Lin Feng's departure from Medicine Soul Peak was absolute. He did not look back. His focus narrowed to the path ahead, a route mapped with perfect clarity in his mind.
The air thinned and grew colder as he ascended away from the alchemical gardens, following a hidden trail known only to the inner circle. It led to a precipice overlooking a sea of clouds, the rest of the sect hidden far below. Here, the mountain itself seemed to acknowledge his right of passage.
Before him, the air shimmered, coalescing into steps of solidified light. A staircase of faint, golden qi materialized, each step a translucent, shimmering platform that led down into the misty abyss. It was a path of privilege and power, connecting the rarefied peaks of the Elders to the sprawling heart of the sect below.
His step onto the first golden stair did not falter. He began his descent, not with flashy speed, but with an efficient, ground-eating stride that was mesmerizing in its precision. Each footfall was perfectly placed, his body a study in controlled momentum as he flowed down the ethereal staircase, the world around him blurring into streaks of gold and grey.
The golden stairs deposited him onto a vast, stone platform that marked the official entrance to the Inner Sect proper. The change was instantaneous and overwhelming.
The silent, sacred austerity of the peaks vanished, replaced by the roaring, vibrant heartbeat of the Celestial Sword Pavilion in full swing. The very space here was warped by an ancient artifact, stretching the sect's territory across hundreds of thousands of kilometers, making the vista before him not just vast, but functionally infinite, a nation unto itself built into the mountains.
Before him, disciples moved in rivers of color. Thousands of them, their robe hues a silent testament to their allegiances. On immense training grounds carved into the distorted space, they practiced sword forms in terrifying unison, a forest of blades moving as one organism, their synchronized shouts rising like a challenge to the heavens.
Above, the sky was a tapestry of movement. Workers guided floating pallets stacked with glowing spiritual ore and barrels of purified water. A minor elder, his beard whipping in the wind, zipped past astride a giant, shimmering calligraphy brush. He was not painting or writing, but simply traveling, the bristles of his immense brush leaving a swirling, fading trail of silver mist in his wake as he cut a swift path toward a distant administrative spire.
The air thrummed with a palpable energy—the collective breath of countless cultivators, the ring of steel on steel, the distant, resonant chant of meditative sutras from a grand hall. It was a living, breathing organism of immense power, a relentless engine of progress and tradition.
Lin Feng moved through it all like a stone through a river. His efficient stride never broke, his pace never slowed. Disciples instinctively gave him a wider berth, their eyes darting away from his impassive face and the pale grey robes that marked him as belonging to the most feared peak of all. He was a singularity of silence and purpose flowing through the spectacular chaos, his destination pulling him ever onward.
Lin Feng moved through the sprawling, artifact-stretched expanse of the Inner Sect with a singular focus, his gaze casually taking in the impossible scale of the architecture—pagodas that pierced the clouds, training grounds that spanned entire valleys, and bridges of solidified light connecting distant peaks. He was a figure of stark, silent purpose amidst the vibrant chaos.
As he passed, a ripple of attention followed in his wake. Disciples practicing intricate sword forms in a courtyard faltered mid-movement, their blades dipping.
"That's him…" one whispered, his voice hushed with a mix of fear and fascination. "The Silent Blade's new disciple."
Another, his senses sharper, shook his head in pure awe. "He moves like he's already formed his core… but I can't sense any realm from him? It's like looking into a still, bottomless well."
A group of female disciples from the Cerulean Cloud Clan, their robes the color of a summer sky, ceased their conversation to giggle and whisper amongst themselves. They watched him with open curiosity and admiration, not fear, drawn by his flawlessly handsome features and the imposing, quiet strength he carried. One, bolder than the rest, dared to offer a small, hopeful wave, her cheeks flushing.
Lin Feng's gaze remained forward, seemingly oblivious to the stir he caused, his attention on the grand horizon.
But then, a senior inner sect disciple known for his preternaturally sharp senses suddenly paled. His practiced smile vanished. His eyes widened, not with admiration, but with dawning horror as they fixed not on Lin Feng himself, but on the air just around him.
