The ancient edifice—its stone walls fissured by time's relentless advance—stood battered and silent as its true heritage lay plundered. Wu Kuan and his companions, cloaked in sorrow's pallor, watched the culprits and their aide vanish down the crumbled courtyard. Shards of memory and inherited glory slipped from their grasp like sand through trembling fingers. The disciples—youthful, bright with latent promise—bled hope, faces downcast as though their very spirit had been plucked from them. The elders, their brows furrowed and breath heavy, trembled at the loss of so hallowed a ground, where countless prodigies once ascended into legend overnight.
Perhaps none felt the sting more keenly than those who understood the cruel disparity between clans and sects. So many remained buried in obscurity, denied fortuity's embrace. In contrast, a few sects—like gleaming lotus from mire—had explored the crypt's depths and claimed relics that bestowed renown. The barrier-formation scroll, erected to guard the valley, was one such marvel, a line drawn against time's decay.
Yet now the seal, a vessel of archaic wisdom entrusted by lords of antiquity, soared away on the horizon—like knowledge forsaking its keepers. Patriarchs and Matriarchs of the Dragon Vein and Heavenly Sword Sects ground clenched teeth, knowing pursuit was in vain. Flight‑techniques, though formidable, were but candlelight against a gale; the chase would fail them. One Patriarch—his robes glimmering like ocean tides—seethed in silent fury. Months of resources, years of expectation, dissolved in that blink when the beast transformed and vanished—leaving nothing but a void and departed wrath.
Here again, the two paramount powers were laid bare: unprepared, undone, ignorant of the forces in motion until the consequences lay upon their doorstep. Only Tao Hong, gray with age and versed in the caprices of calamity, discerned what others could not.
The Patriarch of the Dragon Vein sect remained composed, voice low as mountain-borne river:
"We failed to gather in time—now we have paid dearly. When word spreads, Qianlong Province shall taste another unexpected turn."
His tone was steady, though laden with the weight of portent. His words fell heavily among those present.
Unknown to them, Tao Hong had glimpsed the threads of fate: within mere hours, elsewhere—another pair, a man and a woman—would stand poised to shift the region's destiny.
`~ ~ Later That Fateful Morning
Light filtered through the latticed window of the cramped inn room, casting lazy patterns across straw‑woven mats. A gentle rap… rap upon the wooden door startled Little Tiger awake. His limbs folded beneath his thin blanket as he blinked out lingering dreams.
"It is Xiao Hu… wake, wake… someone waits without," came Jie Mei's voice—tender, yet edged with urgency.
He sat upright, the word "Xiao Hu" lodging in his half‑dream. With gestures methodical and respectful, he smoothed the rumpled cot and donned simple garments, his mind turning over the summons. His movements spoke more eloquently than any apology, for he honored the lodging and sought to honor his companion.
Upon opening the door, Jie Mei stood—arms crossed, brows drawn. Her gaze fixed on him: half-annoyance, half-worry.
"About time," he chided softly, then paused—as though weighing her emotions in that gaze. "I have never seen him before, yet he insisted on meeting. He came alone…"
He did not offer more words; none were needed. He closed the door, gazing at her with calm resolve, for that was what eased a troubled maiden's heart.
"Well then," he continued at last, voice deliberate yet gentle, "if holding grievance after making you wait, I shall atone—in due time."
She released a breath she had been holding, the complex swirl of emotions suppressed like storm clouds beneath the wave. A sin of omission, yet forgiven, thought Xiao Hu, and she shifted, silent confidence passing between them. She would stand in support; he would guard the moment.
Together, they stepped into the dim corridor, candle‑scented air clinging to their clothes. Their footsteps echoed a measured cadence, and though the inn slumbered, each creak and sigh of timber seemed heavier, pregnant with expectation.
He pondered in silent reflection—the masters they might yet confront and the strategies needed to meet them. "One must place the trap before the tiger enters," an old proverb whispered through his mind.
Suddenly, a distant creak—the ominous flex of aged wood—slid across the hush. Instinct drew their hands to weapons, breath caught between thought and action. The stillness tightened. Every heartbeat thundered in ears made sharp by surprise.
~~ High Above the Earth
Li Wei soared through a vaulted sky on his arcane steed, drifting over cloud‑rafts like a wandering legend. Below lay a tapestry of green corridors and weathered ridges—each valley etched with scars that bespoke past turmoil and current yearning. He studied them with calm curiosity, as though reading a living chronicle.
The terrain shifted—brittle wasteland giving way to emerald expanse—telling tales of unequal lives, carved by cultivation and influence. Beside him, Leng Yue's gaze narrowed:
"There flows strange qi‑patterns from yon backwater county," she observed sharply, voice like winter wind.
Li Wei acknowledged the flux, though his attention was tethered elsewhere. "We cannot dally, nor meddle in every skirmish. Moreover," his tone was pragmatic, "the parties appear evenly matched."
They slipped past the very inn where Xiao Hu and Jie Mei dwelled, unknowing watchers in an uncertain moment. Within, the pair exchanged a nod that spoke of readiness—an oath unspoken yet binding.
A voice, low and chilling, fractured the silence:
"I have finally found you, Xiao Hu… too long. Now, you must pay."
From the darkness stepped a senescent figure; age but a sheath for spite. His steely grey eyes burned, lip curled in sinister mirth.
Xiao Hu's hand hovered near his blade. His heart hummed with recognition—not of the face, but of spite. The stranger's voice oozed venom:
"Your strength is squandered upon you. You are weak, worthy of nothing."
Each syllable dripped with poison, seeking to sunder confidence, to burn resolve.
Jie Mei, stepping forward, voice firm yet soft as silk, countered:
"He lies—jealousy whispers in your tongue. None can rob you of the strength born of your own marrow."
Xiao Hu felt his spirit kindle. In that moment, surrounded by dim lamplight and threatened by malice, his resolve became an ember that would not be snuffed.