In an opulent chamber draped with silken curtains and perfumed with incense, a man in a deep purple robe embroidered with golden threads sits before a table laden with small porcelain dishes.
The faint clinking of chopsticks is the only sound as a dozen men in beige robes stand around the room, their heads lowered in silence.
The man sets down his chopsticks. His tone is calm but heavy with authority. "I heard the third son of the Ji family is awake."
An elderly man steps forward, bowing. "Yes, Your Majesty."
The emperor resumes eating, his expression unreadable.
Another man, younger and cautious, speaks softly. "Your Majesty, should we… let him fall asleep again?"
The emperor pauses mid-bite, his golden sleeve brushing the table. "What of the investigation into my sister's ambush?"
The older official bows deeper. "The clues point toward the Prime Minister's family. It seems they intended to stage a rescue—an act of heroism to win Her Highness's favour. However, the plan went awry. The actor changed—from the Prime Minister's eldest grandson to the Ji family's third son. Yet, we lack solid proof to accuse them directly."
The emperor's lips curve into a faint smile. "Then let the Ji family's third son remain as my sister's marriage partner for now. I'll remove him when the opportunity arises."
The officials exchange glances but remain silent.
After finishing his meal, the emperor wipes his mouth with a silk cloth and stands. "Still, I haven't thanked the Ji family's third son for saving my sister's life. Summon him."
A younger official hesitates before speaking. "Your Majesty… Ji Jingxuan left the capital at dawn today."
The emperor's brow furrows. "When did he awaken?"
"Two days ago," the man replies. "Yesterday, he went to the military office and requested a long-term posting—three years—in Sandrift City, near the desert border."
The emperor's frown fades into a thin, knowing smile. "The child is smart."
He turns, his golden robe sweeping across the marble floor as he walks out of the chamber, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the silent hall.
--
Elsewhere, in the heart of Luoyangjing, the capital of the Zhou Empire, a woman sits in an airy chamber overlooking the bustling market street below.
Laughter, shouts, and the rhythmic clang of bronze ring faintly through the open lattice windows.
Inside, the women seated around her hold their posture with quiet respect, their eyes occasionally drawn to the one in white.
She wears a flowing dress threaded with crystal ornaments that shimmer softly in the sunlight.
Her long black hair cascades over her shoulders, and her calm face carries the unspoken grace of nobility.
From beyond the door, a man's voice calls gently, "Princess, I request an audience."
The women glance toward her. The princess's voice is cool and distant. "Xaela, tell Young Master Zhang that I will not meet him today—or any day in the future."
"Yes, Princess," Xaela replies, bowing before leaving to deliver the message.
A woman in a yellow dress, Zuo Lian, the youngest daughter of the Finance Minister, leans forward. "Princess Li Niyue, what happened today? Why won't you see him?"
Li Niyue's gaze drifts toward the window. "The investigation results revealed a few clues. They point toward the Zhang family."
A woman in blue speaks next—Li Shuyin, the princess's cousin. "Zhang Wenrui may be from the Prime Minister's family, but he's always been treated lightly because he chose the warrior's path."
Zuo Lian frowns. "Still, he carries the Zhang name."
The women exchange thoughtful looks. The princess remains silent, eyes fixed on the crowded street below, her reflection faint in the polished glass.
Moments later, Xaela returns. "Princess, Young Master Zhang has left."
"Did he say anything?" Xueyao asks softly.
"He said he will come every day until you agree to meet him."
The princess lets out a quiet hum. "Then he will waste his time." Yet, a fleeting, hidden smile tugs at her lips.
A woman in a light green dress—Lu Qinghe, daughter of the Censorate—tilts her head. "I heard Ji Jingxuan has awakened."
"Yes," says the princess.
"How is he?"
"I haven't met him."
Li Shuyin sighs. "Cousin, I know you dislike him, but he saved your life, and His Majesty already granted him your hand. You should at least meet him once."
"I went to his home before coming here," Xueyao replies quietly. "He wasn't there. He left for Sandrift City at dawn."