For the briefest moment, he saw it: hair-thin tendrils of something darker than black, like fragments of a starless night, swirling faintly around the figure's form before vanishing back into his robes, as if they had never been. It was a glimpse of an absolute void, a hunger that defied the very spiritual laws of their world.
A primal, instinctual fear lanced through him, colder than any blade. He quickly looked down at his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs. "What… what was that?" he muttered to himself, a cold sweat beading on his temple. "Don't… don't attract that thing's attention…"
Lin Feng, his gaze still casually surveying the grandeur of the inner sect, remained completely unaware of the disciple's terror, a king unknowing of the shadow he casts. He continued his unwavering path, a solitary figure of pale grey moving through a world of dazzling color and whispered awe.
Lin Feng's unwavering stride finally met an obstacle: a vast crossroads where five major paths diverged, each leading into a different, impossibly vast district of the warped Inner Sect. The signs were carved into ancient monoliths of jade, their inscriptions glowing with soft light, but the direction to his destination was not immediately clear. He came to a halt, his impassive gaze scanning the options with analytical precision.
Nearby, a young female disciple was immersed in a rigorous defensive form. Her robes were a practical, sturdy brown, etched with the subtle pattern of rhino hide, marking her as a member of the Iron Rhino Clan. Her movements were solid, grounded, each block and pivot speaking of resilience over flair. She finished a sequence with a solid stomp that resonated through the stone underfoot, then noticed the tall, pale-robed figure standing at the junction.
Seeing his pause, she approached without hesitation, her expression open and helpful. She offered a respectful clasp of her hands.
"Senior Brother seems a little lost," she said, her voice steady and earnest. "This junction can confuse even those who have been here years. May I be of assistance?"
Lin Feng turned his dark eyes toward her, his expression unreadable but not unkind. His reply was politely terse, a single, specific destination.
"The Primal Sanctum."
The disciple nodded, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. "The beast-taming grounds. I am heading to the outer training rings there myself. Please, allow me to guide you." She gestured toward the second path from the left, a wide avenue paved with moss-green stone that seemed to pulse with a faint, earthy energy. "This is the Jade Serpent Path. It will take us directly there."
She fell into step beside him, though careful to keep a respectful half-pace behind. As they walked, she pointed out landmarks. They passed a colossal structure that hummed with metallic resonance—the Hall of Echoing Blades, where the sound of ten thousand sparring matches created a permanent, discordant symphony.
"The Inner Sect is a world of its own," she commented, her tone matter-of-fact. "Alchemy districts that way," she pointed east, where the air shimmered with heat haze. "Elemental training grounds to the north. And the Primal Sanctum…" She gestured ahead as the path began to slope downward into a vast, forested valley. A new scent carried on the wind—a primal mix of damp earth, musk, blooming spirit herbs, and the distant, powerful odor of large, magical creatures.
"You will know you are close by the scent," she said with a faint, knowing smile.
The Jade Serpent Path descended into a vast, forested valley, and the Iron Rhino disciple's words proved true. Long before the structure itself came into view, the scent announced its presence—a thick, primal aroma that settled in the lungs. It was the smell of ozone after a lightning strike, of deep, rich earth turned by massive claws, and the potent musk of powerful, magical creatures.
The path ended before a colossal structure hewn directly into the side of the mountain, a bastion of raw, untamed power. The sounds that emanated from within were a constant, low-grade cacophony of deep-throated roars, piercing avian screeches, and subterranean rumbles that vibrated through the soles of one's boots.
The entrance was a giant, weathered stone archway, its surface carved with fading depictions of great beasts from a forgotten age. The flow of disciples here was constant—groups exiting, laughing with the exhilaration of a successful training bout, others entering with determined looks, some resting on nearby benches, tending to minor scratches or comparing notes. Two senior elders stood as sentinels on either side of the arch, their auras deep and still as mountain lakes. From this distance, their postures were relaxed but watchful, their keen eyes missing nothing.
