The sun dipped below the mountain's edge, casting the Pavilion's grounds in a velvet shroud of waning gold and deep indigo. The Qi Orb stood shattered—quiet now, drained of its mystical pulse. The trial grounds, once alive with roars and tension, now resembled a field after battle: whispering winds, awed silence, and the occasional murmur from groups of still-dazed cultivators.
And among them, Lin Feng stood tall.
His black shirt hung loose, slightly torn from the second trial. His pitch black eyes were half-lidded, unreadable. Most who passed by dared not make eye contact, unsure whether they were in the presence of a genius... or something else. A few disciples whispered words like "sword incarnate," while others just stared, lips parted, unsure if they were in awe or fear.
Beside him, barefoot and unbothered, stood Li Meixiu—robe of twilight whispering against the grass, Mr. Bunbun cradled in one arm like a sacred talisman. Her hair had come undone in soft waves, and she stretched with a feline yawn.
"They're still staring," she whispered.
Lin Feng didn't look up. "Ignore them."
"Mm. But some of them are kind of cute," she teased, eyes drifting toward the Rustless Blade heir, who pretended not to notice.
Lin Feng turned slightly.
The heir promptly looked away, tension stiffening in his jaw.
Meixiu giggled, satisfied.
From the raised dais, the same Outer Sect Elder who had guided the final trial stepped forward, his long sleeves catching the cool wind. His voice rang out over the trial grounds, now cloaked in twilight:
"The Qi Orb Revelation has concluded. Those who resonated shall remain here, awaiting further instruction. Those who failed—you are not dismissed, but redirected."
Gasps and murmurs followed his words.
A cluster of disciples near the edge—many who had barely drawn any light from the orb—straightened. Their disappointment mingled with sudden, fragile hope.
"To those of martial potential, the Fist Path Trials begin next moon. For those attuned to shadow and precision, the Dagger Path Trials begin next week. Alchemists, flame-bound, spiritual artists—your talents are always needed. Seek the Vermilion Hall."
Some eyes welled with tears. Others shone with fresh resolve.
A broad-shouldered girl from the Scattered Star Sect—whose orb had flickered only faintly—clenched her fists and muttered, "I'll take the Fist Path. Let's see whose bones are brittle."
A boy from a minor apothecary family beamed as he was approached by a robed envoy from Vermilion Hall. "Furnace-born," the elder had whispered. "Rare."
And beyond them all, from above the carved arch of the trial arena, came a silence deeper than silence.
The Inner Sect Elders watched.
They did not step forward.
They simply gazed. And under that gaze, even the strongest disciples felt their knees itch.
One sat like a shrine wrapped in chains of prayer smoke, his face obscured by a bronze mask etched with characters older than memory. A sword hovered behind him, unmoving.
Another appeared almost skeletal, draped in worn sage robes, his breath reeking faintly of bone-dust and rare lotus powder. His eyes glowed faintly green—alchemy flames reflecting years of concoction.
A woman with no visible face stood wrapped in talismans that fluttered like dying butterflies. Her paper robes rustled without wind, and symbols in forgotten tongues blinked across their surfaces.
They whispered in rotation:
"This generation is... wild."
"One of them shattered the orb."
"And that woman? No foundation, no cultivation history. Yet the heavens bend."
"They do not follow the path. They are the path."
As the last of the candidates crossed the archway, the weight of the trials behind them began to lift—if only slightly. They entered the Outer Courtyard: a wide, gently sloped terrace nestled in the Pavilion's upper ring. Lanterns floated lazily above carved pillars, bathing the world in golden light.
Stone pavilions ringed the perimeter like teeth around a sacred garden. The courtyard itself was filled with soft gravel and pruned trees, their leaves trimmed so precisely they resembled swords pointing at the stars. From beyond the walls came the occasional cry of cranes from a hidden lake. The scent of incense, warm tea, and fresh night blossoms perfumed the air.
It felt like a place designed to lull the spirit. But no one was quite at ease.
