Feilai Sect – Mount Yan
Perched atop the jagged cliffs of Mount Yan, the Feilai Sect's sprawling complex of stone pavilions and winding staircases seemed carved into the very bones of the mountain. Mist clung to the peaks like a shroud, and the air thrummed with the disciplined rhythm of cultivation—swords clashing in distant courtyards, the murmur of disciples reciting scriptures, and the faint chime of wind bells strung along ancient eaves. Though modest compared to the legendary sects of the central plains, the Feilai Sect commanded reverence across the eastern province. Its strength lay not in numbers but in precision: a web of tightly controlled villages, a hierarchy as unyielding as the mountain itself, and a core of Purple Mansion elders whose closed-door meditations had lasted decades.
Yet today, that order fractured.
Two golden streaks tore through the heavens, their brilliance scattering clouds and casting long shadows across the sect's terraced gardens. Warning bells clanged, their dissonant peals echoing off the cliffs. Disciples froze mid-motion—some lowering their practice swords, others spilling ink over half-finished talismans—as the envoys descended. Their robes, woven with threads of shimmering azure, bore the crest of the Harmonious Cloud Pavilion: a stormcloud cradling a single lightning bolt.
Sect Master Yue Lin arrived at the greeting platform with measured strides, his sword-callused hand resting on the hilt of Fenghua, the ancestral blade whose frost-tinged aura mirrored his own icy discipline. Behind him, his inner circle—Elder Wu, her face a map of wrinkles and wary eyes, and Head Disciple Kang, whose jaw tightened at the envoys' disdainful gaze—bowed in unison.
The first envoy, a man with a voice like grinding stone, unrolled a jade scroll. "By order of the Pavilion, a relic of the Heavenly Mandate era has awoken. Its resonance was detected in your territory." His companion, a woman whose every step left hairline cracks in the marble, added, "You will investigate. Report any anomalies—unnatural qi surges, rapid cultivation breakthroughs, even rumors of bonds."
Yue Lin's fingers whitened around the scroll. A relic of that age could elevate a sect to glory—or reduce it to ash. "And if it has already chosen a host?"
The woman's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Then we will extract it. Whether the host survives… depends on their worth."
As the envoys vanished in a whirl of golden light, the sect erupted into controlled chaos. Outer disciples scrambled to armories for tracking talismans; elders debated strategies in hushed tones. In the archives, a gray-robed scribe unearthed brittle scrolls mentioning a relic that devours realms—but when he reached for ink, a shadow passed overhead, and the parchment crumbled to dust.
Rumors spread like poison: A dragon's egg buried in the mountains. A demonic artifact hungry for souls. Yet Yue Lin knew the truth in his marrow—this was no ordinary treasure. Whatever slept in the eastern province had stirred, and the Harmonious Cloud Pavilion would bathe the world in blood to claim it.
Li Family Valley – Three Days Later
The valley was a cradle of secrets. Ancient trees, their trunks wider than houses, canopied over crystal streams where spirit carp glimmered like submerged coins. The air hummed with qi so dense it clung to the skin, a balm to cultivators and a lure to the spectral foxes that sometimes watched from the treeline. Here, the Li family had carved a fragile sanctuary.
Zhenyuan sat beneath the roots of a colossal cedar, its bark etched with mossy runes he'd tried and failed to decipher. His breaths synced with the valley's pulse—inhaling the damp earth, exhaling threads of silver qi that coiled around his fingertips. The relic, now a molten thread woven into his meridians, had ceased its feverish thrashing. In his dantian, it pulsed softly, a second heartbeat.
You are not my master, it had whispered in his dreams the night before. You are… a vessel.
He shoved the memory aside. Nearby, his brother Hui's laughter rang out as he sparred with a bamboo spear, its tip grazing the throat of a straw dummy. "Did you see that, Jian? Perfect strike!"
Jian, ever the pragmatist, didn't glance up from the charred remains of his fire-starting talisman. "A real enemy wouldn't stand still like a post," he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Their father, Li Qingshan, observed from a ridge overlooking the valley. His calloused hand absently traced the scar beneath his robes—the one that had severed his dantian a lifetime ago. They're advancing too fast, he thought, watching Zhenyuan's qi ripple the creek's surface. At thirteen, the boy had reached Soul Condensation Stage Three; even the young masters of the great clans would pale at such speed. But speed draws attention. And attention…
A shriek cut the air.
Hui stumbled back as the dummy moved, its straw fingers snapping toward his wrist. Jian's talisman flared, but the flame sputtered out. Zhenyuan was on his feet in an instant, qi surging—
"Enough." Qingshan's voice cracked like a whip. He descended the slope, a weathered hand pressing the dummy's chest. The rogue talisman sewn into its core—a lesson in vigilance—stilled. "Speed means nothing without awareness. Again."
As dusk painted the valley in amber, Qingshan recounted fragments of his past—how the scent of lotus blossoms had once masked an assassin's poison, how a rival's laughter had heralded a sword at his back. The boys listened, their earlier bravado replaced by solemnity.
"The world beyond this valley doesn't reward potential," Qingshan said, staring into the fledgling campfire. "It consumes it."
Mount Yan – Midnight
Two hundred li west, a Feilai scout knelt in a moonlit clearing, her tracking compass spinning wildly. The needle, forged from a moonsteel shard, had led her here—to a circle of dead grass, its edges scorched as though by invisible fire.
"S-Sect Master," she whispered into her communication jade. "The relic's trace… it's not natural. It's like the qi here is alive. And it's… moving."
Static crackled in reply.
Valley of Hidden Growth – Dawn
Zhenyuan woke gasping. The relic's voice echoed in his skull, clearer now: They come.
Outside, the forest was silent. Too silent. Even the ever-present chirp of crickets had died.
In the dirt near the creek, a single footprint glistened—not human. Clawed, and larger than a wolf's.
Qingshan's sword was in his hand before his eyes opened.
Time, Zhenyuan had thought just days ago.
But time, like the wind, could not be held.