Lu Qinghe blinks in surprise. "He saved your life and is now your fiancé. He should be clinging to you, not leaving the city. What happened?"
"The brush with death may have made him realise," Xueyao says softly, "that I'm not worth the trouble."
Lu Qinghe scoffs. "You're His Majesty's beloved sister and one of the most beautiful women in the empire. How can you not be worth it? But it's better this way—you can use his absence to cancel the marriage."
"I'm not going to cancel it," the princess says firmly.
Li Shuyin arches a brow. "Because he saved your life?"
"Yes," the princess answers. "He saved me without hesitation. I cannot appear ungrateful."
"But you don't love him."
"Does it matter?" Her voice turns faint. "How many of us have love marriages?"
The three women fall silent. They, too, were born with silver spoons, and each understands the price that comes with it—the right to choose one's heart.
After a while, the princess says, "What matters most is that he loves me."
No one replies.
A knock breaks the silence, and servants enter with trays of steaming dishes.
Conversation shifts, laughter returns, and the earlier heaviness fades with the aroma of warm tea.
Night falls. Beneath the three moons—purple, silver, and grey—Ji Jingxuan sits cross-legged inside his tent, his breath steady, his spirit expanding quietly into the boundless night sky.
He camps a few kilometres beyond the capital walls, on the road leading west toward Sandrift City—a city that lies on the empire's edge, deep in the desert.
It will take him nearly two months to reach it.
He leaves the capital for one reason—to cultivate the Warlock path.
For that, he must go where the Divine Domain's light grows thin and the veil between life and death weakens, where ghosts and weirds wander freely under the dim moons.
Such places lie only at the empire's border.
But that is only half the reason. The other lies in the Warlocks themselves.
Their path demands that they feed a ghost—or worse, a weird—within their own bodies.
A single slip can twist their minds, turning them into the very abominations they once hunted.
Because of this danger, most Warlocks exile themselves to the empire's edges, where the land is barren, the people scarce, and no one will see if they fall.
Jingxuan closes his eyes, spreading his senses outward.
He tries to feel the energy of this world—the faint threads that weave between heaven and earth.
He senses it at last, thin and distant, but when he tries to draw it in, his spirit falters.
His body is too weak, his soul too shallow.
The power of other worlds slumbers within him, but here, he cannot yet touch it.
So, for now, he lies inside his tent, closes his eyes, and listens to the whisper of the night wind brushing against his ears, waiting for the day his strength will be enough to awaken his true path.
The next day, Ji Jingxuan and his team depart, heading westward.
The journey stretches into two long months, and the farther they move from the capital, the denser the world's eerie energy becomes.
He draws in a faint wisp of it, but his body and soul reject it—it is not meant for the living.
One evening, as the sun sinks behind the barren hills, Ji Jingxuan and his team gather to discuss the road ahead.
They have reached Mangshi City, the last stronghold before the endless dunes of the Greysand Desert.
Beyond the desert lies Sandrift City, their final destination at the very edge of the empire.
Leaving Mangshi tomorrow means stepping into danger.
Ghosts and weirds roam the desert freely, low-level but deadly to mortals.
Jingxuan and his guards are all trained martial artists, but their skills are of little use against the dead. Only crystal gold can harm such beings.
Each of them carries a crystal gold sword, and Jingxuan himself wears a full crystal gold inner armour—still, against the unknown, more weapons are always better.
So, they spend the evening questioning the locals about the desert's horrors.
The innkeeper tells of pale figures that drift through the dunes at night, whispering names.
A merchant swears of a crawling shadow that devours travellers' voices.
From these tales, they learn what they can—the weaknesses of the ghosts and the methods to defeat them.
When the night deepens, the team prepares their weapons, for once they leave Mangshi, the path ahead will no longer belong to the living.
The next morning, they depart, pushing their mounts through the shifting dunes.
Every evening, before the three moons rise, they stop at desert posts built for travellers crossing the Greysand Desert.
In this wasteland, it is suicide to travel by night or camp alone; only within the boundaries of the posts can one rest safely.
For six days, they battle the desert's merciless heat beneath a blazing yellow sun—not the black one Lin Yu once saw.