Li Meixiu walked beside Lin Feng, arm curled confidently through his as if she'd always been there. In her free hand, Mr. Bunbun dangled with regal indifference, bobbing gently with each step. Her robes shimmered softly in the lanternlight, their twilight colors blending seamlessly with the mood of the night.
"You're definitely my bodyguard now," she said, lips curved in lazy delight.
"I'm not your bodyguard," Lin Feng muttered without breaking stride.
"Too late. It's already official. I hugged your arm in public. That makes it a contract."
A few disciples glanced their way, some with open stares, others quickly looking away. Not just at Lin Feng's unshakable calm—or the quiet storm beneath his golden gaze—but at how naturally Meixiu walked beside him, as if she feared nothing and no one.
From somewhere behind them, a girl whispered, "She called him a bodyguard… does that mean she's stronger?"
Her friend replied, "No. I think it means he's terrifyingly strong, and she's the only one who doesn't care."
Before Lin Feng could comment, a sharp voice called out over the murmurs.
"Hey, you."
Feng Yan strolled forward, one hand on her hip, the other holding a folded robe of jet black. The crimson of her own Phoenix Clan uniform caught the lanternlight like embers. She tossed the robe without pause. Lin Feng caught it mid-air.
It was simple, but not plain. Black as deep water, with faint feathered stitching at the sleeves, and the subtle sheen of expensive qi-weave.
He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Feng Yan shrugged. "I had an extra."
"…Right."
She stepped closer, smirking. "Don't worry. I only slept in it once."
Before he could respond, Meixiu tilted her head, plucking the robe from his hands. She pinched the sleeve between two fingers and sniffed, face unreadable.
"Phoenix silk," she mused. "Smells like ego and rose incense."
Feng Yan smirked. "It's just a robe."
Meixiu held Lin Feng's gaze for a second longer, then gently passed the robe back to him. "Mmhm. Just a robe. Totally."
Feng Yan flicked her ponytail. "He needs better style. Walking around half-ripped like some tragic hero."
Lin Feng looked down at his shirt—still torn from the second trial—then sighed. "This is rather... comfortable."
"Comfortable?" Meixiu echoed, linking arms with him again. "You're not allowed to be comfortable. You're my bodyguard now."
He didn't argue further.
As they walked deeper into the courtyard, the other notable cultivators began to drift to their own lodgings, eyes still lingering in silent glances and unspoken thoughts.
Shui Daiyu passed by with ghostlike silence, the soft rustle of her robes the only sign she was there. Her gaze flicked toward Lin Feng briefly—sharp, calculating—but she said nothing, slipping into the shadows of her assigned pavilion like poison into a cup.
A few paces behind, Jian Nian stood quietly at the edge of a stone bridge, his presence unreadable. His long robes fluttered in the soft breeze, and his eyes—cool and wordless—fell on Lin Feng with the sharpness of a drawn blade. Not hostile. Not friendly. Simply measuring.
Further down, the Phantom Twins entered their shared chamber, whispering only to each other. One turned her head to glance at Meixiu and Lin Feng. The other did not.
Near the edge of the courtyard, Jin Chen of the Frostblade Sect sat alone on the steps of a lesser building, quietly nursing a bruised hand and watching others with eyes full of bitter resolve. He had not failed completely—but he had not soared either. As others passed, he remained still, back straight, chin high. Stubborn pride. A blade not yet sharpened.
And behind them all, Yan Lihua emerged from the lantern glow like a secret the night wanted to keep.
She moved a few steps behind the rest, yet no one failed to notice. Her silver-blue robes shimmered like the reflection of a full moon on water. Her long, ink-dark hair was pinned by a crescent comb carved from glowing starlight bone, too refined for ordinary eyes. Her skin seemed touched by frost, her every movement a breath away from vanishing.
Her eyes—pupil less white—swept the scene not with judgment, but quiet disinterest. As though she saw through everyone and found little worth speaking to.
But one girl did approach.
Feng Yan, now half a step behind Lin Feng, gave Yan Lihua a sidelong glance. "That illusion trick at the orb," she said under her breath. "You've been holding back."
Yan Lihua's smile was so slight, it was almost not there. "So were you."
