The Crime of Being Too Fast
The punishment hall of the Azure Cloud Sect was not designed to inspire fear.
It did not need to.
There were no spikes on the walls, no chains hanging from the ceiling, no bloodstains deliberately left uncleaned as a warning. The hall was wide, orderly, and immaculately maintained. Stone pillars rose like patient witnesses, their surfaces engraved with oaths of discipline and harmony that had outlived the people who carved them.
In the enforced quiet, the sound of fabric brushing against fabric became unbearable. Lin Feng’s breathing—ragged, involuntary—echoed far louder than any shout ever could.
It was a place meant to feel reasonable.
That was what made it terrifying.
Shin Yung stood near the back, partially obscured by a pillar. No one had told him to attend, but no one had stopped him either. His presence had become one of those uncomfortable facts the sect preferred not to acknowledge directly—like a crack in a wall everyone carefully walked around.
The hall was full.
Instructors lined one side. Elders occupied the elevated seats at the front, robes pristine, expressions measured. Disciples filled the remaining space, arranged with deliberate symmetry. The quiet was absolute, not because people were afraid to speak, but because everyone believed speaking would be inappropriate.
At the center of the hall knelt a single figure.
A young disciple.
His name was Lin Feng.
Shin Yung knew him only vaguely. Outer court. Quiet. Talented, but not ostentatious. The kind of disciple instructors liked to mention as an example of “steady progress.” The kind who bowed properly, followed instructions, and never drew attention to himself.
Which made his presence here profoundly unsettling.
Lin Feng’s back was straight, hands resting on his thighs. His expression was calm, almost blank, though Shin Yung could see the tightness around his eyes—the faint tremor of someone forcing their breathing into obedience.
He was not resisting.
He was waiting.
An Elder stepped forward. Elder Qiao, one of the administrative arbiters. His voice carried easily through the hall, smooth and unhurried.
“Disciple Lin Feng,” he began, “you have been summoned for disciplinary evaluation.”
Lin Feng bowed. “This disciple listens.”
Shin Yung felt the words arrive late, as always, lagging just behind the movement of Elder Qiao’s lips. The desynchronization made everything feel unreal, like watching a play through thick glass.
Elder Qiao gestured, and a jade slip floated forward, unfurling slightly in the air.
“Over the past three months,” the Elder continued, “your cultivation has progressed at a rate exceeding established norms. You have advanced two minor realms without corresponding bottlenecks, shown abnormal stability during Qi circulation, and demonstrated reaction speeds inconsistent with your recorded foundation.”
A pause.
Not dramatic.
Procedural.
“Explain.”
Lin Feng lifted his head slightly. His voice was steady.
“This disciple followed the manuals. I trained diligently. I did not use forbidden techniques. I did not alter my meridians.”
Murmurs rippled through the hall, immediately subdued.
Elder Qiao nodded as if hearing a predictable response. “We have verified that you committed no ritual violations.”
Lin Feng’s shoulders relaxed—just a fraction.
Then Elder Qiao continued.
“However,” he said calmly, “that is not the charge.”
The word however landed like a stone dropped into still water.
“The charge,” Elder Qiao said, “is that your progress itself constitutes a destabilizing anomaly.”
Shin Yung’s stomach tightened.
Elder Qiao’s gaze swept the hall, as if ensuring everyone understood the implication.
“Cultivation is not merely personal advancement,” the Elder went on. “It is synchronization with Heaven, with sect, with era. Progress that outpaces comprehension invites deviation. Deviation invites calamity.”
He turned his attention back to Lin Feng.
“Your development is too fast.”
A murmur rose again, sharper this time.
Not wrong. Not forbidden. Just… too fast.
Lin Feng blinked. Once.
“This disciple… does not understand,” he said carefully.
“That,” Elder Qiao replied, “is precisely the problem.”
A second Elder spoke up—Elder Rong, conservative, known for her strict adherence to precedent.
“In the past week,” she said, “disciples have begun imitating irregular methods. Training harmony has fractured. Ideological division has emerged. Fear spreads.”
Her gaze flicked, briefly, toward Shin Yung’s corner of the hall before returning to Lin Feng.
“Your progress reinforces a dangerous narrative—that acceleration is virtue.”
Lin Feng frowned slightly. “This disciple did not encourage others.”
“You exist,” Elder Rong said flatly. “That is enough.”
The words were not cruel.
They were factual.
That was worse.
Shin Yung felt a strange pressure building behind his eyes, heavier than the usual headache. The lag in his senses made the moment stretch, as if time itself were reluctant to proceed.
Lin Feng lowered his head again. “If this disciple has erred, please instruct me. I will slow my cultivation. I will—”
“You misunderstand,” Elder Qiao interrupted gently. “This is not a corrective hearing.”
A cold hush fell.
“This is a preventative one.”
The sentence echoed in Shin Yung’s mind.
Preventative.
Elder Rong’s gaze lingered on Shin Yung for a fraction longer than necessary. To them, his stillness radiated approval—an unspoken verdict delivered by someone too elevated to interfere.
