From the eyes of the observer.
Night cloaked the valleys in silver fog as Luo Yao moved silently through the lower forests of Wú Xī. The trees whispered with the cold wind, but her steps were soundless — light, practiced, deliberate.
She wasn't here for a person. She was here for an object.
A broken seal.
Somewhere in the ruins north of the village lay the remnants of an ancient Heavenless Temple storage shrine, long collapsed and buried beneath years of dirt and stone. To the villagers, it was no more than myth. But her orders were clear:
"Recover the jade core. Kill only if necessary. Do not be seen."
That had been five days ago.
She had tracked the terrain, avoided hunters, slipped past gatekeepers like mist through a cracked window. The seal fragment was close. She could feel its faint pulse beneath the soil.
But tonight—something else caught her attention.
A soundless hum in the air.
Her senses, honed as a First-Rate martial artist, twitched at the subtle change. The air here wasn't thinner — no, it was bent. Warped.
A strange ripple danced through the trees.
And then she saw it.
A tree, split diagonally from trunk to branch — not shattered by force, but cut. A line too clean, too precise. No scorch marks. No residual essence of technique. Yet the space around it shimmered unnaturally. The Qi clung to the bark like silk fresh from rain.
"What… did this?" she whispered, crouching by the wound.
Luo Yao pressed her fingers against the gash. A tremor shot up her arm.
Not metal. Not blade.
Something deeper. Like a slice through the very fabric of air itself.
Her pupils narrowed.
She traced the ripple — like following a tide ebbing back to sea. Whatever had done this… hadn't gone far.
Silently, she followed the trail.
It led to the edge of the village — near a modest hut, nestled beneath ancient pines. Candlelight flickered inside, and Qi residue lingered in the clearing. But not ordinary Qi.
"Spatial distortion…" she breathed.
She scaled a branch with the grace of a breeze and crouched, hidden, observing.
Inside, the man — young, lean, shirtless, breathing raggedly. Blood stained his lips. He sat cross-legged, body trembling, yet the air around him seemed to obey his will.
She narrowed her eyes.
"A cripple," she muttered. "No. A cultivator… no. Something in between?"
His Qi was wild. Damaged. Like a shattered vase glued back together. But it flowed — and with each breath, space twisted faintly.
She saw him raise a simple wooden stick — no real weapon — and step outside.
She watched the dance.
His movements were flawed. Slow by high cultivation standards. But the way space folded around him made him unpredictable. His final strike — a horizontal sweep — sent a pulse of pressure that made pine needles tremble above.
Again: no light, no sound. Just that quiet rupture in the air…
It struck her then.
This man had no sect emblem. No robes. No backing. He wasn't in any records she knew — and she had memorized all major young talents from the Famous Sects.
Who are you?
He walked back into his hut as if nothing had happened.
She remained frozen, her heart slowly regaining rhythm.
He knew I was watching.
He performed for me.
A message?
Or a warning?
She wasn't sure.
But one thing was clear:
Her mission had changed.
The jade fragment could wait.
Because something dangerous was growing in Wú Xī — something even the Heavenless Temple hadn't foreseen.