From this, both Lin Yu and Jingxuan deduce that the sun of the Zhou Dynasty is artificial, a creation sustained by the divine domain to mimic life in a dead land.
By the seventh evening, they reach a post near a small oasis, but the place is deserted.
Not a single traveller, guard, or merchant is in sight.
This post marks the last stop before Sandrift City, and beyond it lies only shifting dunes and ghost-haunted winds.
The team hesitates.
It will take more than two hours to reach Sandrift, and the sun is already sinking fast.
Remaining here alone feels riskier than venturing forward, for abandoned posts often mean death has already passed through.
After a short, tense discussion, they decide to press on.
As the last rays fade, they ride beneath the glow of three moons—purple, silver, and grey—whose cold light paints the desert in pale, ghostly hues.
The wind begins to whisper, carrying with it voices that do not belong to the living.
Jingxuan, riding at the front, tugs the reins and halts his desert-horned beast.
The others stop behind him, their mounts snorting uneasily as the sand shifts underfoot.
A faint sound ripples through the dunes, like something crawling beneath the surface. Every instinct in Jingxuan's body tightens.
"Young Master, what happened?" one of his guards asks.
Jingxuan raises a hand, silencing him.
They wait.
The only sound is the low hiss of sand carried by the wind.
Minutes crawl by, and nothing stirs.
Jingxuan frowns.
Perhaps it was an illusion, he thinks, worn nerves playing tricks on him.
He waves for the team to continue.
He clicks his tongue, and the desert horned beast lumbers forward—its thick hide and twin horns gleaming faintly under moonlight. But only a few minutes later, something moves in the corner of his eye. A ripple beneath the sand, sliding toward the team.
His eyes sharpen. Not good. He leaps from his beast, golden sword flashing as it slashes down. The blade hits the ground, and the sand explodes into a blinding cloud.
Coughs echo behind him. "Young Master, what's happening—!"
"Everyone, stay alert!" Jingxuan shouts. "It's a Sand Man!"
He drops to his knees, pulling a small paper-wrapped pouch from his pocket.
With steady hands, he spreads it open on the sand—crystal powder glinting faintly under the three moons' light.
The smoke from this powder, once ignited, will force the Sand Man to take form and reveal itself.
The ground trembles. Someone screams, "Something's pulling my leg!" Another voice breaks through the chaos, "Light the crystal powder, quick!"
Jingxuan strikes his flint. Sparks leap, and the crystal powder bursts into golden smoke.
The air shimmers.
The rolling sand suddenly convulses—twisting, spiralling, and gathering into a single form.
Before their eyes, the sand rises into a towering figure, its body shifting grains held together by ghostly will. Hollow eyes glow with green fire.
"Attack!" Jingxuan roars.
His crystal-gold sword gleams under the three moons as he charges first, his guards close behind, blades flashing against the creature born of sand and death.
The Sand Man raises its arm, and the desert itself answers.
Sand surges upward, shaping into a towering wall that crashes forward like a wave.
Jingxuan rolls aside, the ground shaking as the wall collapses behind him with a deafening boom.
A choking cloud of sand fills the air once more.
He bursts through the haze, his sword flashing.
The Sand Man's arm elongates, twisting into a whip that lashes toward him with shrieking force.
Jingxuan's blade meets it in a spark of gold and cuts clean through—but the severed sand reforms instantly, writhing back into shape.
He doesn't stop. His sword arcs again, slicing the Sand Man's torso in half. The creature splits apart with a hiss—but no core falls to the ground. Jingxuan's eyes narrow.
Behind him, the grains writhe, pulling together. The Sand Man reforms, its hollow eyes burning brighter, and lunges toward the guards.
Three manage to block, their crystal blades ringing sharply, but two others take the full hit to their chests and collapse into the sand.
Jingxuan charges again, his sword cleaving deep into the creature's back.
This time, the cut closes slower—the Sand Man shrinking, its outline thinner, weaker—but still alive, still fighting.
Every injury weakens it.
The more its body scatters, the less strength it can gather back.
