The air inside the Azure Dragon Tower's grand hall carried the sharp tang of old lightning. Every breath Qing KunJue took tasted faintly of static, like the moment just before a thunderstorm. But it wasn't the weather outside.
It was the weight of legacy.
Generations of Azure Dragon clans had passed through this chamber. Their gen, their power, and their pride were pressed into the very bones of the tower. The jade pillars coiled upward like serpents, and the vaulted dome shimmered with celestial glass that reflected only the sky's true color—not the clouds above, but the essence beyond them.
Qing KunJue entered behind his father, Qing YunLan, both dressed in formal azure robes. They were not the only ones who had made the journey. Families and representatives from dozens of Azure Dragon bloodlines had traveled from the four corners of the continent. They filled the seating tiers in orderly layers, with banners fluttering beside each delegation, marked by distinct family crests.
KunJue recognized several. The Windstream branch from the north, whose gen specialized in wind-based movement. The Sea Scaled family from the southeast—experts in liquid-to-lightning transformations. And to their far left, a smaller, proud delegation from the eastern provinces, clad in storm-gray robes edged with electric blue.
At their head stood a tall, lean man whose presence drew eyes the moment he moved.
His name was Qing Xuan.
Not a clan—just one man. But a powerful one. His reputation had already preceded him.
It was said he'd once condensed his lightning gen so tightly it shattered a volcanic defense gen in a single blow. That his eyes could see the flaw in any essence-based shield. That his words, like his strikes, were not made often—but when made, they struck truth.
Qing Xuan nodded once toward Qing YunLan, then allowed his gaze to rest on KunJue. There was no disdain. No admiration. Just... interest.
KunJue held his gaze, steady.
Then all turned as the ceremonial horns sounded—a low, thrumming note that seemed to come from beneath the stone itself.
From the center gate of the hall emerged a single figure, walking with unhurried grace.
He wore a long robe of deep ocean blue, marked with ancient script that shimmered faintly as he moved. His white hair fell like mist over his shoulders, and his beard seemed carved of cloudlight. Yet it was the ring on his brow that silenced even the whispers.
Not a crown of metal. But a ring of pure lightning.
Lord Qing, Patriarch of the Azure Dragon Tower.
No one remembered his birthdate. No one had recorded the last time he actively fought. But his presence stood untouched by time.
As he stepped onto the dais of concentric crystal scales, all the hall rose as one. Without a word, he lifted two fingers, curved the third, and the room sat in perfect unity.
Then he spoke.
"In the breath of storm, we are born. In the hush of cloud, we remember. In the silence before thunder, we gather."
A ritual recitation—but no less sacred for its repetition.
"We are the storm-bearers. The balance-keepers. We are the lightning before the flood."
His voice, deep and steady, filled the dome. He wasn't shouting, yet every syllable was felt in the bones.
"Our clans—scattered as we are—return here, not for dominance. Not for inheritance. But to remember: the Dragon does not fly alone. It coils through the sky only when the sky allows it."
He let those words settle.
"In these times, the world moves quickly. ShanFei grows restless. DongNan Guo whispers of new alliances. The Vermilion Clans of the west burn brighter, and the White Tigers in the spine of the mountains bare fangs more often. The XuanWu... still waters, as ever. But even still water carves stone."
He folded his hands behind his back.
"And so we must ask: where do we stand?"
The hall remained silent.
Until a voice rose.
Confident. Clear.
"My lord."
It was Qing Xuan.
He stepped forward, robes trailing faint static, his expression unreadable.
"I speak not against the Congress, nor against our role as guardians. But I do question our posture."
Lord Qing inclined his head slightly.
"Speak."
Qing Xuan didn't hesitate.
"For centuries, we have bent toward balance. We have played the bridge—between flame and flood, between beast and man, between ambition and restraint."
He looked around.
"And what has that brought us? The Vermilion clans claim sky-rights over four territories once under joint administration. The White Tigers build war academies in buffer regions. And the XuanWu…" His lip curled, ever so slightly. "...hide their secrets behind stone and seal."
Some murmurs flickered through the hall.
"I ask," Qing Xuan continued, "at what point does balance become burden?"
He looked directly at Lord Qing.
"At what point does guardianship become servitude?"
A heavier silence followed.
Then Lord Qing stepped closer.
"You speak clearly," he said, his voice like a slow-rising storm. "You speak boldly."
He raised one hand. Lightning danced around his fingers—elegant arcs, coiling, biting.
"But you forget what the Dragon represents."
His gaze sharpened, and the lightning around his ring crackled higher.
"We are not rulers. We are not tyrants. We are the pivot. We exist not to crush, but to channel. Not to claim, but to contain."
Qing Xuan didn't flinch. "Even when others do not respect that role?"
"Especially then," Lord Qing replied.
"The dragon flies alone only when the sky has fallen."
Another pause.
Then the Patriarch stepped forward, turning his back to the crowd and facing the ancient wall behind the dais—a towering mural of four creatures, rendered in eternal light and shadow.
The Vermilion Bird, wings outstretched in flame.
The White Tiger, mid-leap with claws bared.
The XuanWu, coiled in a protective spiral.
And at the center of it all—
The Azure Dragon, weaving between them, eyes open, tail endless.
Lord Qing pointed.
"Flame guides. Tiger protects. Tortoise remembers. And we—"
The lightning around his ring flared white-hot.
"—we balance."
Silence returned, but this time it felt earned.
Then, Lord Qing's tone softened.
"Still... there is value in ambition, when tested."
He turned back to the crowd, arms now extended.
"And so, in accordance with tradition, I announce the return of the Azure Dragon Gen Youth Tournament."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
KunJue felt the weight in the air tilt—pressure mounting, breath tightening.
All eyes turned toward the dais.
"The rules remain," said Lord Qing. "All contestants must be between sixteen and twenty-five. Must be recognized as awakened Azure Dragon gen users. No killing. No external aids. No manipulation."
He paused.
"Victory will bring credits and great recognition. Wealth that buys more than comfort. It buys advancement. Authority. Legacy."
Credits were teh great money thats used that can also show holographically. They were power—recognized by all Guardian Nations, able to unlock sealed libraries, purchase custom technique scrolls, even commission soul-bound artifacts.
"The top three," Lord Qing continued, "will receive access to the Elder Council. Perhaps... even an audience with me."
That last sentence fell like thunder.
Qing KunJue exhaled slowly. Around him, even seasoned elders shifted in their seats.
The Elder Council was no small gift.
To train under them—even once—was a lifetime of direction.
YunLan leaned slightly toward KunJue. "You will enter."
KunJue didn't answer right away.
His gen stirred beneath his skin. The mark on his soul—like a coiled arc of essence—pulsed faintly.
"I intended to," he said quietly.
Lord Qing raised both hands, and the hall began to clear.
The Congress had spoken.
The Dragon had moved.
And the storm had officially begun.