The Lian Yun Mountains stretched wide and desolate beneath a bruised, storm-heavy sky, their once-lush slopes now scarred by jagged fissures of molten earth and thick plumes of acrid, sulfurous smoke. For a fleeting moment, the chaos below—the piercing shrieks of fleeing cultivators, the sharp crack of splintering stone—fell silent.
A collective breath caught in the throats of the awestruck crowd as their gazes lifted, drawn not by instinct alone but by an irresistible force they could neither name nor resist. Eyes widened, pupils dilated with awe and dread, as a lone figure cut through the swirling haze above, his silhouette sharp against the roiling crimson glow.
"It's Young Master Qin Ting of the Xuantian Sect!" a wiry disciple near the front shouted, his voice trembling with both fear and the sheer impossibility of the scene unfolding.
"What in the heavens does he think he's doing?" an older voice stammered, frayed with panic and disbelief. "That's a Great Demon of the Divine Palace Realm up there—a monster beyond reckoning!"
A softer whisper drifted from the crowd's edge, barely audible over the distant rumble of collapsing peaks and the hiss of burning winds. "Is he truly going to face the Crimson Pyre Warden?"
The name alone sent shivers through the throng, a legend carved into the Eastern Wilderness with blood, ash, and whispered terror. The Crimson Pyre Warden stood as a colossus among the realm's rare masters, a Great Demon whose power had reached the Divine Palace Realm—a tier where mortal limits unraveled, and the divine brushed the profane.
His massive form loomed against the churning sky, wreathed in writhing crimson flames that danced like serpents, their searing heat warping the air and charring the earth below.
Once a solemn guardian of ancient treasures, he had become a force of unhinged destruction, rampaging across the region, driven by madness or perhaps a grief too vast to bear. Yet there, defying all reason, hovered Qin Ting, poised to confront him.
High above, the demon's molten eyes—twin furnaces blazing with rage—locked onto the intruder. His snarl rumbled like a landslide, deep and earth-shaking, as he raised a clawed palm to swat this insolent gnat from his path. But the motion faltered, his arm freezing mid-strike as a tremor pulsed through his chest.
'If I strike,' he thought, centuries of primal instinct clawing at his fractured mind, 'it'll be my undoing.'
How could this be? The youth radiated the aura of the Divine Spirit Realm—a mere ember beside the inferno of the Warden's boundless power.
A child, insignificant against a Great Demon's might! Yet something primal, beyond logic, gnawed at the Warden's certainty. His hand lingered, trembling faintly, as he studied the figure with wary, almost reverent unease.
Qin Ting floated serenely, hands clasped behind his back, his posture blending grace with unshakable authority. Purple robes billowed around him, their golden embroidery catching the fiery light, casting him as a prince from ancient myth.
"Stop this folly at once," he said, his voice steady and resonant, cutting through the tumult like a blade through silk. It carried no arrogance, only the weight of a will that brooked no defiance.
The words hung as both challenge and command, stunning the Crimson Pyre Warden into uneasy silence. Below, the cultivators froze, their breaths catching. The crackle of burning debris and the faint wails of the wounded filled the void until an elder from the Tianyun Sect broke the spell.
"He… he dared to order the Crimson Pyre Warden to stop?" The old man's voice cracked, his weathered face paling. He gripped his gnarled staff, its tip digging into the ash-strewn earth as if to anchor him against the madness above.
Another elder, from the Ancient Sanctum, shook her head, her white hair glinting under the flickering light. "With only the Divine Spirit Realm, he challenges a Great Demon of the Divine Palace Realm? This is no ordinary youth—a genius born once in a millennium!"
"Peerless and radiant!" a young disciple cried, his voice thick with awe and fervor. "Truly the foremost talent of the Eastern Wilderness's younger generation!"
The crowd's murmurs swelled, a tide of reverence and fear. Among them stood Mu Qingyi, her delicate frame half-shadowed by a crumbling pillar. Her golden eyes, luminous against the firelight, traced Qin Ting's form with wonder and quiet unease.
Her hands clasped tightly as she watched him defy the abyss above. 'No matter what kind of man this Young Master Qin Ting might be,' she thought, 'his presence alone commands the soul. Such poise, such courage—he's a star blazing through the darkest night.'
Above, the Crimson Pyre Warden's gaze bored into Qin Ting, molten and unyielding. "Who are you, boy?" he rasped, his voice like stone grinding against stone, each word laced with barely leashed fury. "You're not like the others…"
Qin Ting's lips curved into a subtle, composed smile, calm as still water. "I am Qin Ting, of the esteemed Xuantian Sect. My name, I trust, is not unfamiliar to you."
"Qin Ting?" The name sparked recognition in the demon's mind, cutting through his wrath.
Even in his decades of seclusion within the Lian Yun Mountains, whispers of this youth had reached him—a true genius, already a master of the Divine Spirit Realm, heralded as a future Illusory God if fate spared him. Tales of his feats had woven a legend even a Great Demon could not ignore.
The Xuantian Sect stood as the holiest of lands in the Eastern Wilderness, its spires piercing the heavens, its influence vast across centuries. To defy it was to court ruin, even for a being of his caliber.
The Warden's shoulders tightened, his claws flexing as he weighed his next move. Then, a faint scent brushed his senses—imperial qi, ancient and commanding, woven into the youth's aura.
