The survivors stepped through the glowing threshold, and the world changed.
The chamber beyond did not belong to the mountain. It felt crafted, deliberate, like the work of hands far older than memory. Its walls gleamed with rune-etched stone, each mark alive with faint silver light, flowing in endless patterns that pulsed like a heartbeat. The ceiling arched so impossibly high it vanished into shadow, yet constellations glimmered faintly above, shifting as though the sky itself had been carved into the chamber.
On the ground, thirty-five circles stretched across the black stone floor. Each was carved with intricate formations, spaced at precise intervals, as if calculated down to the smallest fraction. The moment Shen Hao laid eyes on them, he knew, they were seats for cultivation. Seats built to gather and refine Qi.
The air struck them next.
Qi rolled through the chamber like an invisible tide, so dense it felt solid. Shen Hao staggered, breath catching as his entire body trembled. Even Yao Jun, calm and unreadable as always, pressed his lips together as his shoulders shook. Others gasped, dropping to one knee, unable to steady themselves.
"Master…" Shen Hao muttered under his breath, struggling to center his breathing. "This Qi… it feels like it could crush me."
Mo Han's voice came steady and sure. "Do not fear it. You are not weak, your body simply isn't used to density like this. Endure. In time, the shaking will pass."
And it did. Slowly, painfully, their bodies adjusted. Muscles stopped quivering, lungs steadied, and the weight of the Qi shifted from unbearable to merely overwhelming. Sweat clung to every brow, but none dared complain. Every cultivator here knew: this chamber was a treasure beyond measure.
The moment the last survivor entered, the door behind them slammed shut.
It closed with a thunderous crack, the sound echoing like a hundred chains locking in unison. The runes on its surface went dark, the path sealed. Shen Hao spun, his eyes narrowing. "What?"
Yao Jun's voice carried, calm and unhurried. "It is as I suspected. The door will not open until the appointed time."
Shen Hao frowned. "Appointed time?"
Yao Jun looked at him, smile faint but steady. "Ten years. The mountain seals its cultivators within. Only after ten years will it open again."
Shen Hao's chest tightened. "We are… trapped? For ten years?"
"Yes," Yao Jun said simply.
Shen Hao clenched his fists, anger flaring as his thoughts turned inward. "Master," he growled softly into his own mind, "you knew. Didn't you?"
Mo Han's voice was quiet, almost regretful. "I suspected. But knowing earlier would not have changed the path. You chose to enter. Now you must endure."
Shen Hao grit his teeth, exhaling sharply. "Ten years…"
He turned back, watching as the other cultivators slowly began moving toward the circles. No one complained. No one tried to fight the seal. They knew better, this chamber was worth lifetimes.
Yao Jun approached him, folding his hands in a fist-in-palm salute. His eyes, calm and sharp, carried no mockery. Only sincerity. "Good luck, Shen Hao."
Shen Hao returned the salute, his voice firm. "And to you."
Side by side, they chose their circles. Yao Jun sat to Shen Hao's left, his two companions silently settling behind him. Others filled the remaining spaces, thirty-five in total, each circle claimed by a survivor of the trials.
The chamber grew quiet. Only the hum of the runes remained, low and constant, like the breath of the mountain itself.
"Now," Mo Han's voice guided him again,"Take out the scroll."
Shen Hao reached into his pack. His fingers brushed the worn parchment, the ancient scroll retrieved from the ruins of Master Zahraan. His throat tightened. Slowly, reverently, he brought it out.
"Open it," Mo Han whispered.
Shen Hao unfolded the scroll, each motion deliberate. The parchment crackled softly, symbols etched into its surface glowing faintly as if waking from slumber. When he opened it fully, the scroll ripped from his hands.
It shot upward, spinning, radiating pale light. Ancient Qi poured out like mist, filling the air. The others did not notice, each already deep in meditation, focused on their own cultivation.
The scroll hung above him, then descended, floating just before his face. Strange symbols appeared across its surface, shifting like rivers of ink.
Shen Hao's breath caught. "Master… what are these?"
Mo Han's voice filled his mind, low and solemn. "A technique Zahraan forged at the height of his cultivation. The Flowing Ember Art. It tempers the body as flame tempers steel, circulating Qi in cycles of combustion and renewal. With it, your strikes will burn beyond the physical, searing even the essence of your enemies."
Shen Hao's pulse quickened. "Flowing Ember… Art…"
"Learn it," Mo Han urged. "The chamber itself will feed you. This is the perfect place."
Shen Hao closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He pressed his palms against the circle beneath him, sinking into the array. Qi surged upward instantly, flooding into his meridians like a roaring river. His body shuddered, skin prickling, muscles burning. He grit his teeth and forced it into the rhythm of the Flowing Ember Art, guiding it through his channels.
The scroll flared, symbols sinking into his skin, branding themselves faintly into his arms. The pain was searing, but beneath it was clarity, purpose. Qi ignited within him, cycles forming, burning, renewing, again and again.
