In the boundless mortal realm there exist five vast regions: the Wind God Continent, the Barren Moon Continent, the Lost Continent, the Qingqing Continent, and the Northern Ice Continent. Each region stretches over an almost unimaginable expanse, so immense that very few mortals ever leave the continent to which they belong during their lifetimes. One primary reason for this limitation is that every continent is staggeringly huge, and between any two adjacent regions lies an ocean of unknown and dangerous lands spanning billions upon billions of miles. These perilous spaces form insurmountable barriers, preventing even the most ambitious of mortal kingdoms from invading one another.
The lands that separate these continents are as treacherous as they are varied. Some are barren wastelands where not a single blade of grass grows; others are regions blanketed by dense, primordial forests shrouded in miasma. In some areas, scorching deserts radiate heat so intense that the very air ignites, while in others, endless fields of snow and ice extend to the horizon, locking everything in a frozen grip. Among these ominous territories, one can find countless second- and third-tier ferocious beasts—and even fourth-tier, high-level primeval monsters lurk in the shadows. For the common mortal, attempting to traverse from one continent to another is little more than a fool's errand.
Yet, amid this daunting landscape, there is one rare group who might hope to cross these boundaries: the cultivators. Only the most exceptional among them—those who have ascended to the pinnacle of their art—stand a chance at bridging the gap between the regions. When a cultivator reaches the Nascent Soul stage, they are said to possess powers so mighty that they can, in theory, alter the very course of rivers or fill the seas with their will. Even so, none of them can claim absolute certainty. For the barriers between the regions are not only vast but fraught with ever-changing dangers; many of the fourth-tier monstrosities have grown nearly equal in power to a mortal cultivator's nascent soul. In such a world, even a single hero might find himself overwhelmed by the sheer scale of what lurks beyond.
Turning our gaze to the Barren Moon Continent, we find a land steeped in ancient legacy. Since the primeval chaos of early cosmic times, mighty beings from the immortal spirit realm shattered the void itself and descended onto this continent. Over hundreds of millions of years, countless sects sprouted like branches on the infinite tree of life—some growing ever stronger and more influential, others fading away into the annals of history. In this ceaseless cycle of rise and fall, the strong have devoured the weak, and the ever-changing tides of fortune have brought both glory and ruin to many.
Within the Barren Moon Continent, there exist thousands of sects. These are generally categorized into four distinct tiers: the inferior schools, the third-rate schools, the second-rate schools, and, at the apex, the first-rate sects. The inferior and third-rate sects may number only a few dozen disciples, sometimes so few that only a couple of practitioners exist at the Foundation Establishment or early Qi Condensation stages. In contrast, a typical second-rate sect usually counts its disciples in the thousands and boasts several high-level Golden Core cultivators. Colloquially, these middle-tier schools form the backbone of the cultivation world, active in the mortal realm and often traveling far and wide. Yet at the very pinnacle, only four first-rate sects hold sway over the entire Barren Moon Continent. These elite sects have divided the land into four great domains—they stand as the arbiters not only of mortal dynasties but also of resource allocation, sect rankings, and even the very principles of cultivation.
The four major sects are known by names that echo through history: the Tai Xuan Sect, the Pure Land Sect, the Ten-Step Institute, and the Wang Liang Sect. The Tai Xuan Sect follows the ancient Daoist path of the Three Pure Ones, while the Pure Land Sect seeks to embody the wisdom of Buddhist Arhats. The Ten-Step Institute is famed for its flying sword techniques that span thousands of miles in a single step, and the Wang Liang Sect excels in secrecy—adept at summoning venomous insects, employing deadly poisons, and executing clandestine assassinations. Each of these great factions is protected by several ancient Nascent Soul veterans—monstrous figures who have cultivated for thousands of years—as well as dozens of high-level Golden Core cultivators whose martial prowess is harrowing. Beneath these formidable masters, tens of thousands of Foundation Establishment and Qi Condensation disciples labor within the deepest recesses of their respective sects, ensuring that their legacies remain both profound and unassailable.
However, members of these four great sects rarely wander the mortal world. In ordinary times, they either close themselves off to rigorously cultivate in seclusion or venture into the dangerous unknown to seek rare opportunities for long life and ultimate transcendence. Only when a miraculous treasure is discovered or when a catastrophe of celestial proportions befalls the mortal realm do they emerge in force.
Among these majestic lands on the Barren Moon Continent, one area stands out: the western-central mountain range, a region where rolling hills and lofty peaks are draped in layers of lush vegetation. Here, giant trees tower upward, their canopies overlapping and casting deep shadows on the forest floor—a seemingly endless vista of greenery and mist. It is in this sublime natural theater that the Wang Liang Sect has erected its headquarters.
