slaying of the Flame Eyed Wyrm was not merely a victory of blade against beast; it was a ripple that spread across the Mortal Realm, carrying whispers into every tavern, sect, and shadowed alley. Farmers spoke of it while drawing water from wells, traders retold it at markets, and cultivators debated it in the quiet chambers of their sects.
Lian Mu's name traveled faster than any horse or spirit crane, borne on the winds of awe, envy, and fear. A rogue cultivator with no backing, no sect banners, and no master, had accomplished what entire squads of elite disciples had failed to do. He had not only defeated the wyrm but walked away alive, carrying in his veins its fire.
In distant cities, officials of minor sects debated whether to seek him as an ally or erase him before he could grow into a storm. The balance of power was delicate—too delicate to allow the rise of a wild card. In contrast, wandering cultivators, rootless like Lian Mu, whispered his name with hope. If one of their own could rise, perhaps destiny was not bound by bloodlines and sect emblems after all.
But beyond mortal lips and mortal thoughts, deeper stirrings began. In the cold abyss beneath the realms, ancient eyes opened.
As Lian Mu descended the rocky path from the Gate of Fallen Sky, the night wind howled around him, carrying the scent of scorched stone and blood. His robes clung to him, stiff with ash, and yet he felt the heat beneath his skin as though he had swallowed the heart of the wyrm itself.
When he closed his eyes, he could feel it: a river of fire flowing in his meridians, thrumming in rhythm with his pulse. It strengthened him, yes but it was untamed, like a beast caged within. At times, he heard faint echoes growls, roars, or whispers of flame that seemed not entirely his own.
He clenched his fists. *This power is it a blessing, or a curse?*
The world, however, would not wait for him to decide. Already he sensed eyes upon him some mortal, some not. Birds that lingered too long in the sky, shadows that did not match their owners, merchants whose curiosity about his journey seemed too sharp. Danger was never far.
Far beneath the Mortal Realm, beyond mountains and oceans, there lay the Demon Abyss. For ten thousand years, it had been sealed, not wholly closed, but chained by the will of Immortal Kings and the sacrifice of countless heroes. Yet chains corrode, seals weaken, and time is the most patient blade of all.
At its heart sat a throne of obsidian carved from the skull of a fallen Primordial Beast. Upon it rested Tang San the Demon Lord, whose slumber had stretched across eras. His chest rose once, and the world shivered.
Black mist swirled through caverns larger than cities, and the demon nobles, ancient and terrible, lifted their heads as one. Their lord had awakened.
Tang San opened his eyes. In those eyes burned not flame, but a darkness deeper than void, a hunger that mirrored the abyss itself. His voice rumbled, not loud, but vast enough that even distant demons trembled.
"Something has shifted."
He inhaled, and the abyss seemed to breathe with him. "A wyrm's death. A mortal's ascension. The seal weakens."
He rose from the throne, chains of sealing cracking and falling like brittle twigs. His silhouette stretched vast and terrible, horns like mountains, his body clad in shadows thick as armor.
"Prepare the armies," he said, and the words rippled through the abyss like thunder. "The Mortal Realm must remember the taste of fear."
They came forth at his command: generals of twisted forms and terrible might. One with wings of shadow and a crown of thorns dripping black ichor. Another, half-serpent, her body coiled with scales that gleamed like obsidian glass. Each bowed, but in their eyes burned ambition. The Demon Lord's slumber had left them long to scheme.
Yet none dared oppose him now. His awakening was too complete, his presence too overwhelming. Still, whispers among them spoke of a mortal cultivator whose rise had triggered this change. To them, such a figure was either a future pawn—or a threat to be crushed early.
Tang San himself smiled faintly. "This mortal Lian Mu. I will see whether he is worthy of being enemy or servant."
High above the Mortal Realm, in the Immortal Sect's sacred mountain, Xuner Xiao awoke from another dream. Her breath trembled, her hands damp with sweat. She had seen again the youth with determined eyes, walking paths drenched in blood and glory. His blade cut through shadows, his fire blazed against the abyss, and everywhere he went, destiny bent around him.
Lian Mu.
She whispered his name as though it were a forbidden prayer.
Xuner Xiao was no ordinary disciple. Daughter of the Sect's Grand Elder, blessed with celestial roots, and trained since infancy, she had always been told her path was to ascend. Yet lately, her cultivation had been shadowed by visions—visions of him.
The Sect's diviners could not explain it. The elders warned her that obsession was dangerous. But deep within, she knew it was not obsession. It was *fate.*
Standing on her balcony, she looked out across the starlit peaks. "If I do nothing, the realms will fall into chaos. If I find him, perhaps… perhaps we can change it."
The next morning, she began preparations. Her robes were exchanged for traveling garb, her treasures packed. Though her fellow disciples bid her farewell with confusion, none dared oppose the will shining in her eyes.
Thus, Xuner Xiao set forth, guided not by maps, but by the pulse of fate that beat stronger with every step she took toward Lian Mu.
Meanwhile, the young cultivator pressed onward. His journey took him through ravines where mist never parted, across plains haunted by restless spirits, and into villages where hunger and fear lingered more heavily than joy.
Bandits tried to waylay him—some ordinary men, others rogue cultivators who thought him easy prey. None survived. But each fight tested him further, for with every strike, the wyrm's fire flared, threatening to consume him.
He meditated often, seeking balance. Sometimes he succeeded, calming the fire into a steady stream. Other times, it burst forth uncontrollably, scorching earth and sky alike.
Whispers spread faster: not only had he slain a wyrm, but he wielded its fire as though he *was* the wyrm reborn. To peasants, he became a savior; to sect leaders, a threat; to demons, a curiosity.
Yet Lian Mu himself thought little of fame. Each night, under lonely stars, he asked himself the same question: *What is this path I walk? Where does it lead?*
The only answer was the fire's steady thrum within.
The Mortal Realm was restless. Major sects convened in secret meetings, debating whether to recruit or eliminate Lian Mu. Mortal kings fortified their cities, fearing both demons and cultivators alike. Merchants hoarded goods, sensing war in the wind.
And far away, demon armies stirred. Banners woven from flayed skins were raised, weapons forged from screaming souls were sharpened. Their march was slow but relentless, shadows gathering like storm clouds over the horizon.