Beneath a sky bruised with crimson clouds, the cultivators of the Xuantian Sect assembled on a windswept peak, their war banners catching the fading light. The air pulsed with anticipation as they mounted luminous swords and shimmering artifacts—tools of ascension crafted in the sect's ancient forges.
With a unified surge, they ascended into the heavens, a constellation of light streaking toward the Blazing Valley. There, an underground palace had emerged, its jagged spires piercing the earth like the talons of a primordial beast. A churning sea of flame encircled it, roaring with insatiable hunger.
As they soared, rival sects joined the procession, their banners snapping in the wind. A vibrant array of colors and sigils unfurled across the sky, a striking display of power. Below, the valley shimmered with a blistering haze, the heat a living force that warped the horizon into a molten mirage.
Even hundreds of feet aloft, the heat prickled their skin, a relentless assault testing their resolve. Among the Xuantian Sect, disciples in the Primordial Pill Realm faltered first, their faces paling, sweat beading on their brows as the oppressive warmth drained their strength.
Their hands trembled as they summoned cultivation methods—golden domes flared, azure veils shimmered, crimson barriers bloomed. The sky transformed into a dazzling tapestry of light clashing against the fiery glow below. Yet the effort exhausted them, their breaths growing ragged, their shields flickering like candles in a storm.
Qin Ting hovered at the forefront, his sharp eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scene. 'This heat is no mere trial. Even those in the Primordial Pill Realm struggle beneath it,' he thought, unease coiling in his chest, threading through his usual composure.
Murmurs of unrest rippled through the sects—disciples exchanged wary glances, elders tightened their grips on staves and talismans. Doubt etched their weathered faces, and whispers rose like smoke, sharp and fleeting.
"What manner of cursed place is this?" a young disciple from a lesser sect muttered, his voice trembling over the crackling inferno below, his wide eyes reflecting the flames.
"A furnace," an older cultivator beside him replied grimly, his sweat-slicked face carved with experience, betraying no fear. "One that'll melt the weak and temper the strong. Best pray you're the latter, lad."
No one dared descend into the fiery depths first. An uneasy stillness settled over the cultivators, their silhouettes hovering like moths drawn to a flame—captivated, yet fearful of its embrace. The palace loomed below, its spires glinting with an otherworldly sheen, promising treasures forged in peril.
Then, a lone figure shattered the silence. A cultivator in the Divine Wheel Realm, his crimson robes billowing like a phoenix's wings, surged forward with impatience. Transforming into a streak of rainbow light, his fire-based cultivation cloaked him in dancing flames.
'This heat is my domain,' he thought, pride swelling as he plunged toward the palace gates. Seizing the hesitation of the major sects, he aimed to claim the prize. His laughter rang out, a sharp echo swallowed by the wind.
The factions watched impassively as he streaked downward. Qin Ting's lip curled into a sneer. "Idiot," he muttered, disdain lacing the word.
The cultivator breached the gates, a flicker of triumph in his eyes—only to be consumed as a torrent of flame erupted. A geyser of molten fury engulfed him, his piercing scream slicing the air, his form crumbling to ash. Embers scattered on the wind, a fleeting testament to his hubris.
A collective shudder passed through the onlookers. 'This place is a deathtrap,' Qin Ting mused, his greed flaring like an ember stoked to life. The palace's danger signaled wealth beyond imagining—treasures for those bold enough to claim them.
He turned to his followers, his voice cutting through the murmurs with honed precision. "Disciples of the Primordial Pill Realm, return to camp immediately. Senior Sister Zhou, you should go back as well. This expedition is no place for you—not even as cannon fodder."
His tone was cold, unyielding, a commander allowing no dissent. The group nodded, though Zhou Pingyue's delicate features tensed, her lips parting as if to protest. "Junior Brother Qin, I—" she began, her voice soft yet resolute.
His piercing gaze met hers, and her words faltered, drowned in the certainty of his eyes. She suppressed her objection, the faint shimmer of her water-based techniques curling around her—a cool mist struggling against the intense heat. In this blazing inferno, her power seemed as fragile as morning dew under a relentless sun.
"Go," Qin Ting commanded, his tone softening yet firm. The weight of his words lingered. Zhou Pingyue bowed her head, raven-black hair catching the light like polished obsidian.
Without another word, she turned and ascended, leading the retreating disciples into the sky. Their silhouettes faded into the crimson clouds.
A chill gripped Qin Ting's heart, a shiver racing down his spine despite the suffocating heat. He gazed at the palace, and for an instant, a colossal shadow loomed—a formless specter pressing against his soul.
'A warning from the heavens,' he realized, his pulse quickening. Only those blessed with great fortune could sense such omens, a gift of foresight from the Dao. 'Ye Qiu… are you lurking within, waiting to strike?'
He whirled, robes snapping with the motion. "Elder Liu, you're coming with us into the palace."
The elder blinked, his grizzled brows knitting together. "Nephew Qin, shouldn't I escort the others back to safety?" His voice was rough with age, steady despite the question.
