Moonveil City was massive.
Built along a crescent bend in the river, the walls were high, etched with defensive runes that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Tall watchtowers lined the perimeter, manned by guards in matching black and red armor. Beyond the walls, rooftops stretched out like a sea of tiled silver and gray. Distant bells rang from a sect shrine. The outer markets buzzed with activity—traders, beast riders, wandering cultivators, and guards checking entry tokens.
Rykarion stepped onto the main path.
His robe still carried faint smoke from the earlier battle, but his steps were calm, unhurried. He didn't carry a badge, a clan symbol, or any obvious affiliation. Just a spatial ring and that quiet, suffocating presence that turned heads without effort.
He approached the outer gate, blending into the small line of travelers waiting for entry.
A group of sect disciples stood nearby, flashing tokens and laughing loudly—Silverthorn Sect, judging by their white robes with red vine embroidery. One of them, a young man with an ornate fan and a face too proud for his own good, noticed Rykarion.
He stepped out of line, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Hey."
Rykarion didn't stop.
"You deaf?" the boy said louder, blocking his path now. "I said hey, rogue cultivator. This line's for citizens and sect members. You're neither."
Rykarion finally glanced at him.
One glance.
It was the kind of look that felt like someone peeling back your soul and deciding you weren't worth eating.
The boy flinched for half a second—but forced a laugh to cover it.
"Tch. Look at you. Burned sleeves, no crest, walking like you're somebody. I asked you a question."
Rykarion spoke without looking away from the gates.
"…You didn't ask. You barked."
"What?"
"I don't talk to dogs," Rykarion said simply, and stepped around him.
Gasps broke out nearby.
The fan snapped shut.
"You little bastard—!"
The boy's Qi flared.
Flames swirled at his feet, his cultivation erupting—6th stage Foundation Realm.
"Apologize. Now."
Rykarion turned fully now, eyes flat. "Or what?"
"I'll teach you what it means to disrespect a direct disciple of Silverthorn Sect."
Rykarion rolled his neck once, slow and quiet.
"Go ahead."
The boy roared and launched forward, his hand cloaked in red flame. He aimed for the chest—blunt strike, not fatal. Probably just wanted to bruise him and show off.
Rykarion didn't move.
He simply raised one finger.
Tap.
It met the flaming strike head-on.
There was no resistance. No struggle.
Just…
Crack.
The boy's arm bent the wrong way. Flame cut off. A scream followed.
Rykarion stepped past him before he hit the ground.
Gasps turned to silence.
Guards stiffened but didn't intervene. They'd seen enough arrogant young masters make mistakes. They also saw how Rykarion moved—like a sword that had never been sheathed.
The fan-boy rolled on the dirt, clutching his arm, groaning.
Rykarion reached the gate.
The city guard blinked. "N-no token?"
Rykarion looked at him.
The guard swallowed and stepped aside.
"W-Welcome to Moonveil City, honored cultivator."
Rykarion walked through the gates.
No badge.
No clan.
No sect.
Just a stranger with golden eyes and silence in his wake.
Elsewhere in Moonveil…
Deep inside a quiet compound carved from white stone and red-painted timber, incense drifted slowly from a jade brazier. The floor was polished obsidian. The silence was heavy, broken only by the creak of a shifting fan and the quiet hum of cultivation energy in the air.
A man sat on a raised platform. Legs folded. Eyes closed.
Hair like frost. Beard like trailing clouds. Wrinkles traced across his skin like old mountain ridges, but his presence was sharp—cutting through the silence like a blade wrapped in silk.
He wore a black and silver robe trimmed in fire-red. The sleeves hung long, almost brushing the floor. His breathing was so light it couldn't be heard, but around him, the air bent.
This was Grandmaster Xuan Lie.
Sect Master of the Silverthorn Sect.
And a cultivator at the Second Stage of the Core Formation Realm.
The lanterns in the hall flickered once.
His eyes opened.
Gold. Dim but burning beneath.
He frowned faintly.
A whisper of Qi left his tongue.
"Someone powerful just walked into the city…"
He didn't raise his voice—but a young elder at the edge of the room stepped forward instantly.
"Grandmaster?"
Xuan Lie didn't look at him.
"Go find my son," he said. "And tell him and his idiotic friends to keep their mouths shut and their heads low."
The elder hesitated. "Is it serious?"
Xuan Lie's gaze turned cold.
"If you call a storm a breeze because you don't see it yet… you'll be the first to die when it comes."
The elder bowed deeply. "Yes, Grandmaster."
He left immediately.
Xuan Lie stayed seated, but his fingers gently tapped the floor.
He had felt it. The moment that strange pressure entered the city gates. It was quiet—too quiet. Not the kind that concealed weakness. The kind that told you nothing was forced. It just was.
A beast hiding in human shape.
"Not Nascent," he muttered to himself. "Not Core… but still…"
His breath slowed again.
"…It reminded me of the old ones. The ancient bloodlines."
He closed his eyes again, but this time, his Qi stirred like a coiled dragon beneath his skin.
Meanwhile…
Rykarion stood at the edge of a busy market street, watching a merchant argue with a customer over spirit peach prices. The city buzzed around him. Kids ran past, laughing. A hawker yelled about beast bones. Sects moved in small groups, showing off robes and colors.
But he was quiet.
Always quiet.
And the air around him never stopped breathing.