The air in the hidden valley was thick with the ash of defeat. Ye Fan's body trembled not from exertion, but from a soul-deep agony. The image of his friends surrendering, of Bai Wei's spirit breaking under Chu Ling's tutelage, of Luo Ying becoming a spectral warden, was branded behind his eyelids. He was the lone survivor, a hero who had saved no one, a son who had failed his mother utterly.
The beautiful master's voice in the jade pendant, Yao Chen, was uncharacteristically silent, her presence a subdued hum of shared shame and frustration.
"We cannot stay," Ye Fan finally rasped, pushing himself to his feet. His voice was raw. "He has eyes everywhere. There is only one place left that might… might… be beyond his immediate reach."
"The Heavenly Sword Sanctum," Yao Chen's voice whispered, laced with a rare note of trepidation. "They are recluses, Fan'er. They answer to no dynasty, no clan. They answer only to the Way of the Sword. They consider themselves shepherds of the world's balance, but they rarely intervene. Gaining their aid is… improbable."
"What other choice is there?" Ye Fan shot back, a flare of his old anger surfacing. "Shall I skulk in the shadows until he hunts me down? Until he decides to mount my head beside my mother's throne? No. If there is a power that can stand against a Soul Transformation monster, it is them."
His journey was a desperate flight across the continent, a blur of stolen spirit boats and forced marches through monster-infested wilds. He moved like a ghost, his Half-Step Nascent Soul power allowing him to evade the common folk, but every shadow felt like it held a Blackscale Guard, every whisper of the wind sounded like Chu Ling's cruel laughter.
Weeks later, battered and soul-weary, he stood at the foot of the Sky-Spire Peaks. The mountains themselves were like blades thrust into the heavens, their peaks shrouded in a perpetual aurora of cutting sword light. The air hummed with a profound, sharp energy that felt both intimidating and purifying. This was the domain of the Heavenly Sword Sanctum.
The conflict Yao Chen had feared ignited the moment they approached the main gate—a simple arch of unadorned white stone that radiated immense pressure.
"Halt," a voice stated, not loud, but it carried the weight of absolute authority. A single disciple stood guard, his cultivation at the peak of Core Formation, yet his aura was as sharp and focused as a honed razor. His eyes, clear and discerning, swept over Ye Fan. "State your business, wanderer. The Sanctum does not welcome tourists."
Before Ye Fan could speak, Yao Chen's voice, meant only for him, hissed in his mind. "Fan'er, be careful. Their Sword Heart insight can perceive lies. But do not reveal my full presence. They are zealots. They may consider a soul inhabiting an artifact an abomination against the natural order."
Ye Fan took a breath, clasping his hands. "This lowly one is Ye Fan. I seek sanctuary. I come to plead for the Sanctum's aid against a great evil that has consumed the Luo Region—the Eternal Dragon Phoenix Dynasty and its Ancestor, Lu Tian."
The disciple's eyes narrowed. "We do not involve ourselves in the squabbles of regional dynasties. The Sanctum's duty is to the Heavenly Dao, not to the politics of mortals."
"See?" Yao Chen's voice was tense. "I told you. They are impossibly arrogant. Their 'balance' is a excuse for inaction."
Frustration boiled over in Ye Fan. "This is no squabble!" he insisted, his voice rising. "This is a perversion of the natural order! He enslaves souls, twists fates, breeds children as if they were livestock! He is a cancer! If your Heavenly Dao has any true meaning, it must oppose this!"
The disciple's hand moved to the hilt of his sword. "You speak of things beyond your understanding, outsider. The Dao moves in its own way. Now, leave."
"You fool!" Yao Chen snapped internally. "You cannot demand their help! You must appeal to their sense of righteousness, not challenge their doctrines!"
"And what of the strong protecting the weak?" Ye Fan retorted, ignoring her, his gaze locked with the disciple's. "Is that not part of the righteous path? Or is the Heavenly Sword Sanctum's blade only for display?"
The insult hung in the air. The disciple's sword whispered an inch from its scabbard. The pressure intensified, threatening to crush Ye Fan where he stood.
It was at that moment a new voice cut through the tension, clear and sharp as a ringing blade.
"Stand down, Junior Brother."
A woman descended from a higher path, her footsteps silent on the stone. She was tall and clad in simple blue and white robes, but they did nothing to hide a figure of lethal grace. Her black hair was tied back in a severe ponytail, and her eyes were the color of a winter sky—clear, calm, and utterly penetrating. A long, slender sword was strapped to her back, its scabbard plain but humming with contained power. Her aura was not just powerful—it was focused, a Nascent Soul level cultivation so pure and sharp it felt like a blade pointed at the world's throat.
This was Ling Xiao, the Young Mistress of the Heavenly Sword Sanctum, a prodigy said to have been born with a sword in her hand.
She looked at Ye Fan, and he felt laid bare. It was not the violating scrutiny of the Ancestor, but a dissection of his spirit, his intent, his very will.
"You carry the stink of desperation and great loss," she stated, her voice devoid of judgment, merely observant. "And… a strange resonance. Your spirit is tangled with another." Her eyes flickered to the jade pendant at his chest.
Yao Chen recoiled internally. "She can sense me! Fan'er, be wary!"
"I…" Ye Fan began, but Ling Xiao raised a hand.
"Do not explain. Lies are a flaw in the blade of the spirit." She paused, her head tilting as if listening to a distant melody. "The heavens are… unsettled. A great dissonance has recently emerged in the cosmic balance. A thread of fate has been severed and rewoven into a dark pattern. Your arrival here… it feels less like chance and more like a correction."
She was speaking of the Heavenly Dao's correction. The Ancestor's actions—stealing heroines, crushing destinies, breeding a Tyrant—had created a violent kink in the world's natural flow. The Dao, in its infinite, impersonal way, was seeking to compensate. Ye Fan's flight here, his meeting with Ling Xiao—it was not random. It was the universe applying pressure to straighten the bent beam.
"The master you speak of, this 'Lu Tian'," Ling Xiao continued, her wintery eyes finally showing a flicker of interest. "His methods are an offense to the natural cycle of life, death, and destiny. While the Sanctum does not involve itself in politics, the preservation of the Dao's integrity is our paramount duty."
She made a decision. "You may enter. You will be tested. Your worth, your spirit, and the nature of the entity you carry will be judged. If you are found to be a instrument of heavenly correction, the Sanctum may grant you the strength you seek. If you are merely a vector of chaos…" She left the threat hanging, sharper than any sword.
She turned and began walking up the path, expecting him to follow.
As Ye Fan took his first step into the Sanctum, he felt a shift. The oppressive weight of the Ancestor's dominion felt a million miles away, replaced by the clean, demanding pressure of the sword light. He had found a refuge, but it was a forge. And the woman leading him was both his potential salvation and his most intimidating judge.
The worldline, thrown into chaos by the Eternal Goblin Ancestor, had begun its painful process of correction. And Ye Fan was now at the heart of it.