The Wang Liang Sect's stronghold is built upon a formation of five prominent peaks arranged to form the Chinese character "山" (mountain). On the two western peaks, side by side, the names "Little Bamboo Peak" and "Unyielding Peak" are inscribed in history. On the eastern side, another two peaks bear the names "Four Symbols Peak" and "Spiritual Insect Peak." Finally, slightly set back at the center rests the immortal "Old Lord Peak." On every one of these peaks, the palaces and halls are arranged with meticulous care—each edifice facing south, its back to the north—in a manner that speaks both of traditional symbolism and functional design.
At this very moment on Old Lord Peak, celestial cranes and spirit birds wheel gracefully across the sky. Amid the jade balconies, intricately carved railings, and graceful pavilions—set against the backdrop of gently flowing streams and drifting mists—a winding path snakes its way into the heart of the palace complex. Within one immense palace that crowns Old Lord Peak, a small assembly of a dozen or more figures is arranged in two neat rows. At the head of the gathering sits an elder whose presence seems to command the very air around him. Standing about seven feet tall, with long, arching eyebrows, broad eyes, and a face of serene whiteness, he exudes a solemn dignity. Though his age might be roughly fifty years, his eyes sparkle with the keen light of profound insight. Clad in traditional Daoist garb, his dark hair is bound into a neat bun and secured by a jade hairpin, and a ceremonial whisk hangs diagonally from his arm—a symbol of his authority.
Below him, in a second row of more than a dozen disciples, a diverse group is assembled. There are those of tall and short stature, plump and slim, ordinary and handsome, and they include both men and women. Each is attired in long, dark-green robes, with golden embroidery decorating their sleeves—each design unique yet subtly linked by a shared aesthetic.
The venerable Daoist elder at the front clears his throat and speaks in a measured, resonant tone: "Very well, then, this Five-Year Competition is concluded. This afternoon, we shall distribute the rewards to the top ten as a whole."
As he speaks, he gracefully sweeps one of his broad sleeves, revealing an intricate golden cauldron embroidered upon the fabric—a cauldron whose design features the fierce, snarling visage of a beast, its gaping maw lifted toward the heavens. The sight of this unsettling image contrasts sharply with the otherwise calm aura of the Daoist priest.
In unison, the disciples below respond, "Yes, Sect Leader!"
He continues, "Now, within the top ten, there is a matter concerning Wei Junior's Little Bamboo Peak. This time, only four disciples from his group participated, and merely two managed to secure a ranking. In stark contrast to our other peaks—where hundreds of disciples compete—it is truly disconcerting."
At this, a man in his thirties with a neatly trimmed beard and scholarly features chuckles softly and turns toward the person seated directly opposite him. His skin is as pale as jade, and his narrow eyes peer thoughtfully beneath a scholar's cap. His sleeves, embroidered with a sinuous golden serpent in mid-strike, lend him an air of wry amusement. This is the same refined scholar who had, not long ago, been charged with apprehending the notorious military advisor, Master Ji.
Opposite him, in the lower row, sits a slightly more corpulent figure standing just over seven feet tall. Despite his rounder build, his gentle demeanor is unmistakable. He wears a scholar's kerchief and has a pair of clear, shining eyes beneath thick brows, and his youthful features—suggesting an age of no more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight—radiate an aura of innocence. Notably, the cuff of his robe is adorned with an elegant golden bamboo motif. A warm smile plays across his round face as he listens to the conversation.
After the scholarly gentleman finishes speaking, several others nod in agreement. Suddenly, a graceful woman in her forties speaks with coquettish ease, "Brother Feng speaks true—our little junior always behaves in this manner. How, I wonder, am I supposed to manage such a throng of disciples when he is so… unmanageable?" Her every movement exudes charm, her eyes sparkling like gentle ripples on water. Her deep-green robe clings delicately to her figure, accentuating her graceful form. As she speaks, some in the assembly lower their eyes or turn away, muttering under their breath, "That wily crone, always stirring trouble without an ounce of subtlety."
Even the venerable Daoist leader looks slightly uneasy at the outburst, for even among the immortals certain matters are better left unsaid in public. With an air of restrained reproach, he addresses Wei Junior directly, "Wei Junior, must you squander your days so idly? You have been given the charge of Little Bamboo Peak—where our numbers should be in the thousands—but you do little to take responsibility for it."
Another burly man, his arm's cuff decorated with a golden compass, adds in his gruff voice, "If you persist in this manner, in a thousand years our sect might have barely more than stray cats or dogs to show for it!"
A woman with a determined yet somber expression, her cuff embroidered with two intertwining insect motifs, chimes in, "Indeed, brother Wei, if you continue on this lazy path, our sect's legacy will be lost to time." The murmurs of discontent ripple through the gathering.
After a moment of silence, Wei Junior—addressed by his elders—finally speaks with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Ah, dear brothers and elders, since I formed my Core Pill over two hundred years ago, you have never let me forget my shortcomings. I was the last to join the sect, and my naturally languid nature has always kept me from being industrious. When our master entrusted me with Little Bamboo Peak, I resisted taking on the burden, yet the venerable master insisted it be placed upon my head. In the early days, I recruited widely—as did the other four peaks—but in time, many of my disciples drifted away to join the other peaks, leaving only a few behind. I truly do not know how to manage them." He then gestures with both hands in a dismissive manner, as if shrugging off the responsibility.
