The plain was an ancient gray, as if it had forgotten its own name. The wind swept low, dragging dust and grains of salt that belonged nowhere. When Long Yanshen raised his body from the ground, he felt the sky had changed color—not because the light was different, but because the breath of the world was rough, like a weary chest that no longer accepted strangers.
He drew in a breath. The air did not mold itself to him as in the Abyss; it tried to measure him, weigh him, classify him. Yanshen let it pass through him like a river that could not find its banks.
Ten years. Outside, only ten years had passed.
He walked.
The plain ended in low hills and, beyond them, a stretch of twisted pines that resembled the backs of ancient beasts. With each step, the world insisted on giving him a place: dust on his ankles, the scent of resin, the distant crack of sun-scorched stone. Yet Yanshen walked without leaving footprints. The Veil of a Thousand Absences cloaked his body like a strand of wind between two leaves.
When he reached the road, he did not recognize it.
Where once cart tracks had beaten the soil, pillars now stood, hung with spirit bells that chimed when someone crossed protective barriers. New runes, too polished, hummed faintly—redrawings of the Dao made by younger hands. A group of disciples ran past, laughing loudly, each with the badge of a minor sect tied to their belts.
— Did you hear the thunder last night? — one said. — They swear it split canyons in the north.— Just stories — another sneered. — Old fools like scaring disciples.— Like that fable of the "boy without a root," remember? — a third laughed. — They say he tried the selection and extinguished the crystal. What a pitiful end.— No one remembers his name anymore — the first retorted. — Maybe he never even existed.
They ran on, never realizing that the shadow moving among them was the very name they had forgotten.
The hills gave way to familiar mountains. Chendao. The land's shape was the same, but its edges had grown sharper; where there had been gentle slopes, now stood watchtowers with new banners. Lesser sects had driven stakes into the old silence. Two caravans traded ore for talismans. The language of commerce drowned out the tongue of stone.
Grandmother Yu's hut was gone.
Where dried roots had once dangled from the ceiling, there was now only a patch of hard earth, ringed by young bamboo. At its center lay a simple grave, covered in moss and pine needles. No one guarded it. No one cleaned it. The world marched on, as if that ground were nothing but a delay.
Yanshen stopped two steps away.
The wind carried the scent of distant rain. A sliver of sun pierced the leaves and rested on the stone like a small bowl of light. He knelt without haste. Kneeling, he was no longer Long Yanshen, forged in silence. He was the boy who once held a frail hand on a snowy night.
He brushed moss and dust from the stone with his palm. Carved by knife, three strokes remained—not a name, for Grandmother Yu had never wished to be named. Beside them, long ago, someone had etched a child's drawing of a fox. The scar of metal was still there, stubborn as a wounded brow.
— Grandmother… — his voice was low, as though careful not to wake a river. — I'm late.
Silence returned a breeze.
He placed a simple offering before the grave: roots of dark lotus gathered along the way; a strip of aged cloth he had always carried; and a small talisman of dried leaf she once made to ward off fevers. The paper cracked like memory.
— No one remembers Hei Liang… — he whispered. — But I do. And as long as I remember… I did not die with them.
He lingered for an unmeasured time, breathing the presence of someone the whole world would call absence. From the road came the muffled sound of a gong, summoning disciples to practice in some distant courtyard. The call crossed the forest without reach.
Yanshen bent forward and touched his forehead to the earth.
— I swear to you: I will not be a banner. When I pass, even dust will barely recall me. When I speak, few will hear. But when I act… there will be no time to understand.
He rose.
Before leaving, he glanced one last time at the grave. The wind stirred the bamboo, making them whisper to each other. The carved fox seemed to sleep.
— May your memory rest, even if the world forgets — he said softly.
He returned to the road.
The world, indifferent, went on. So did he.
The roar had not stayed in the Abyss. It crossed mountains, rivers, and jade walls. Where there was silence, it became a fissure. Where there was order, it left a tremor.
Across the Seven Sects of Xunhai, the response was immediate.
Peaks of Xuehua — Sect of the Frozen Lotus
In the great hall, statues of ice cracked into a thousand fractures though no hand had touched them. Disciples panicked as snowflakes fell inside the temple itself.