His eyes narrowed to slits. "I know this scent… a dark power, not unlike my own, though not quite demonic. Tell me, boy—what are you to Emperor Qin?"
Qin Ting's smile widened, pride glinting in his gaze. "He's my lord father."
A shadow of dread flickered across the Warden's fearsome visage, fleeting as a cloud across the moon. Emperor Qin—a name that thundered across the Eastern Wilderness, a sovereign whose might had crushed rebellions and humbled titans.
The demon's searing aura dimmed, shadows of ancient conflicts rising in his thoughts. He let out a slow, begrudging rumble, "So be it. For the Xuantian Sect—and in deference to your father—I'll relent. But those outside your sect's fold? Until I hold my treasure once more, their lives mean nothing to me, and I'll slay them if need be."
Gasps rippled through the onlookers below, astonishment spreading like wildfire. A Great Demon yielding to reason? It defied every tale they knew. Yet Qin Ting shook his head, his expression serene, unshaken by the concession.
"Honorable Elder, has your wrath not yet run its course?" His voice was soft yet carried a tempered strength, sharp as a blade. "Countless lives have been lost—mountains scorched to ashes, cultivators torn apart. Let this be the end."
The Warden's fury reignited, a roar tearing from his throat that shook the heavens. Crimson flames surged, licking at the sky with ravenous hunger.
"I'll never stop until I find the thief who stole my Mystic Sun Dragon Fruit!" he bellowed, his voice a tempest rattling the bones of those below. "What's this, boy? You mean to bar my path? Don't test your luck with a Great Demon!"
A soft chuckle slipped from Qin Ting, light and almost playful, as if the demon's wrath were a child's outburst. "And what if I told you, Honorable Elder, who took your Mystic Sun Dragon Fruit? Wouldn't that resolve all this?"
The sky blazed crimson, the flames casting an eerie daylight across the plains. The heat washed over the crowd, forcing many to shield their faces with trembling hands.
The Warden's massive form quaked with barely contained violence, his face twisting into a mask of rage and madness. "Who stole my treasure?!" he roared, the sound a hammer against the world.
Qin Ting's smile held steady, a beacon of calm amid the storm. His gaze drifted downward, settling on the Qianyuan Sect's encampment—a cluster of gray-robed figures huddled amid the chaos. The Warden followed his stare, his molten eyes narrowing.
There stood Ye Qiu, unremarkable in plain white robes, his lean frame blending into the throng. Yet his eyes—sharp as tempered steel—locked onto Qin Ting's with a ferocity that belied his modest cultivation. The air between them crackled, charged with a loathing so visceral it seemed to hum, a silent thunder rolling across the distance.
The crowd sensed it—a shift, a tension beyond the clash above.
Since his arrival in this world, Qin Ting had known one truth: his greatest foe was this unassuming youth, a cultivator at the Divine Wheel Realm. Others had crossed his path—arrogant heirs and cunning schemers—but they were fleeting shadows, easily dispatched.
'Song Changge was an ant,' he mused, recalling past rivals. 'Crushed without a second glance. Jiang Zhongbai? A fleeting itch—clever, perhaps, but rootless, drifting without substance. Neither deserved my full attention.'
But Ye Qiu was different. He was the specter in Qin Ting's heart, the one threat that lingered like a blade at his throat. A chill coiled within him as their eyes met, a whisper of battles yet to come. 'This one… he's my natural enemy.'
Across the plains, Ye Qiu's pupils tightened, his fists clenching until his nails bit into his palms. For him, Qin Ting was no less a nemesis. Every tale of the golden prodigy—the heir of Xuantian, destiny's favored son—had stoked a fire of hatred he couldn't explain.
Now, facing him at last, the fog of his rage parted, and clarity struck like a spear. 'In this life,' he thought, resolve hardening into iron, 'it's him or me. Only one of us will stand.'
The Warden's growl rumbled anew, cutting through the tension. "Him?" he snarled, his gaze darting between Qin Ting and Ye Qiu. "That pitiful whelp? A nobody dares to steal from me?"
Qin Ting tilted his head slightly, his voice smooth as polished jade. "Believe what you will, Honorable Elder. But the Mystic Sun Dragon Fruit is gone, and the trail ends there." He gestured toward Ye Qiu with a subtle flick of his wrist, graceful yet deliberate.
The demon's eyes blazed, and with a thunderous step, he descended toward the Qianyuan encampment. The earth shuddered beneath his weight, cracks spiderwebbing outward as the crowd scattered in a frenzy of shouts and dust.
Ye Qiu stood his ground, his expression cold as frost, though a single bead of sweat traced a slow path down his temple.
Mu Qingyi, still rooted at the sidelines, frowned, her brow creasing with doubt. "Ye Qiu… could he truly have taken it?" she murmured, her voice lost to the wind.
She knew him—a stubborn soul who'd clawed his way from nothing, driven by a hunger she couldn't fathom. But to steal from a Great Demon? It was a gamble bordering on insanity.
Above, Qin Ting watched, his gaze flickering between the demon and his rival. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, sharp and fleeting. 'Let's see how you wriggle free this time, Ye Qiu,' he thought. 'The board is set—your move.'