In truth, Shin Yung was struggling to blink. His vision lagged half a breath behind reality, his body refusing to respond, trapped between nausea and a system that would not answer.
What they mistook for divine composure was nothing more than a young man waiting for his body to catch up.
Lin Feng’s hands clenched on his knees.
Elder Qiao raised his hand, and a projection formed in the air—a faint image of sect regulations, ancient clauses rarely invoked.
“Article Seventeen,” he recited. “In times of doctrinal instability, individuals whose existence accelerates deviation may be restrained for the preservation of harmony.”
Restrained.
Another word that sounded reasonable.
Shin Yung’s stomach lurched. Instinctively, his hand rose, his mouth opening to shout a protest—a desperate reflex to stop this madness. But the world did not permit it.
He felt his muscles tense, yet his arm remained frozen at his side. He felt his lungs draw air to scream, but his throat remained mute. He was trapped in a cruel interval of time.
They believed they were being responsible.
The sentence was delivered without ceremony.
Lin Feng was to be confined to the Reflection Cavern. His cultivation resources would be restricted. His advancement monitored. Indefinitely.
Not exile.
Not execution.
Just… suspension.
A life paused.
The hall remained silent.
Lin Feng bowed.
Not deeply.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“This disciple accepts the sect’s decision.”
Something broke in Shin Yung’s chest.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
Like a hairline fracture spreading through glass.
As guards stepped forward, Lin Feng was helped to his feet. He did not resist. As he turned, his eyes passed over the assembled disciples.
For a moment, his gaze met Shin Yung’s.
Lin Feng steps heavy as guards escorted him toward the exit, before Shin Yung’s hand finally jerked forward, fingers clawing at empty air. The sound of his choked protest only emerged as a hollow exhale once Lin Feng’s silhouette had already vanished behind the hall’s gates. His brain’s signal had finally arrived, but reality had already left him behind.
The hall dispersed with disciplined efficiency. Conversations resumed in low tones, careful and controlled.
“Necessary,” someone whispered.
“Unfortunate, but unavoidable,” another murmured.
Shin Yung remained where he was long after the hall emptied.
Su Yan approached quietly, stopping a respectful distance away.
“They believe this will stabilize things,” she said.
Su Yan did not meet his eyes when she said it. Her fingers curled slightly at her side, trembling just enough that Shin Yung noticed—and just enough that she seemed to hate herself for it.
She sounded as if she were repeating something she had been told to believe, not something she truly understood.
Her voice lacked conviction.
“They’re wrong,” Shin Yung replied.
He watched the empty center of the hall, where Lin Feng had knelt.
“They didn’t punish him for chaos,” he continued softly. “They punished him for momentum.”
Su Yan said nothing.
Shin Yung felt the realization settle fully now, cold and absolute.
This world did not fear disorder.
It had lived with disorder for millennia—wars, sect collapses, demonic invasions, heavenly tribulations. Chaos was familiar. Manageable.
What it feared was acceleration.
Change that moved faster than doctrine.
Speed that denied authority the time it needed to adapt.
He laughed.
The sound came out wrong—too late, too hollow.
Su Yan stiffened. “Senior Shin—”
“It’s absurd,” he said, rubbing his temples. “He followed the rules. And that’s exactly why they couldn’t forgive him.”
He looked at her.
“They don’t want truth. They want pace control.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
That night, Shin Yung did not sleep.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling beams as they lagged behind his gaze. The system interface flickered faintly at the edge of his perception.
[ Status: Consensus Achieved ] > [ Reality Path: Hard-coded by Local Perception ] > [ Reality Synchronization : 0.11% ]
It had risen again. Because Lin Feng had been punished. Because the sect had acted. Because the world was adjusting.
Shin Yung understood now.
As long as he remained passive, others would suffer for reflecting him accidentally. As long as he stayed silent, the world would invent rules to contain his shadow. Truth was not neutral here. Truth was dangerous.
He closed his eyes.
For the first time since arriving in this world, he did not think about survival.
He thought about responsibility.
“If I tell the truth,” he whispered, “they’ll kill curiosity.”
If I stay silent, they’ll kill momentum.
Either way, the cost is paid by people like him.
His mind drifted—not to memories of Earth, but to possibilities.
Controlled lies. Deliberate misdirection.
A way to slow the world down without breaking it.
Not chaos. Calibration.
The system flickered again, unstable.
Not responding.
But listening.
Shin Yung exhaled slowly.
“This,” he murmured into the darkness, “is why I have to lie.”
Not to save himself.
But to protect those who moved too honestly, too quickly, in a world terrified of speed.
Somewhere deep in the sect, Lin Feng sat alone in a cavern of enforced stillness.
And as the world congratulated itself for regaining its stability, Shin Yung realized he was the only one left who knew they were all standing on a lie.
The world called it balance. Shin Yung called it a lie—and understood, for the first time, why telling the truth here was a crime.
