The skiff drifted across the lightless sea for an entire night.
Ji Bochuan lay flat against the freezing planks, every breath tearing through his chest like a blade. He didn't need to look inward to know the damage—at least two ribs were broken, possibly three. Each rise and fall of the waves ground the fractured bones against one another, sending sharp, marrow-deep pain through his body. Cold sweat soaked his brow, mixed with seawater, and dried into a crust of salt on his skin.
Yet worse than the physical agony was the unease coiled deep within his mind.
There—flickering in the depths of his consciousness—burned the newly ignited Heart-Lamp.
He closed his eyes and let his awareness sink inward.
The Dao-inscribed sigils still hovered in silence, emitting their steady, jade-green glow. But beside them now trembled something new: a flame no larger than a bean, faint and fragile, as if a stray thought might snuff it out.
Its color was a pale, nearly transparent gold.
Not bright—yet piercing.
Ji Bochuan carefully brushed a thread of awareness against it.
Instantly, perception surged like a tide.
Not sight.
Not sound.
Something deeper.
A direct reflection of reality itself.
He reflected the seawater beneath the skiff—over ten zhang down—where three silver-scaled electrofish circled a terrified school of phosphorescent shrimp, faint arcs of current snapping between their jaws.
He reflected three miles to the southeast, where a two-masted ship with an unremarkable gray sail crept across the waves. Its hull bore subtle repair marks.
The Ghost Ship.
They, too, had left the outskirts of the Thunder God Ruins.
He even reflected the air around him—thin, chaotic currents of water- and wind-aspected energy drifting with the tides and night breeze, forming countless invisible eddies, like another ocean layered atop the first.
So this was the Heart-Lamp's first awakening.
Not power—but essential insight.
The ability to see energy, life, and motion at their root.
Ji Bochuan's heart pounded. He withdrew his awareness at once.
The golden flame wavered, dimming slightly, exhaustion rippling through his mind. This "reflection" burned mental strength, and with his injuries and fledgling Heart-Lamp, it wasn't something he could sustain.
At dawn, the horizon finally split with pale gray light.
Ji Bochuan pushed himself up with his uninjured right arm and fished the last half of a rock-hard grain biscuit from his clothes. He ate slowly, chewing each bite until it dissolved into tasteless paste before swallowing—squeezing every scrap of nourishment from it, and avoiding any sharp movement that might aggravate his ribs.
Warmth spread faintly through his body.
Then he tended his wounds.
He tore away the shirt stuck to his flesh. His left chest was a mess of deep bruising and swelling; the third and fourth ribs showed a visible depression. Gritting his teeth, he probed carefully.
Pain flared white-hot—but the breaks hadn't punctured the pleura. No displacement.
Lucky.
He tore strips from the hem of his ruined clothes, soaked them in seawater, wrung them dry, and bound his ribs tight. When the cloth cinched down, darkness swam at the edge of his vision. Veins bulged along his neck. Still, his hands never shook.
One wrap.
Two.
Three.
A knot pulled firm.
Only then did he open the small barrel at the stern.
Half a bucket of water remained—cloudy, flecked with debris. He took a single careful sip, wetting his cracked lips and burning throat, then sealed it again.
He couldn't afford more.
When the sun finally breached the sea, land appeared on the horizon.
An island wrapped in pale, milky fog.
Its shoreline curved inward, revealing docks and piers, and beyond them a dense sprawl of uneven buildings.
Fogveil Island.
One of the Eastern Sea's major transit hubs—and the fixed outer-region recruitment site for the Mahā Academy.
Relief surged through him.
Then caution drowned it.
As the skiff drew closer, the docks came into focus—dozens of ships of every make, from battered fishing boats to towering, ornamented deck-ships. The piers teemed with cultivators of all stripes. Shouts, bargaining cries, and docking calls carried over the wind.
He couldn't land openly.
In his current state, he'd stand out like a torch in the dark.
Ji Bochuan narrowed his eyes, scanning the terrain. West of the main docks lay a stretch of black reefs, waves breaking violently over jagged stone. Ships avoided it instinctively. Beyond the reefs stretched dense mangrove forest, tangled roots extending deep inland.
Perfect.
He turned the skiff and rowed—slowly, carefully—toward the reefs. The waters grew chaotic. Several times, waves nearly dashed him against the stone, but he avoided them with near-precognitive precision.
The Heart-Lamp's subtle guidance saved him again.
At last, the skiff wedged into a narrow gap between two massive rocks.
He slipped into waist-deep water, gasping as cold stabbed his wounds, and shoved the boat into the shadows beneath the mangrove roots. Seaweed and driftwood were piled atop it as crude camouflage.
Finished, he sagged against the rock, breath ragged, blood tasting his throat.
He rested only long enough to think.
Then began the disguise.
Mud from the reef mixed with seawater was smeared over his skin, dulling the lightning scars. Crushed mangrove algae coated his face and neck, mimicking a common coastal rash. He loosened his hair, letting it fall wild and unkempt.
In a pool of still water, his reflection showed a battered, sun-darkened fishing boy—tired, anonymous.
Perfect.
He climbed ashore through refuse and broken nets. Real fishermen barely spared him a glance.
Fogveil Island swallowed him whole.
The streets were louder than he'd imagined.
Shops lined the roads—artifact halls, alchemy houses, talisman studios, inns, taverns, gambling dens. Disciples, wanderers, mercenaries, hopeful youths.
Ji Bochuan listened.
"…Thunder anomalies near the ruins. Violet Heavens sent multiple patrol vessels."
"…Nine Hells Nether Sect offering huge bounties…"
"…Mahā Academy trials in three days—five hundred applicants, only thirty accepted…"
Pressure mounted.
At the end of the street stood a stone building, heavy and austere.
Fogveil Pavilion.
The registration site.
The line was long. Nervous. Loud.
When his turn came, the registrar frowned at his cultivation.
"Qi-Nurturing First Layer? You're below the minimum."
Ji Bochuan presented the wooden token.
The man hesitated. Checked it.
"…It's real."
Still, doubt lingered.
"Three days from now. Dawn. Eastern Arena," the registrar finally said, tossing him a cold iron tag. "If you die, that's on you."
Ji Bochuan bowed.
By nightfall, he had medicine—but barely.
No inns.
At the westernmost edge of the docks, he rented a rotting fishing boat from a drunk old man.
It stank. It leaked.
But it was shelter.
As darkness fell, footsteps approached.
Measured. Calm.
A voice spoke through the door.
"Kid. Nine Hells is offering a hundred spirit stones for a wounded boy with a jade pendant."
Ji Bochuan's blood ran cold.
"I'm not here to claim it," the man continued. "I sell information."
A deal was struck.
A map.
Red zones.
Yellow zones.
Green zones.
The Nether Sect's reach ran deep.
When the man vanished, Ji Bochuan sat in the dark, map pressed to his chest.
Three days.
Thirty spirit stones.
He closed his eyes, breathing slowly.
The Heart-Lamp glowed faintly in the darkness.