Another elder then remarks, "Was it not your duty to assign an elder to help manage your disciples? Even then, those elders declined to remain. You should have taken time to inquire about their progress. Instead, you seclude yourself in prolonged retreats with your spouse, neglecting the cultivation and well-being of those under your care. Each disciple requires careful planning and guidance, yet you remain utterly remiss in this regard."
Wei Junior sighs and continues, "I have, however, already delegated the management of Little Bamboo Peak matters to my eldest disciple. As for the competitions and ranking matches—selecting participants from among hundreds, sometimes thousands, is a headache in itself. The mere thought of it gives me a splitting headache." His tone is both rueful and resigned.
After a brief pause, his expression shifts to one of seriousness. "By the way, Brother Feng—yesterday I heard a rumor that the Execution Hall of Spiritual Insect Peak brought back a person who is described as 'severely ravaged and poisoned.' They say he is 'in tatters.' This, I must confess, is no ordinary matter."
At these words, the scholarly gentleman with the golden serpent motif pales visibly. The subject being broached is a taboo—one that the mountain peaks have long avoided discussing openly. For years, the legacy of a traitor who once stole their sacred technique has weighed heavily on their honor. Although that traitor is long dead, his disgrace continues to sting.
The old Daoist leader sighs deeply and turns his gaze toward the scholar, "Brother Feng, due to yesterday's competition and hearing that the rescued man's condition is perilously dire, we refrained from further questioning. Do you have any news on this matter?"
The atmosphere grows hushed as eyes shift in expectation. The scholar clears his throat and proceeds in a measured tone, "The deserter from Lian Mountain—he has been on the run for twenty years now. We had long dispatched teams to hunt him down. Only last year did we finally trace his whereabouts. It appears he was seeking fortune in the dwelling of a former Golden Core cultivator. Fate, however, was unkind. Attacked and wounded by the cave's Soul-Guard Formation, he barely escaped—and died not far from the entrance. His storage bag was torn asunder, scattering its contents. Yet, not a scrap of our sacred jade slip or manuscript was found. This leads us to suspect that our treasured technique was not destroyed, but rather, stolen by someone else."
He continues, "After further investigation around the site, we learned from various wandering cultivators that the technique might have been acquired by someone belonging to the 'Seeker of Immortality' lineage—a group who chase after any immortal method they can find to further their own path to transcendence. The Execution Hall traced the matter back through the medicinal herbs required to initiate the technique, and eventually, a clue led them deep into the imperial territories. There, in a remote border military camp, a military advisor is said to have secretly practiced the technique and has reached what appears to be the pinnacle of the third tier of the Qi Condensation stage."
He adds gravely, "Because this matter touches on the delicate regulations between our realm and that of ordinary mortals, the Execution Hall has proceeded with utmost caution. Our investigation found that this advisor had previously purchased many of the early-stage medicinal herbs required for the technique. He only appeared in that area some six or seven years ago. Judging by his appearance and martial style, it is evident that he is the very one from the 'Seeker of Immortality' lineage who obtained our technique—and he is forcefully cultivating it, perhaps because of a scarcity of the proper medicinal resources."
The scholar's voice softens as he continues, "It appears that in the military, he has taken on disciples. He may have discovered the Spirit-Siphoning Technique—perhaps hoping it would rid him of the internal fire poison plaguing his body. But his cultivation remains weak, and for that reason, he has been scouring the ranks in search of mortals with innate spiritual roots. Remarkably, he has already found two individuals, each blessed with the rare affinity for the wood element. Among the potential disciples that we painstakingly recruit from the mortals, it is exceedingly rare to find even one with such natural talent—and yet this man has managed to do it almost effortlessly. His luck, it seems, is truly extraordinary."
A murmur of agreement rises from those assembled, the gravity of the matter mingling with a sense of awe and trepidation.
Thus unfolds a portrait of a sprawling world—a mortal realm partitioned into five monumental continents, separated by vast expanses of danger and mystery, where only the most exceptional cultivators dare dream of crossing boundaries. Within this world, ancient sects vie for supremacy, and the fate of entire regions hinges on power, ambition, and delicate honor. On the Barren Moon Continent, among towering natural splendor and mist-wreathed peaks, the esteemed Wang Liang Sect holds court. Yet even within its venerable halls, everyday grievances such as Wei Junior's indolence and the legacy of a traitor echo, reminding all present that even those who tread the immortal path are bound by mortal foibles.
In a cosmos where colossal lands and deadly hazards define existence, the search for power—and for that lost, sacred technique—continues unabated, as destiny weaves the lives of mortals and cultivators alike in a tapestry of ambition, folly, and hope.