They surrounded him from all sides—men and women, cloaked in silence, blades sheathed in shadow. Assassins handpicked by her. Not the clan. Not the council. Her—the Ancestor of the Ancient Dragon Clan. She had summoned them in secret. Poured relics, coin, and forbidden techniques into their hands. Her voice had been cold, final:
And now he sat beneath the waterfall, unmoving. Stone beneath him. Water crashing down like the weight of heaven. Plain-looking. Silent. But not unaware. One of the assassins whispered, "He's been like that for days. Not meditating. Not sleeping. Just… waiting." Another tightened her grip. "Why would the Ancestor fear a man like this?" No one answered. Because deep down, they all felt it— This wasn't a man resisting death. This was a man inviting it.
"I don't feel right about this," one of them murmured, eyes fixed on Shen Wuyin beneath the waterfall. "What should we do?" Another stepped forward, voice steady despite the storm. "What we're supposed to do," she said. "Kill the target our master chose. If we die, so be it. For her—I'm willing." She glanced at the others, then toward the silent figure. "She took a leap of faith in us. Now I'll take mine." Without waiting, she moved— a blur of motion, leaping from the brush like a blade drawn from silence.
She had a hidden blade strapped to her wrist—thin, curved, meant for a single, silent kill. Her leap was flawless. Her intent, absolute. But before she could strike him down, Ren caught her mid-air. No flash. No flourish. Just precision. He twisted her wrist with effortless control, redirecting her momentum— and drove the hidden blade to her own throat. She froze. Breath caught. Blade trembling against her skin. Ren didn't speak. His silence pressed against her like gravity. The others didn't move. They had seen him still. Now they saw him awake.
"Stop hiding," Ren said, voice calm but cutting. "All of you—come at me. At once." He stepped forward, the waterfall roaring behind him like a forgotten god. "I don't have time for dead people to take their time dying. Your duty as assassins is to strike quickly. Efficiently. You failed the moment you waited days to kill me." They hesitated. Even now. Ren didn't. They surged forward—blades drawn, techniques ignited. Ren caught a Chinese kunai mid-air. Attached to it: a cultivation talisman. Its seal was unstable, pulsing with raw, unrefined Qi. He turned it into death. One assassin fell instantly—blade through the throat. Ren peeled the talisman off, refined its energy with a flick of his fingers, then pressed it to another's chest— right over the heart— and kicked them backward. The talisman detonated— not with fire, but with spiritual rupture. Their soul scattered before their body hit the ground. He spun, threw the kunai— it struck another assassin clean in the forehead.
A spear came flying toward him—fast, precise, meant to impale. Ren deflected it with his foot. Not a stumble. Not a block. A redirection. The spear spun mid-air— and struck its own wielder in the chest. Another assassin charged, chains whipping like serpents. Ren stepped into the strike, snapped the man's neck with a single twist. No flourish. No hesitation. He caught the chain before it hit the ground, whirled it once, and hurled it toward the embedded spear. The chain wrapped around the shaft— dragged the weapon back like a summoned beast. Ren caught it mid-flight. Turned. Impaled another assassin clean through the stomach. He drove the spear into the ground, leaving the body skewered— choking on blood, gasping for breath that wouldn't come. Then Ren vanished. A flash step— and he reappeared behind two more. His hands pierced through their backs, crushing their hearts in a single motion. They collapsed before they could scream.
The rain began to fall. But not a single drop touched the ground. Ren summoned the sword of Fairy Jin's father—He moved. Too fast for thunder. Too precise for gravity. Raindrops fell— but he cut them mid-air, before they had a chance to land. Each stroke deflected blades, redirected Qi, turned death into choreography. The battlefield stilled. Not because the assassins stopped— but because the world did. Ren stood beneath the waterfall, the sword of Fairy Jin's father humming with ancestral weight. The rain hovered around him, suspended in the wake of his motion. Not a single drop dared fall.
Ren looked up at the sky. Thunder cracked. Lightning split the clouds. Rain fell in sheets— but none touched him. The storm bent around him, held at bay by a silence deeper than Qi— a silence he had earned, and refused to break.
His gaze didn't waver. The storm answered. Clouds churned. Lightning danced across the heavens. Thunder rolled like grief remembered. And from the heart of the sky— a dragon emerged. Vast. Veined with divine Qi. Eyes like molten judgment. She descended slowly, her gaze locked on Ren. Not with rage. But with recognition.