The Iron Rhino disciple came to a halt a respectful distance from the bustling entrance, offering a final, respectful bow. "This is where my path diverges, Senior Brother. The outer training rings are to the west. I wish you success in your endeavors within the Sanctum." With that, she turned and left, her sturdy form quickly blending into the crowd.
Lin Feng's gaze swept forward, taking in the scene. And it was then that his eyes, and those of another, locked.
Leaning with casual arrogance against the sun-warmed stone of the archway was a young man who seemed to bring a pocket of winter with him. His hair was stark white, tied in a severe, high ponytail, and his robes were shades of glacial blue and silver that seemed to ripple with a faint chill. His features were sharp, pale, and utterly devoid of warmth. This was Leng Wei, and a visible mist, like a field of frozen breath, emanated from him in a gentle, chilling aura.
His pale blue eyes, cold and analytical, tracked Lin Feng's approach with the detached interest of a predator observing a potential rival. There was no greeting, no challenge issued aloud—only a silent, frigid assessment that seemed to take the measure of Lin Feng's soul.
Lin Feng met his gaze, his own dark eyes equally impassive. For a handful of heartbeats, the two most anomalous disciples of their generation simply looked at one another across the bustling crowd, a silent understanding passing between them—an acknowledgment of the other's sheer, formidable existence.
The silent, frigid standoff with Leng Wei broke not with a word, but with a decision. Lin Feng's gaze shifted from the cold prodigy to the two senior elders guarding the immense stone archway. He moved toward them, his stride cutting through the chaotic flow of other disciples with an air of unassailable purpose.
As he drew near, one of the guards, a man with a face carved from granite and eyes that had seen centuries of beasts and disciples, raised a hand. His voice was formal, layered with a veteran's inherent wariness.
"Halt. State your name and your business. We have not seen you at the Primal Sanctum before, Disciple."
Lin Feng came to a stop. He did not bow, but his slight nod carried a weight of respect. His voice, when he spoke, was calm yet carried an undeniable authority that seemed to still the air immediately around them.
"Lin Feng of Veiled Silence Peak. I am here on the authority of Elder Lan. I am to utilize the sparring arenas."
The mention of that name, the Silent Blade, had an immediate and profound effect. The two guards shared a single, swift look—a silent conversation of raised eyebrows and slight nods. The wariness in their posture melted into one of deep, institutional respect. They stepped aside in unison, clearing the path into the roaring, musky darkness of the Sanctum.
"Of course," the second guard said, his tone now markedly polite. "The Silent Blade's disciple is welcome. Do you require an attendant to explain the facilities?"
From his post against the archway, Leng Wei watched the exchange, his pale blue eyes narrowing a fraction. This was the one and only disciple, the profound anomaly that the infamous Silent Blade had taken on. A slight, almost imperceptible frown flickered across his cold, perfect features, there and gone in an instant, like a crack forming in a glacier and sealing just as fast. The name 'Elder Lan' was a key that required no force, only its mere presentation. It was a truth he noted, filed away in the frozen depths of his mind.
The second guard, the one who had spoken last, gestured for Lin Feng to follow. "I will show you the facilities, Disciple Lin Feng. The Sanctum is vast, and its dangers are not always obvious."
He led the way through the colossal archway, and the full force of the Primal Sanctum struck Lin Feng's senses. The air was thicker here, humming with raw, bestial power and the ozone-tang of active containment arrays.
"The Menagerie Tower," the guard said, gesturing to a multi-story structure that rose like a prison ziggurat to their left. Its design was brutally simple. "Beasts are caged by their realm. The first floor houses Body Tempering realm creatures. The second, Meridian Opening. The third, Foundation Establishment, and so on." He pointed to the ground beneath their feet. "Those above Spirit Refinement… they are kept in the underground floors. Deeper and far more secure."