The circle glowed beneath him, reacting to the art. Flames licked across his aura, shimmering embers flickering with every breath. His heartbeat thundered in rhythm with the scroll's pulse.
Minutes bled into hours. Sweat rolled down his jaw, his back arched as if under great weight, but slowly, slowly, the rhythm became his own. The fire no longer consumed. It obeyed.
At last, the symbols faded, the scroll lowering gently before him. Shen Hao's chest heaved, his aura still flickering with faint embers.
The Flowing Ember Art was his.
The chamber's hum deepened, as though acknowledging him.
Shen Hao's chest rose and fell, his body still glowing faintly with the embers of the Flowing Ember Art. He could feel it now, Qi circulating faster, sharper, each cycle burning away impurities and returning stronger. His veins hummed like tempered steel.
But Mo Han's voice was not finished.
"Good. Zahraan's art has taken root. But you are not done. Bring out the other scrolls, you will need them. For yourself, and for Lingfeng."
Shen Hao blinked, wiping sweat from his brow. "The others?"
Lingfeng's voice chuckled lightly at Shen Hao's side. "Finally! Something for me. Thought you were going to hog all the flashy techniques for yourself, Master."
With a faint smile, Shen Hao reached into his storage pouch and drew out two jade cases. The first, smooth and pale, carried the scent of old ink and sandalwood. The second was darker, carved with faint swirls that pulsed with wind-like ripples.
He placed both before him.
"The first," Mo Han explained, his tone steady, "was purchased in Void Gate City. The Stormbreak Steps. A movement art born from wind itself. Master it, and no blade will catch you, no arrow can pin you. It is speed shaped into inevitability."
The case snapped open, releasing a surge of faint wind Qi. The characters within glowed faintly, like rushing currents frozen in ink. Shen Hao's eyes sharpened.
"The second," Mo Han continued, his voice quieter, "was found in Hallow City, hidden in the vault of a forgotten clan. The Whispering Gale Slash. An offensive wind art. Each strike merges with air itself, turning silence into a blade, invisible and merciless."
The dark case opened. A thin hiss escaped, like a whisper sliding through the chamber. The scroll within shimmered faintly, and even Lingfeng's eye lit up, his voice bright with amusement.
"Oh ho… Master, I like that one already. Whispering blades? Suits me, don't you think?"
Shen Hao allowed himself the faintest smirk. "Then let's make them ours."
Time flowed differently in the sealed chamber. With the door locked behind them, days blurred into weeks, weeks into months. Every cultivator sat within their circle, eyes closed, Qi streaming into their bodies. Some struggled, some soared, but none wasted time. Ten years was both endless and painfully short.
For Shen Hao, the first months were consumed by the Whispering Gale Slash.
Its practice was cruel. The art demanded silence, demanded patience, demanded merging his strikes into the unseen breath of the chamber itself. Countless times his Qi flared wildly, cutting shallow wounds across his arms or ripping cracks into the stone beneath him. More than once, Lingfeng laughed as his master's robes tore apart in thin, invisible lines.
"Master, if you keep practicing like that, you'll be cultivating in rags."
But slowly, painfully, progress came. His Qi learned to thin itself, to vanish into the breath of the chamber, only to reappear sharper, deadlier, as it was unleashed. By the third month, Shen Hao could conjure blades of air that cut deeper than steel, leaving grooves even in the rune-etched floor.
Mo Han's voice resonated with approval. "Good. That is the Whispering Gale Slash. Silence into death."
Shen Hao nodded, exhaling hard. "One done. Now for the other."
The next scroll was harder still. The Stormbreak Steps.
It was not about striking, but moving, flowing like wind itself. Shen Hao failed countless times. He would leap, channel Qi, and stumble awkwardly, crashing into the ground. At one point, Lingfeng's laughter rang so loud the other cultivators opened their eyes briefly in annoyance.
"Graceful as a drunken ox, Master. Truly inspiring."
Shen Hao ignored him, sweat dripping from his jaw, bruises coloring his arms. He refused to stop.
Month after month, his body adapted. Qi flowed into his legs, coiling like compressed wind. His steps began to blur, first inches, then meters, then entire circles away in the blink of an eye. By the fifth month, Shen Hao could vanish and reappear with such speed that even the watchful cultivators flinched, unable to follow his movement.
Lingfeng's voice was sharp with delight. "Hah! Now that is speed. With me in your hand and Stormbreak under your feet, we'll carve through enemies like they're standing still."
Mo Han's tone carried quiet pride. "The Ember, the Gale Slash, and the Stormbreak Steps. Three arts. Body, blade, and movement. Now, Shen Hao… you are ready to shape your path."
The chamber was still as Shen Hao exhaled deeply, his aura steady, refined. Around him, cultivators continued their own struggles, unaware of what he had gained. Yao Jun, seated only a circle away, opened his eyes briefly, his smile faint and knowing.
But Shen Hao closed his own again, sinking deeper into cultivation. Ten years stretched before him. He would not waste a breath.