But even then, it cannot be killed—because weirds never truly die.
Destroying their core only delays them; the core reforms somewhere else, drawing the sand and death back together.
To truly end them, one must seal them.
Jingxuan knows this.
He presses forward, slashing again and again, each strike cutting away more of the creature's mass.
The sand around the monster trembles—then lashes out. A column of sand bursts upward, striking him square in the chest.
He's thrown backwards, crashing hard into the dunes. His crystal-gold armour absorbs most of the blow, but pain still floods his ribs. He grits his teeth, lifts his head—and freezes.
The Sand Man grips one of his guards by the neck. A sickening crack follows.
"Bastard!" Jingxuan roars, surging to his feet.
He charges, his sword flashing gold as it cleaves through the creature again and again.
The sand hisses, collapsing in on itself until finally—a dark orb, the weird's core—drops into the sand.
The desert falls silent. Two of his five guards lie still.
Jingxuan kneels, chest heaving, and picks up the core. "Seal it."
The survivors move quickly, placing the faintly pulsing orb into a gold crystal box. Then they gather the bodies of their fallen comrades and press on toward Sandrift City.
When they reach the walls, the great gate is already shut tight against the night.
That is how every settlement survives here—no matter its size, even the capital—when the sun sets, the world belongs to the dead.
The guards atop the wall refuse to open the gate. Their voices are tense, their silhouettes outlined by torchlight. To them, anyone wandering the desert after dark could be something else wearing human skin. They tell Jingxuan's group to rest by the gate until sunrise.
Jingxuan steps forward, his voice calm but commanding. He lifts a token engraved with the Ji family's crest. The guards exchange wary looks, then send for a priest of the city god.
After a few minutes, a figure robed in grey descends from the wall, carrying a lantern whose flame burns with faint blue light. The priest circles them once, murmuring prayers, the lantern's glow brushing against their faces. When no shadow wavers and no illusion breaks, the priest nods.
"They're human," he says.
The gate creaks open.
Inside, the city still breathes with life—markets dimly lit, guards patrolling, whispers of travellers echoing in the narrow streets. Jingxuan and his remaining guards go straight to an inn. After booking rooms and eating in silence, they retire for the night.
In his chamber, Jingxuan bathes, dresses in clean robes, and sits cross-legged on the floor. Before him lies the crystal-gold box. He opens it.
The weird core pulses faintly, like a dying heart.
Without hesitation, Jingxuan takes it in his hand.
Cold seeps into his skin.
Wisps of energy drift upward, spiralling into his body. He guides them carefully through his meridians, channelling each thread toward the spirit point deep within.
His body trembles as frost creeps along his veins.
The room feels heavier, quieter. Inside his spirit space, darkness stirs.
He keeps channelling until the last trace of the weird energy sinks into him.
The core vanishes from his palm—and reappears, faintly glowing, within his spirit space.
The light grows sharper until the world around him dissolves.
He stands in a vast desert beneath three cold moons. The wind howls. The sand trembles. Then the ground erupts—a colossal Sand Man rises, its roar echoing across the endless dunes. It lifts a foot the size of a house and brings it down to crush him.
Jingxuan doesn't move. He raises his index finger. The massive foot stops an inch above him, unable to descend.
The Sand Man strains, roaring louder, but it cannot crush him. Jingxuan exhales softly. "Playing illusions with me," he murmurs.
Golden chains burst from beneath the sand. They coil around the Sand Man's arms, legs, chest, and throat, binding it in place. The creature thrashes, its roar shaking the dunes—but the chains only tighten.
Then the illusion shatters. The desert fades.
Jingxuan opens his eyes.
The faint light of the room returns. Inside his spirit space, the weird core now lies bound in golden chains, its energy completely subdued.
He has become a One-Ring Warlock—skipping the initial extraordinary stage entirely.
But the advancement drains him. His spirit feels hollow, stretched thin. Jingxuan exhales, pushes himself to his feet, and walks to the bed.
He lies down, eyes heavy. Tomorrow, he must wake early to visit the military officers' office.