They moved on, the path opening into a vast, open glade dotted with tranquil spirit ponds and ancient trees. "The Bonding Glade," the guide stated. Here, disciples moved with cautious reverence. Lin Feng's eyes caught on one such attempt: a disciple was on his knees, desperately offering a glowing, rare fruit to a magnificent, multi-tailed fox. The creature regarded the offering with profound skepticism, one paw lifted delicately as if to bat the fruit away.
The rumble of combat grew louder as they approached a series of high, circular walls made of reinforced spirit stone. "The Sparring Rings," the guard said, raising his voice over the din of impacts and bestial roars that echoed from within. "Isolated arenas for testing one's might against a caged opponent. This is likely your destination."
Finally, he pointed toward a towering spire where cheers and roars cascaded from its open sides. "And that is the Beast Spire. Disciples pit their tamed beasts against each other in controlled duels. A popular spectacle for those who enjoy such things."
The guard led Lin Feng away from the bustling main thoroughfares of the Sanctum toward a complex of immense, isolated structures. They were colossal, multi-sided rooms—octagonal in shape—constructed from seamless, dark spirit-reinforced stone. Each ring was a fortress, connected to the others by a network of secure, elevated walkways. The domed ceiling of each arena was crafted from a single, massive pane of transparent yet nearly indestructible Heavenly Obsidian, offering spectators a clear, unnervingly intimate view of the battles within. High above, terraced seating platforms were carved into the surrounding rock face, already dotted with disciples who watched the ongoing matches with keen interest.
They approached a control station dug into the base of the rock face, where a wizened, scarred old man with a missing eye and a perpetual scowl barked orders to a team of attendants. This was the Arena Master. He looked up as they approached, his single good eye noting the guard's respectful posture before landing on Lin Feng.
The guard gave a slight bow. "Arena Master. This is Disciple Lin Feng, direct disciple of Elder Lan of Veiled Silence Peak. He seeks to use the rings."
The Arena Master's scowl deepened, his gaze intensifying as it swept over Lin Feng, taking in the pale grey robes, the unnerving stillness, the eyes that held no youthful arrogance, only a bottomless calm. He grunted, a sound of grudging acknowledgment. "The Silent Blade finally took one on, did she? Alright then, pup. What realm of beast are you looking to face? Body Tempering? Meridian Opening?" He spat to the side, a gesture of pure skepticism. "Don't tell me you're arrogant enough to request a Foundation Establishment-level creature your first time here."
Lin Feng's face remained an impassive mask, but behind his dark eyes, his mind was a whirlwind of cold, precise calculation. He processed the Arena Master's demeanor—a veteran who valued practicality over pride. He assessed the structural integrity of the rings, the flow of qi from the containment areas, the likely attack patterns of beasts categorized by realm. He weighed the efficiency of a gradual increase in challenge against the accelerated data acquisition of a realm jump. The entire analysis, vast and complex, took less than a heartbeat. His path was clear.
He finally looked at the Arena Master, his gaze a lazy, almost bored glance that belied the immense processing power behind it.
"I will begin with a Body Tempering, Mid Tier beast," Lin Feng stated, his voice calm and utterly level. "If I am successful, follow it immediately with a Meridian Opening, Mid Tier beast. I have no desire to waste time on incremental steps."
The Arena Master blinked, his scowl deepening into a crevice of disbelief. "That's… unorthodox. Jumping a whole major realm between matches? Very well. Your funeral." He grabbed a ledger, ready to note the request. "What weapon will you be using? We have spiritual blades, spears, halberds…"
Only then did Lin Feng begin to move. He rolled his shoulders in a slow, deliberate circle, the motion fluid and unnervingly silent. The muscles across his back and neck coiled and relaxed with a palpable, contained power. He was not warming up; he was readying an instrument.
"No weapon," he said, flatly.
The Arena Master's single eye widened in pure incredulity. The few disciples nearby who had been listening in froze. One, who had been polishing a dented sword, let the cloth fall from his slack fingers.
