Li An turned his head slowly toward the voice.
The jade gate loomed tall, carved with dragons and phoenixes, its polished stone reflecting the morning light like a divine mirror. Before it stood a youth dressed in the deep green robes of the inner sect, the embroidered patterns at his sleeves gleaming faintly with spiritual energy. His posture was sharp, chin tilted upward as if even the mountain beneath him had no right to exist at his feet.
Four attendants flanked him, their shoulders squared, their gazes brimming with borrowed pride. Their smiles twisted into sycophantic grins, like dogs eager to prove their worth to their master.
And at the center, the gleam in the young man's eyes was unmistakable.
"Isn't that Senior Brother Wu Hao?" someone whispered, voice trembling with awe and unease.
Another voice followed quickly, almost reverent. "I heard he entered the inner sect only months ago. They say he broke through to Foundation Establishment at eighteen."
"Truly remarkable… but…" The disciple's words faltered, and he lowered his gaze, unwilling to finish the thought. His eyes flicked toward Li An, but he swallowed it back, as though even comparison were blasphemy.
The name echoed in Li An's mind, stirring memory like dust disturbed from an old tome. His expression remained tranquil, but within, the truth lined itself up neatly.
Wu Hao.
They had walked through the sect gates the same year. Back then, Wu Hao had been little more than another ambitious youth: sharp-tongued, filled with pride, clinging to the shadow of his older brother and the wealth of his clan. But Li An's brilliance had been too sharp, too overwhelming. He had risen like fire through dry grass—every technique, every battle, every trial bending beneath his talent. He had leapt past the outer sect, past the inner sect, into the ranks of the core disciples while Wu Hao clawed and scraped for recognition.
For a man like Wu Hao, that was humiliation carved into his bones.
Younger brother of an inner sect disciple. Son of a rich merchant clan. His path should have been smooth, his pride justified. Yet an orphan with no family name, no background—only the eccentric care of the Miscellaneous Peak master—had soared past him like the heavens themselves had chosen their favorite.
That poison had brewed in Wu Hao's heart for years. And now, with Li An's spirit roots shattered, with his future seemingly ended, that poison demanded release.
Li An's lips curved faintly. A shard of amusement glinted, colder than steel. So this is what you've been carrying all this time, Wu Hao? How pitiful.
Wu Hao's steps echoed against the stone as he approached, each one measured, as though he were walking onto a stage prepared for him alone. His hands clasped behind his back, his chin lifted high, but the fire burning in his gaze betrayed the performance. His pride was real—but beneath it, old bitterness churned, old shadows gnawed.
"Li An!" Wu Hao's voice carried, booming with false confidence, meant for every ear in the courtyard. "Once you stood above us all, looking down with disdain. Tell me—how does the dirt taste now that you've fallen into it?"
A wave passed through the disciples watching. Some stiffened where they stood, shoulders tight, lips pressed thin. Others leaned forward, eyes gleaming with the hunger of spectators at an execution. Robes rustled as hands curled into fists, as sleeves were gripped tight enough to wrinkle.
Li An turned his gaze upon Wu Hao at last.
His face was calm. Too calm. His eyes held no ripple, no wave of anger or shame—only the detached indifference of someone regarding a stray dog barking far too loudly.
"Funny," Li An said softly, his tone quiet yet cutting through the air like an icicle, "I don't recall us ever being close enough for you to speak to me so freely."
The words dropped like stones into still water.
Ripples spread. A girl's lips parted, her teeth digging into them before she could gasp aloud. A young man's hand clenched at his side until his knuckles turned white. The crowd's murmurs fractured—shock, disbelief, fear.
Wu Hao's smirk twitched. His mask cracked for the briefest heartbeat before his pride slammed it back into place. His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding beneath his forced sneer. But his eyes betrayed him—resentment burning so fiercely it nearly drowned the arrogance.
"You think you're still the Li An of old?" His voice rose, pitched too high, edged with something unsteady. "You dare posture before me when you can't even circulate qi anymore?"
His hand snapped up, fingers flicking with sharp command.
Four attendants stepped forward in unison, their movements rehearsed, their sneers carved deep. Thin threads of qi shimmered faintly along their arms as they rolled their shoulders, cracking knuckles that glowed with borrowed strength. Their boots struck the stone with heavy rhythm, each step echoing like a war drum.
The crowd flinched. Some recoiled a step back, unable to mask their unease. Others leaned forward, eyes bright with cruel anticipation. The courtyard air thickened with conflict—fear and bloodlust woven together.
"Break him," Wu Hao commanded, his voice cold, hungry. "Let him remember his place."
The four advanced.
But Li An did not retreat.
His body shifted.
The faint smile vanished. The trace of amusement dissolved. Silence wrapped around him, heavy, suffocating. His feet slid apart, grounding into the stone with the weight of a mountain. His back straightened, rising like a spear unbent by storms. One hand lifted, slow but deliberate, fingers extending with uncanny precision, palm angling outward like a honed blade poised to strike.
Then his eyes—
Cold. Sharp. Boundless.
They no longer belonged to a crippled youth mocked by his peers. They were the eyes of a warrior who had crossed rivers of blood, who had stared into death and returned unbroken.
The air trembled. Killing intent seeped outward—refined, sharp, and suffocating. It pressed against chests, stole breath, froze limbs. It was not wild rage, but the controlled edge of a blade honed to perfection, more terrifying than any unleashed fury.
The four advancing disciples faltered. Their steps staggered. Sweat slicked their brows. Their bodies screamed at them to stop, their instincts clawing at their hearts: danger.
The crowd stilled. Whispers choked and died in throats. A suffocating silence fell over the square. Even the wind seemed to draw back, unwilling to stir against that intent.
And in that silence, Li An stood—not broken, not fallen, but towering. In that moment, it was as if the years of his glory had never left him.
The crowd trembled. A few disciples stumbled a step backward, their faces pale, their hearts pounding with dread and awe.
Then—
A new voice crashed through the silence.
Thunderous. Commanding.
"What is happening here?"
The words rolled like distant thunder, each syllable pressing down like an invisible mountain.
Disciples flinched as one. Heads snapped toward the jade gate.
There—half-veiled by the radiant glow of carved jade—stood a figure. His outline was blurred by the spiritual pressure pouring from him, aura spilling outward in waves that pressed against the lungs, that made the weak tremble, that silenced the bold.
Gasps broke through the square. A wave of recognition rippled across the disciples like a shock through water.
Whoever it was, they were no mere spectator.