Master Han Xueqin, seated motionless upon a crystallized lotus, opened her eyes. The surrounding cold faltered, as if it feared to freeze before something greater.
— This is no winter — she murmured, her breath turning to shimmering mist. — It is a call the ice cannot contain.
Her disciples collapsed to their knees, unable to bear the pressure. Han Xueqin merely lifted her fan to her lips. For the first time in centuries, her gaze trembled.
Ravines of Heavenly Wrath — Sect of Crimson Lightning
The sky above the canyons ignited with thunder absent of clouds. Patriarch Lei Wuchang raised his fist, and the firmament answered, hurling scarlet bolts to the ground.
— Who dares steal the thunder of my domain?! — he roared, his white beard bristling with lightning.
Disciples screamed, some in ecstasy, others in terror.
Lei Wuchang closed his fist, and the energy dispersed reluctantly. His eyes turned north, shadowed.
— Man, beast, or ghost… I want its name.
Valley of Shattered Echoes — Sect of Celestial Mirrors
Crystal pools began to reflect images that did not belong to the present. In them, a blue dragon dissolved walls and rivers ran upward.
Jing Lanyi, the Seer Without Eyes, raised her twin-moon fan. Her face multiplied in the mirrors, hundreds of reflections whispering at once:
— A return that should not be… yet already is.
She smiled—a smile that looked like pain.
Forests of Deep Mist — Sect of the Shrouded Veil
Serpents of shadow slid from poisoned lakes. Master Mo Yin lifted a hand and the venom stilled. His eyes, hidden beneath his hood, flickered.
— A roar even venom heard… — he muttered. — This is no echo. It is presence.
Behind him, disciples murmured in fever dreams, as if the sound had entered their souls.
Harmonic Halls of Yuetai — Sect of a Hundred Voices
The strings of the guqin Weeping Stars thrummed on their own, releasing a single note that made every disciple faint. Patriarch Qiao Yinsheng pressed his hand upon the strings. The sound ceased, but the silence grew heavier than any melody.
He closed his eyes.
— Even the Dao wished to sing. Who will be worthy to listen?
Ridges of Qianshi — Sect of the Stone Heart
An entire cliff collapsed without warning. From the dust rose Elder Zhu Yan, beard laden with fragments of rock.
— Hmph. — He slammed his hammer to the ground, steadying the valley. — This is no earthquake. It is a summons.
His disciples exchanged uneasy looks. Zhu Yan remained still, a wall foreseeing war.
High Temples of Taiyang — Sect of the Solar Breath
At the summit of endless stairs, Master Jin Yuhuan broke her meditation. The golden flame encircling her body flickered, nearly extinguished.
She sighed.
— Ten thousand years of silence… and still, the Sun recognizes this voice.
Monks fell to their knees, chanting mantras to keep their meridians from tearing under the tremor.
The Entire Continent
Some patriarchs called for council, others hid the omens. Among disciples and villagers, the roar became rumor. For some, it was a resurrected fable; for others, the herald of calamity.
But all knew: something had returned.
Meanwhile, far from sacred halls, Long Yanshen walked in silence. His aura now existed—subtle, yet undeniable. He smothered it beneath the Veil of a Thousand Absences, but even the world resisted forgetting him.
The road coiled along the slope, lined with twisted pines and damp stones. The late sun painted the sky crimson, but below, at the hill's base, what filled the air was the metallic clash of blades.
Two masked men surrounded a young cultivator. Her sky-blue robe was torn, her shoulder stained with fresh blood. Yet she stood upright, eyes firm, breath shallow but resolute.
— Come now, girl — one mocked, his sword etched with crimson runes. — Hand over the talisman, and we'll spare your bones.— Just a lost disciple. Shouldn't even be here — spat the other.
Ling Xiyan tightened her grip on her broken sword. Half a blade remained, but it was enough. She lifted her chin, sweat sliding down her temple.
— I am a disciple of the Frozen Lotus. You will take nothing from me.
The bandits burst out laughing.
Xiyan drew a deep breath. The air around her chilled. Tiny crystals shimmered into being, trembling like cutting petals.
With a twist of the fractured blade, she invoked the "Silent Step upon a Thousand Blades of Ice"—the core technique of her sect.
The ground froze. Spikes of ice erupted toward her enemies, carving white lines through the air.
