The sky above was a dome of stars, cold and indifferent. The floating carriage drifted between mountain winds like a ghost ship across a silent ocean. Ash sat in the rear, legs folded, the air brushing past his face.
He had never been this far from the village. Never felt the weightlessness of flight. But it wasn't fear that gripped him—it was curiosity. A hunger that had no shape, only direction.
In front of him, Elder Huo still sat in lotus position, hands folded on his knees, cloak barely fluttering despite the wind.
Ash hesitated. Then finally asked, voice low:
> "Elder… may I ask something?"
The man didn't turn, but his eyes flickered open.
> "Speak."
Ash's fingers twitched slightly. "What kind of Throne do you possess?"
There was a pause. Long enough that Ash almost thought he wouldn't answer.
Then Elder Huo gave a short, dry breath—half-laugh, half-scoff.
> "Me?"
"Child, not even I have stepped into Throne Manifestation."
Ash blinked. "But you're… from a major sect."
> "Yes. And I've cultivated for forty-two years."
"Still, I remain at the peak of Core Vein Formation. As do most of your future 'seniors.'"
Ash tilted his head slightly. "Then… who has a throne?"
Elder Huo turned, finally giving the boy a real look.
> "Only eight beings in the entire Lower Realm are confirmed to have awakened their Thrones."
"They are the Patriarchs of the Eight Major Sects. Each stands like a mountain at the gate of the heavens."
He gestured to the air, fingers weaving trails of faint Qi.
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👑 The Thrones – True Power Beyond Mortality
> "The throne is not just a power—it is a crown, shaped by your soul. It becomes your fate."
Elder Huo continued, his tone quiet but reverent.
"The Flame Throne of the Burning Sky Sect burns worlds with a wave."
"The Serpent Throne of the Green Coil Hall speaks in venom and silence."
"The Mirror Throne of the Glass Light Pavilion can reflect karma itself."
> "A throne is your true path. Once manifested, it cannot be changed. It defines your cultivation for life."
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Ash leaned forward slightly. "But how do we… get one?"
The elder's tone grew flat. Business-like now.
> "You don't worry about Thrones."
He raised a finger, ticking points off with subtle annoyance.
> "You worry about not getting your bones broken in sparring."
"You worry about drawing Qi without choking on it."
"You worry about the rules, the ranks, and keeping your head down."
Then he sighed, folding his arms inside his cloak.
> "If you want to rise in the sect… there are three ways."
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📜 How to Rise in a Major Sect – Elder Huo's Guide to Survival
1. Talent – "If you show rare affinity—wind, lightning, blood—you'll be noticed. Tested. Maybe even accepted into the inner sect."
2. Contribution – "You can earn merit. Hunt beasts, forge pills, do dangerous missions. Offer useful things to the sect. The greedy rise just as fast as the gifted."
3. Connections – "Make allies. Serve powerful elders. Some rise just by fetching tea with the right smile."
He paused again, eyes narrowing.
> "But you? You've got none of the three yet."
"You're just another stray mutt picked off the dirt road."
---
Ash felt the truth of it. He had no special clan. No rare bloodline. No glowing affinity. Not even a name worth remembering.
But he remembered the light in the crystal… that strange howling when he touched it.
He looked up. "And if someone does reach the Throne stage… what comes next?"
Elder Huo's eyes shifted subtly.
> "Then they begin to dream of the Heaven Step—the path to the Upper Realm."
> "But be warned, boy. The heavens are not generous. Every step you take from here on is over someone else's bones."
He turned back toward the horizon.
> "The sect does not want loyalty. It wants value. Be useful… or be forgotten."
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They flew in silence after that. The mountains grew taller, the sky darker. Faint lights began to appear in the clouds ahead—floating lanterns, drifting temples, glowing watchtowers.
Elder Huo raised his hand, pointing forward.
> "That is the Holy Saint Sect. The gate to your new life."
Ash stared, his pulse slow but steady. That strange presence within him—deep, silent, buried—began to stir again.
A voice not heard but felt. A whisper older than memory.
> "Thrones… are chains."
> "You were born to wear something far darker."
And deep within his robes, pressed to his chest, a scroll made of bone and black silk pulsed once. Faint. Hungry.
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