"No weapon?!" the old man exploded, slamming a hand on the ledger. The sound echoed like a thunderclap. "Boy, even with a weapon, a Mid Tier Body Tempering beast could rip you apart! You haven't even formally established your meridians! This isn't training, it's suicide!"
The disciple who had dropped his cloth stared, his face pale. He turned to his companion, his voice a hushed, horrified whisper. "He's not arrogant… he's utterly mad. Does he have a death wish?"
A faint, dangerous smirk finally touched Lin Feng's lips. It was a cold, sharp thing that did not reach his dark, bottomless eyes.
"That's why I'm here," Lin Feng replied, his tone deadpan but laced with a hint of dark, private amusement. "To get beaten up."
For a long second, there was no sound but the distant roar of a beast from another ring. Then, the spell broke. The disciples closest to the control station—those who had heard him directly—stared with open mouths and wide eyes. Their shock was contagious, spreading through the complex in a wave. The bizarre request traveled not as a shout, but as a ripple of hushed, disbelieving whispers.
"Did you hear? Elder Lan's disciple…" "...hasn't even reached a cultivation realm…" "...challenging a Body Tempering Mid Tier beast, then a Meridian Opening, bare-handed…"
Disciples training in nearby rings halted their sessions, drifting toward the source of the commotion. A few minor elders, who had been overseeing matches with detached boredom, now drifted closer, their expressions shifting to keen, analytical interest. Spectators in the high terraces leaned forward, their attention pulled from other fights to the unfolding spectacle below.
From the shadows near a weapon rack, Jian Nian, the mute disciple, paused in cleaning a practice sword. Having just finished his own grueling training under the boisterous Elder Bao, he had come here to rest and observe. His sharp, intelligent eyes, usually so guarded, now held a spark of intense, focused interest, fixed solely on the calm figure in the pale grey robes.
The crowd near the control station parted with a palpable sense of deference as a massive form moved to the front. It was Shi Jian, his shaved head and immense, muscular frame making him seem like a monument hewn from living stone. He crossed his powerful arms over his chest, his expression one of immovable, stony appraisal. He did not speak; his mere presence was a judgment.
From a higher vantage point on a connecting walkway, Mo Yun leaned against a railing. A cunning, calculating smile played on his lips as he watched the scene unfold below. With a fluid motion, he unrolled a small scroll of high-quality paper, a fine ink brush already appearing in his hand. He was not here to spectate; he was here to gather data, to analyze the variables of this new anomaly.
The air grew thick with anticipation. The metallic groan of heavy machinery broke the tension as the gate to a vacant, circular stone arena—its walls a tapestry of ancient claw marks and scorch marks—ground open.
Lin Feng, utterly indifferent to the gathering audience, finished his slow, deliberate stretches. He cracked his neck once, a single, sharp sound that seemed to finalize his preparation. Without a backward glance at the stunned Arena Master or the murmuring crowd, he walked calmly into the scarred arena.
The heavy, spirit-reinforced gate slammed shut behind him with a final, resonant clang that echoed throughout the complex. The sound was a perfect punctuation mark to his audacity, and in its wake, a tense, breathless silence fell. He was alone in the pit. Every eye, from the lowest disciple to the highest minor elder, was now fixed upon him, a hundred pairs of eyes locked on the transparent Heavenly Obsidian dome.
Then, it came.
A deep, guttural growl echoed from within the pit, a sound that vibrated through the stone beneath their feet. It was a noise of pure, primal fury, promising violence. The disciples and elders outside flinched almost as one, their gazes locked on the dome, waiting for the first sign of movement within.
The Arena Master shook his head, his scarred face a mask of grim resignation. "Arrogant fools," he muttered to the silent air, the words carrying a weight of bitter experience. "They never learn."
Then, as abruptly as it began, the sound was severed. A soft hum filled the air as the arena's silencing formation activated, a necessary measure to protect spectators from the disorienting effects of powerful sonic attacks. The deep growl, the promise of impact—all of it was swallowed by an absolute, unnerving quiet, leaving only the frantic beating of a hundred hearts.
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