But… her technique was still incomplete. Spiritual energy leaked at the edges, unstable. Even so, one spike tore into a bandit's arm, freezing his sleeve up to the shoulder.
— Tch! Insolent! — he snarled, shattering the ice.
The other leapt, sword wrapped in black flame. His strike fell heavy upon her unstable guard. The broken blade quivered, then gave way. The impact hurled Xiyan against a boulder, cracking it. Blood ran down her shoulder.
She coughed but did not fall. She rose again, leaning on half a sword. Her eyes burned with defiance.
— As long as I breathe… I will not retreat.
The two men exchanged glances. One kicked the weapon from her hand, sending it skittering across the path. The other twisted her arm, forcing her to kneel.
— You'll die for nothing — he growled, pressing his blade to her neck.
From afar, a man watched.
Leaning against a pine, arms crossed, gaze deep.
Long Yanshen.
His silence was not indifference, but calculation.
She still stands… even knowing she'll lose. Her ice is flawed, but her heart is not weak.
Blood dripped from Xiyan's lips. Yet she lifted her eyes at them.
— Kill me, if you dare.
The blade descended.
Yanshen sighed.
Enough.
A single step rang out upon the road.
Dust froze in the air. The wind vanished.
The masked men first felt it in their bodies: an unseen pressure, crushing bones, bending spines.
— W-who's there?! — the one gripping Xiyan looked around, terrified.
Yanshen walked forward. Slow, unhurried. He carried no sword, no sect emblem. Only eyes that glowed with ancient embers.
The first bandit roared and charged, blade raised.
Yanshen lifted two fingers. Just two.
Steel cracked in jagged lines, the sound echoing like trapped thunder. Shards hung in the air before falling as metallic dust.
— Impossible… — the man stumbled back, hands bleeding.
The other, seized by panic, cloaked his sword in black fire and leapt to strike from above.
The air folded before the blow even landed.
The flame died as if it had never existed.
Yanshen turned lightly, pressing his palm to the man's chest.
A shockwave tore through the forest. The body hurtled into the trees, splintering trunks, clearing space as if lightning had fallen.
The last tried to flee. Yanshen merely lowered his gaze.
His aura, until then suppressed, spilled forth. Heavy as a mountain.
The man collapsed to his knees, choking, his sword slipping from numb fingers.
Silence.
Ling Xiyan still gasped, eyes wide. She could hardly believe what she saw. The air around Yanshen seemed denser, as though every breath carried invisible fire.
He stepped closer. Her shoulder still bled, shards of her own ice lodged in her flesh.
Yanshen raised two fingers, touching the skin around the wound.
A flow of energy coursed through her veins like calm water. The blood ceased. The cold melted. The pain ebbed.
She trembled as her body knit itself together in a way she thought impossible.
This power… it's not ice. Not thunder. Not light. It's something greater. Who is he?
When he withdrew his hand, the wound no longer hurt.
— You… healed me? — she whispered.— Only contained the mischanneled ice — Yanshen said simply. — Train your technique better. Ice cuts deeper when it doesn't try to shine.
She stared at him, stunned.
— You know the Frozen Lotus…?He averted his gaze.— No. I only saw a wrong step.
Silence fell between them. The wind stirred the pines.
At last, she spoke:— If not for you, I would be dead. At least tell me a name.
Yanshen hesitated. Then answered:— Long Yanshen.
Ling Xiyan drew a sharp breath, etching the name into memory.— I am Ling Xiyan, disciple of the Frozen Lotus.
He turned to leave.
Tch… I must learn to control myself better. One more breath, and the entire continent will feel it.
Epilogue of the Chapter
At that same moment, upon a mountain wreathed in eternal thunder, Lei Wuchang, the Undying Fist of Lightning, rose from meditation.
The sky above the Ravines of Heavenly Wrath roared. Hundreds of disciples collapsed to their knees, unable to breathe beneath their patriarch's pressure.
His eyes crackled like contained storms.
— This is no ancient roar… — he murmured. — It is someone.
He raised his fist, and scarlet lightning raced across the horizon, as if the heavens awaited the order of a general.
— Then the forgotten has returned.
And if he has returned… — thunder exploded like war — the continent will tremble.