Feng Yan narrowed her eyes… then grinned. "Alright. I like you. Don't die too early."
With that, the courtyard slowly settled into a gentle rhythm—disciples slipping into their quarters, soft footsteps on ancient stone, the hush of the Pavilion's caretakers lighting more incense.
Lanterns floated upward, into a sky filled with slow-drifting clouds.
But not everyone was at peace.
---
That night, as lanterns lit across the compound and the Pavilion fell into quiet, Lin Feng lay awake on his bamboo mattress. The moonlight crawled across the ceiling, and from beyond the paper walls came hushed voices.
He was still.
Listening.
"...They say that cursed place is still breathing monsters," someone whispered.
"Where the earth is blackened, and the wind tastes of iron," replied another.
"You mean the Forbidden Forest?"
"No. Worse. The one even the birds won't fly over. The place with no maps."
"The Nameless Veil?"
"Shh. Don't say its name.
"Is it true that's where the Emperor's army disappeared?"
"...Don't speak of that! The Emperor banned records of it."
Across the room, Meixiu stirred. Her eyes opened.
Lin Feng sat up slowly.
The two looked at one another.
Neither spoke.
But both had heard the same thing.
---
In another realm—not quite dream, not quite memory—
—the sky was silent.
Too silent.
It wasn't the silence of peace…
It was the silence before something wrong.
Once, there had been a thriving village nestled in the forested hills of eastern Yun Continent.
Its name was Xiwei.
Now?
Only ash remained.
Nothing smoldered. Nothing burned. Nothing breathed.
The city had not been attacked.
It had simply… ceased.
High above the crater, atop a balcony forged from golden-veined obsidian, stood a man—
Tall. Imposing. Broad-shouldered beneath imperial robes lined with black and violet dragons.
His long black hair, streaked faintly with silver, fluttered in the night wind.
His golden eyes—like twin suns dimmed by age—burned with authority.
He was in the prime of fearsome middle age, but the weight he carried made his aura feel ancient.
This was Jin Tianming,
The Immortal Emperor of the Luminous Dynasty.
Peak of the Mortal Cultivation Path.
Ruler of half the continent.
And even now, standing in this memory, his fists trembled.
He remembered this place.
He remembered what came.
It hadn't begun with war.
It hadn't begun with anger.
No warning.
Only a tear.
A single, jagged rift that split open the sky like a divine wound—screaming without sound.
From it descended a figure.
Not a comet. Not a storm.
A sentence.
She hovered above the ruins like a fallen crown.
Her white hair flowed like ink reversed.
Her skin, porcelain.
Her eyes—glowing, cold, blue like the untouched sky of myths.
And behind her…
Wings.
But not wings that flapped. Not wings that sought flight.
They did not carry her.
They declared her.
They hung like broken halos—crimson and cracked, shaped like the feathers of a fallen seraph.
And then came her killing intent.
It did not descend.
It collapsed.
The city died before the soldiers could scream.
Thousands—souls, qi, bodies—crumbled to dust.
The Emperor's entire army, elite cultivators of every realm, shattered under the weight of that pressure alone.
Some cried blood. Some vanished.
He alone survived.
Not by strength.
Not by will.
By her apathy.
She never looked at them—never moved beyond a single step forward.
She was looking for something. Or… someone.
And she had not found it.
So she turned,
and as she did—
—their eyes met for a single millisecond.
The Emperor, a man who had slain sect lords, broken clans, and dared to grasp immortality—
Fell to his knees.
And then…
She vanished.
The tear in the sky closed as if stitched shut by a higher hand.
No proof remained. No trace of her qi. No echo in the heavens. No one knows what exactly happened. Except him.
Only emptiness.
Only the crater called Xiwei.
---
Now, in his sleep, he remembered this—over and over.
He stood on that same golden balcony, watching the void tear again, seeing her descend again.
Until—
Jin Tianming woke up.
Drenched in sweat.
Breathing like a beast.
Fingers twitching against the silk of his bed.
He reached for his sword out of instinct—
But it wasn't the sword that would save him.
Because he knew.
She was still out there.
And one day—
She would descend again.
---