She hovered above him, vast and veined with divine Qi. When she spoke, the storm spoke with her— lightning flared, thunder rolled, and the rain bent to her breath.
"So," she said, "the true immortal has returned."
"I didn't want to believe it. That's why I didn't come to Dragonhold—your sanctum. I sent one of my blood instead."
"But when they told me you bore a dragon too vast to measure…" Her eyes narrowed, molten and ancient. "I knew it was you."
"Black Dragon Emperor."
The wind bowed. The clouds stilled. Even the rain dared not fall between her words.
She looked down at the bodies—scattered, lifeless, soaked in silence.
Lightning flickered across her scales, not in rage, but in thought.
"So," she said, "Are you going to leave them dead?"
"Or will you bring them back?"
Thunder rolled beneath her voice, low and deliberate— as if the sky itself awaited his answer.
"I still have use for them."
"You know I don't wield flame," she added, "Though I could."
"I prefer storms. They linger. They listen."
A gust of wind circled her, carrying the scent of rain and memory.
"Unless your silence is stronger than my storm."
"Gǔlóng Yáo," Ren said softly. "Mother of Storms. The Jade Tempest."
Lightning flickered across the sky, but none dared strike.
"You've grown stronger. The last time I saw your storm, it was wild. Beautiful. But untamed."
He looked up, unflinching.
"I'm glad you finally mastered it."
The wind curled around his words, as if remembering the storm she once couldn't hold.
The storm churned across the sky, vast and alive. Its spine was jade. Its breath, thunder.
Gǔlóng Yáo moved within it—her serpentine form coiled through the clouds, scales glinting like wet emeralds. She had no wings. She didn't need them. The heavens bent to her will. Lightning danced along her antlered horns. Rain gathered, but held back—waiting.
She circled once, her long body rippling through the storm like a river of fury.
Thunder cracked behind her. She didn't roar. She didn't need to.
Ren stood at the cliff's edge, robes unmoved by the wind. He looked up at her, eyes unreadable. Behind him, his four disciples remained within the shelter of his aura: Mianmian, her gaze flicking between master and storm. Gao Yun, fists clenched, breath held. Princess Lianhua Tianchen, blade half-drawn, sensing the weight of history. Prince Mingyu Tianchen, silent, watching the clouds as if trying to understand the shape of her grief. None of them spoke. Not yet. Even the heavens waited.
Ren stood at the cliff's edge, robes white as mourning silk. A black dragon coiled across the fabric—its eyes stitched in silver thread, its body winding from shoulder to hem. His long black hair hung loose, untouched by the weather. He looked up at her—jade-scaled, storm-bound, eternal." There was no fear in his eyes. Only recognition. Gǔlóng Yáo circled above, her jade-scaled body woven into the storm's spine. She did not descend. She did not shift.
Lightning flickered behind her antlers.
The clouds trembled.
Rain began to fall—slow, deliberate. Not from grief. From release. Ren's disciples remained silent behind him, watching the storm speak.
Ren looked up at her, voice calm, untouched by the weather.
"Are you just going to stay in your dragon form the entire time?"
He stepped forward—and shifted.
Light bent. The storm paused.
His true form emerged: tall, radiant, and ancient. Thick white hair fell down his back, loose and gleaming like moonlight. His robes shimmered with the black dragon sigil, now alive, coiling across his chest. His eyes held the weight of centuries.
Gǔlóng Yáo saw him—and the memories flooded back.
The first time she laid eyes on him. When she was born, curled beside the others. When his gaze met hers, and the sky felt smaller. When he named her. When he left.
She didn't speak. Couldn't.
Ren looked at the bodies scattered below the storm.
"I can't exactly apologize," he said. "That's not enough. But you didn't have to send assassins."
He raised one hand. Clicked his fingers.
The air split. The dead stirred.
They gasped, eyes wide, breath returned. Their bodies whole again.
They looked at him—not with gratitude. With pure fear.
Ren didn't flinch.
"Go back to your master," he said. "She still has use for you. Loyal little puppies."
The storm didn't move. Neither did Gǔlóng Yáo. The resurrected assassins stumbled away, silent, broken by the mercy they'd been given.