"No," Qin Ting replied, his expression grave, eyes glinting with urgency. "I need your strength here. Something awaits us—something I can't face alone."
Elder Liu studied him, then nodded curtly. "By your command, Nephew Qin," he said, a flicker of curiosity in his gaze.
As Zhou Pingyue's group vanished into safer skies, Qin Ting took the lead. "Move out!" he barked, his voice ringing with authority.
The Xuantian Sect surged forward, a disciplined wave of power. Their advance stirred the other sects, a cascade of resolve descending upon the palace.
"Follow them!" cried a cluster of rogue cultivators, their voices ragged with desperation, trailing the larger factions for shelter.
At the palace entrance, a blistering gust roared outward, striking Qin Ting's face with the force of a dragon's breath. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a shimmering blue shield, its surface rippling like a frozen lake.
The barrier enveloped his sect, its cold embrace snuffing out the searing heat. "Senior Brother Qin's skill is unmatched!" the disciples chorused, their voices bright with admiration, eyes wide with awe.
"Enough flattery," Qin Ting's icy tone chilled the air, making some disciples flinch. "Stay sharp. This is no place for carelessness."
The renowned sects charged forth, breaching the threshold with awe-inspiring momentum, their collective power a tidal wave of light and fury. Inside, a vast central hall unfolded—a surreal marvel carved from the earth's bones, its scale defying comprehension.
Towering trees stretched upward for miles, their gnarled branches clawing at a ceiling shrouded in shadow, as if seeking to tear the heavens apart. The air thrummed with primal energy, thick with the acrid scent of ash and the resinous tang of ancient wood, setting their senses ablaze.
At the hall's heart stood a sacred tree, its colossal trunk wreathed in smoldering embers pulsing like a titan's heartbeat. Its branches bore fiery red fruits, each a living ember radiating heat and power, imbued with the inferno's essence.
Eyes locked onto the bounty, breaths catching in throats. "Ignis Petal Fruit!" a cultivator gasped, his voice trembling with greed, the words a prayer to avarice.
Though lesser than the mythical Mystic Sun Dragon Fruit, it was rarer than phoenix tears, capable of enhancing cultivation, fortifying one's Dao Foundation, and kindling enlightenment. Yet, every cultivator knew the true prize was the tree itself—a living artifact, a font of immortality coveted by all.
No one moved. The hall fell into an eerie silence, the weight of countless gazes pressing like a storm about to break.
'They're all waiting for someone to make the first move,' Qin Ting thought, his fingers flexing, a predator coiled to strike. 'Cowards.'
The hall quaked as a middle-aged man launched into the air, shattering the stillness with a bellow. A colossal python erupted from his form, its sinuous body spanning miles, scales glinting like molten steel.
With jaws wide enough to swallow a mountain, it lunged for the sacred tree, its hiss reverberating like a god's death knell.
A veteran of the Divine Spirit Realm, his strike carried the earth-shattering power of the Yuanshi Gate Sect's Yan Han—a tempest within mortal flesh. "Step away from that tree!" he thundered, his voice a celestial decree.
Powerhouses unleashed their might in a cataclysmic storm of light and fury. Figures darted forth, colliding in brutal skirmishes—spells and strikes raining down like divine wrath.
A blade of wind, sharp as a guillotine, severed a rogue cultivator's arm, blood arcing like a crimson ribbon. A bolt of lightning reduced another to a charred husk, his scream lost in the cacophony.
Bodies plummeted—some clutching shattered limbs, faces contorted in agony, others lifeless husks tumbling into the abyss. Disciples from the holy lands formed grand arrays, advancing with lethal precision, their movements a dance of death.
An elder of the Yuanshi Gate laughed, his voice dripping with arrogance. "This treasure belongs to the Yuanshi Gate Sect! Clear out if you value your lives!" Flanked by prodigies, he conjured the Yuanshi Formation—a golden war construct blazing with lethal intent.
It swept forward like divine judgment, cutting down rogue cultivators, their screams swallowed by the din, their bodies reduced to ash.
Qin Ting eyed the Yuanshi contingent with a cold smirk. "Fools never learn," he muttered, his voice a low growl of contempt. Raising a hand, he struck decisively, swift as an executioner's axe.
A massive backhand of purple energy crackled with raw power, ripping through the air. It slammed into the Yuanshi Formation with earth-shaking force, fracturing it into glittering shards cascading like a celestial eruption.
The Yuanshi disciples reeled, blood spraying from their lips, faces pale with shock and fury.
"You—!" the elder sputtered, fury twisting his features.
Qin Ting's voice cut through the tumult, cold and commanding. "This sacred tree—does the Yuanshi Gate Sect presume to lay claim to it? I thought Yan Han's downfall would have taught you humility. Leave now, or I'll make corpses of you all. This tree belongs to no one but me."
His words hung sharp and unyielding as the chaos churned around him. The Yuanshi elder's face twisted, his trembling hands betraying impotent fury. The other sects faltered, their gazes darting between Qin Ting and the sacred tree, his indomitable presence rooting them in hesitation.