The servant quarter of Dark Star Nocturne was a grim warren of stone and shadow, carved into the bowels of the fortress like an afterthought, forgotten by both light and luxury. The passageways twisted in uneven patterns, narrow and damp, as if the architects themselves had been too ashamed to give this place order. Mold crept along the walls like a second skin, its earthy stench mingling with the bitter tang of dried herbs crushed underfoot. The scent lingered in the air like regret, a constant reminder of Song's precarious existence at the bottom rung of the sect's vast hierarchy.
Within the confines of his cramped room, a space barely wider than a coffin and only slightly more forgiving, Song lay motionless on a cot fashioned from warped wood and worn straw. Each breath he took was shallow, careful. His body was a battlefield of pain, fresh from Hell's brutal assault. His shoulders were fractured, his legs wrapped in tight bandages that pressed against the swollen bruises beneath. Every minor shift sent a bolt of agony through his limbs, each pang a cruel reminder of the First Lord's fragility in a world where strength meant survival. And yet, amidst the pain, his eyes still burned with determination.
He stared at the tattered scroll before him, its aged parchment lined with faded ink. The Fiery Immortal Technique. Even in its worn state, it seemed to pulse with potential. It was no mere treasure to him. It was hope incarnate. A lifeline cast into the void of his stagnation. No time to waste, he muttered under his breath, jaw clenched as he forced his trembling hands to reach out. The scroll felt heavier than it should have, its weight a challenge to his broken form, but he gripped it nonetheless. The Forbidden Garden, the place where he might have trained in peace, was out of reach. Yet his mind, his will—those remained untouched.
The first instructions of the technique emphasized breath control, deceptively simple exercises designed to open the body's dormant channels and forge the foundation of strength, endurance, and speed. In theory, anyone could practice them. But in truth, without even the slightest comprehension of the Fire Law, these patterns would be meaningless. Fortunately, Song had already touched that spark. Even so, aligning his body and spirit to that unfamiliar rhythm felt like hacking through dense spiritual thorns, a mental labor as exhausting as physical combat. Keep going, he whispered to himself, ignoring the sharp pain dancing through his limbs.
His interface flickered to life before his eyes, letters burning dimly in the gloom:
Profession: GathererRank: First LordSpiritual Perception: Active (5% developed)Lord's Tattoo: Active (basic healing)Fire Law Comprehension: 1%Condition: Severe FracturesMerit Points: 0Item: Lunar Phoenix Token
Time lost its meaning. Days melted into one another as Song surrendered himself entirely to the scroll's guidance. He only paused to sleep in short, restless bursts or to accept humble meals from a quiet neighbor who never asked questions. Hunger became a distant ache, overshadowed by his obsession. He repeated the breathing patterns again and again, each cycle a battle to refine his spiritual energy, to force the Fire Law's spark to obey his will.
Far above him, within the heart of the Lunar Phoenix manor, a grand hall shimmered under the light of enchanted chandeliers. Walls of jade inlaid with golden veins stretched high, their grandeur radiating the authority of a sect that had stood unshaken for generations. Dey Fen, the aging sect master, sat upon his throne, a seat carved from a single block of starlit obsidian. Before him stood Long Fen, the heir apparent, dressed in robes of dark silk embroidered with the phoenix sigil. Despite the grace of his delicate features, his presence commanded attention. His aura was sharp, refined—a man who had long stood at the peak of Pattern Formation, a single step from Incarnation.
"Master," Long began, bowing low, "we investigated the servant quarter in Media sector, but the aura vanished too quickly. No trace remained."
Dey Fen's gaze sharpened like a blade. His voice was quiet, but each word fell with weight. "The fluctuation was no ordinary surge. It matched the resonance of a high-grade spiritual treasure. One potentially tied to an ancient inheritance. Find it, Long. And find it before the other great powers catch the scent."
Long nodded solemnly. "Understood, Master. I'll triple the search efforts."
"Take Advisor Kloze with you," Dey added, his voice turning dry. "He's grown complacent. A little action will shake the rust off."
"Yes, Master," Long replied, turning sharply on his heel.
At the grand hall's entrance, a figure waited. Blue Fen, her hair a soft cascade like moonlight, bowed gently as Long passed.
"Brother," she greeted, her voice as delicate as falling snow, "I'm glad you returned safely."
"Blue," Long replied without pause, his tone clipped. "Father awaits."
He did not slow his stride, his warmth buried beneath layers of duty and rivalry. Blue's smile faded. Her brother had changed since becoming heir—distance replacing the camaraderie they once shared.
She stepped forward and approached the throne, her every motion marked by grace. She knelt with practiced ease. "I greet the sect master. You summoned me, Father?"
Dey Fen's gaze shifted to her, his expression unreadable. "Blue, I've lived for more than three centuries. My next breakthrough may never come. This sect's future lies with you and Long. Yet what do I see? One chases after bridal candidates like a merchant sniffing profit, and the other tosses clan emblems to gutter-born servants."
Blue flinched. "Master… that servant helped me during the Night Hunt. It was only gratitude."
Dey Fen's eyes narrowed. "Gratitude is dangerous when paired with sentimentality. He is a mere gatherer, nothing more. Retrieve that emblem."
"Yes, Father," she murmured, eyes lowered. "It won't happen again."
His voice softened, just a touch. "See that it doesn't. You have potential. Do not waste it."
As she withdrew, his gaze drifted toward the open garden beyond the hall. Cicadas chirped beyond the stone railings, their cries sharp in the summer air. Dey Fen's mind was elsewhere. The treasure's aura had not been a dream. Somewhere within his domain, destiny stirred.
Back in the shadows of the servant quarters, Song's practice bore fruit. Something shifted inside him. The Fire Law's spark flared, finally syncing with his channels. His Lord's Tattoo pulsed with searing heat, blazing across his arm. Then, suddenly, another stripe etched itself beside the first, glowing like fresh ink upon his skin.
His breath caught.
Second Lord.
His interface shimmered once more, reflecting the change:
Rank: Second LordLord's Tattoo: Enhanced (improved healing)Strength: Comparable to Fourth Lord
A laugh tore from his throat, raw and jubilant. He staggered to his feet, then struck out with his newly strengthened arm. A wooden table shattered into splinters beneath the blow.
"I'm stronger," he whispered, wonder and disbelief swirling in his voice.
Pain exploded in his wrist, a reminder that healing had not yet caught up to power. But the fire within him burned brighter than ever.
More practice, he thought.
Unbeknownst to him, the surge of aura he had released had not gone entirely unnoticed. Far above, eyes were beginning to turn in his direction.
And danger was drawing near.
To be continued…