.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  YiChen read it once.

  Nodded once.

  Said nothing.

  The truck thundered toward City Hall.

  When they rounded the final corner—everyone froze.

  ?

  The City Hall Plaza was no longer a plaza.

  It was a storm.

  Hundreds—no, thousands—crowded the square, spilling over steps and barricades.

  The security cordon had collapsed two layers deep; riot units stood shoulder to shoulder, shields trembling under the press of bodies.

  Banners flapped in the rain, ink running down in frantic streaks:

  Save Us!

  Messenger of the Gods!

  Chosen of the Spirit Realm—show yourself!

  The air throbbed with cries, prayers, screams.

  A mother lifted her limp child toward the gate and shouted his name.

  Phones filmed. Drones hovered. Livestreams multiplied like wildfire.

  Then someone saw the transport.

  “It’s him! That’s his car!”

  “Please—my child’s dying!”

  “Just let us see him—just once!”

  Flashbulbs burst like lightning.

  Telephoto lenses swung toward the vehicle.

  Hands slammed against armored panels, fingernails screeching across paint like claws.

  A man broke through the barrier, face streaked with rain and tears. He slammed both palms on the hood, screaming:

  “Please! Just one word! My mother’s spirit’s breaking apart—she won’t last the night!”

  Officers pulled him back, his boots dragging through the water. His nails left pale gouges on the metal before the crowd swallowed him again.

  Inside the cab, YiChen’s hand closed on the door handle.

  His knuckles whitened.

  “Don’t.” Han Yue’s grip locked around his wrist. “If you go out now, they’ll tear you apart.”

  From the driver’s seat, Logan stared at the faces pressed to the glass.

  “They think you’re their savior.”

  YiChen shut his eyes.

  Outside, the cries swelled higher—

  not for Captain Caelestis,

  not for the soldier who’d held the line,

  but for the name beneath it.

  The name of a son.

  “YiChen… save us…”

  He breathed once, the words caught between whisper and vow.

  “I am not a god.”

  ————

  The storm outside clawed at the windows, but the heavy curtains of City Hall’s conference chamber kept it at bay.

  Dim light pooled across the circular tactical table where a dozen senior officials sat—faces half-submerged in shadow. The air smelled of cold coffee and ozone from the shield walls, a metallic hum that made the silence taut and brittle.

  Mayor Robert Carter rested clasped hands against his brow, voice low but edged with command.

  “We can’t stall any longer. Distribution begins tomorrow. We stabilize the city—or it breaks.”

  Emergency Director Stephen Matthews opened a folder, the whisper of paper slicing the quiet.

  “Plans finalized. Every site can be operational by tonight.”

  Deputy Mayor Coleman leaned forward, eyes on YiChen.

  “You’re certain this crop responds to mental projection? That untrained citizens can trigger the growth reaction?”

  YiChen didn’t answer at once.

  He reached into his pocket and drew out a single grain of Moonshadow Wheat.

  The seed glowed faint silver-blue—brighter than rice, pulsing softly, as if something asleep within it was dreaming of light. In the dimness, it looked like a star resting in his palm.

  He focused.

  Spirit Force rippled down his hand. The grain flared crimson—then split open.

  Before their eyes, a sprout unfurled, translucent roots threading between his fingers. The stalk climbed higher, leaves like ribbons of glass. Within sixty seconds, a full stalk stood in his grasp, one meter sixty tall, its bowed head heavy with luminous grains that gleamed as though someone had crushed a moon and poured its dust into the husk.

  Silence swallowed the room.

  Coleman’s pen slipped from his fingers, clattering against the table.

  YiChen placed the glowing stalk carefully on the polished surface. Its crystal roots shimmered beneath the lamp in a lattice of living veins.

  “Tomorrow, I’ll test accelerated propagation over one acre,” he said evenly. “Prepare a controlled plot.”

  His gaze swept the table—steady, cold, unyielding.

  “Prayer energy will also stimulate growth, though slower. Coordinate with the Church of Radiant Grace. Let them assist until the reserves stabilize.”

  No one spoke. Even the sound of breath felt like intrusion.

  Then—

  Bang!

  Carter’s palm struck the table. Teacups rattled. Papers jumped.

  “Do as he says.”

  His tone was steel—measured, final.

  “Mobilize tonight. Launch the first Spirit Cultivation Zone by dawn—YiChen will lead the demonstration.

  All harvests are to be collected, stored, and distributed under direct government control.

  Any intelligence regarding his contract beasts is Level One classified. Any leak will be prosecuted as treason.”

  The air froze.

  Carter’s gaze swept across pale faces—daring defiance. None came.

  At last, he turned to YiChen.

  “Your family’s safety is confirmed under Internal Affairs protection. Their location is classified. From this moment, you are a national strategic asset.”

  A pause.

  “You will not act independently.”

  YiChen inclined his head, silent.

  But his eyes—bright, cold—said enough.

  ?

  When the meeting adjourned, the others filed out wordlessly.

  Beyond the walls, the city’s roar pulsed through the storm—half-prayer, half-riot—like the heartbeat of a world on the edge.

  YiChen stayed behind.

  He brushed his fingers along the Moonshadow stalk still lying on the table. Its roots were severed, yet faint light lingered in the grain—each one a tiny crescent moon.

  “…Let’s hope we’re not too late.”

  The whisper vanished into the sterile air—unheard, unanswered—

  leaving only the hum of the shields and the fragile glow of a miracle born from desperation.