Morning mist curled low across the Cold River Sect, pale threads of silver weaving between jade towers and ancient bridges. The peaks still rang faintly with the echoes of last night's bells, as though the sect itself had not yet swallowed the tremors of what had transpired in the Dragon Hall.
Haotian sat cross-legged within his quarters, his breath slow, his core circulating quietly. His body still thrummed from the strain of the alchemical trial, the memory of runes blazing and flames roaring vivid in his blood. Sweat had dried into salt on his robes, but his mind remained sharp, eyes closed, replaying every rune stroke, every moment of resistance.
A knock broke the stillness. Knock. Knock.
"Enter," Haotian said.
The door slid open, and Elder Bai stepped inside. His expression was calm, but his eyes carried the weight of what he bore. He set his staff beside the door and seated himself opposite Haotian, pouring tea without a word. The fragrant steam rose, curling between them like unspoken thoughts.
After a long silence, Bai spoke.
"The council has spoken. The Sect Master has decreed. You will face further trials."
Haotian's eyes opened slowly. "Trials?"
Bai's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Not ordinary ones. Crucibles crafted by the Sect Master himself. They will test your foundation, your mind, your endurance. To the disciples, it will appear as spectacle. To the elders, proof. But to you…" His eyes narrowed. "It will be the measure of survival."
Haotian's gaze did not waver. "So they want me broken."
"Some do," Bai admitted, voice low. "Others watch to see if you can rise. But make no mistake—every elder, every rival, every jealous disciple will have their eyes upon you. Even the smallest stumble will be magnified into heresy, and the smallest triumph will breed envy. This is the Sect Master's way: to expose you to storm winds and see if you bend or stand."
Haotian reached for the tea cup, fingers steady. He sipped once, letting the warmth ground him. His reflection wavered in the pale surface of the liquid—calm face, but eyes that glowed faintly with golden flecks.
"They wish to use me," he said softly. "As tool, as threat, as pawn. And if I fail, I will be cast aside, perhaps even erased."
Bai's silence was answer enough.
But instead of fear, Haotian felt something else stir inside him. A quiet fire. The same fire that had led him to carve runes into pills when others called it madness. The same fire that refused to bow to lineage, to scorn, to whispers.
He set the cup down. His gaze sharpened.
"Then let them test me."
Bai's brow furrowed. "You understand what you're saying? These trials will not be fair. They will not be kind. Even survival will mark you as a threat."
Haotian's lips curved into the faintest smile, calm yet resolute.
"Elder Bai, storms do not frighten me. They forge rivers into canyons and stone into peaks. If this sect is my storm, then I will cut through it. If I am to rise, I will not tiptoe past shadows—I will stride through them."
Bai studied him for a long moment, then exhaled, slow and weary. But in his eyes, pride flickered like a lantern flame.
"Very well, boy. Then stride you shall. But remember this: arrogance kills faster than the storm. Walk steady."
Haotian inclined his head. "I will."
Outside, the bells tolled once more, their notes echoing across the mountain like the call of a dragon in the mist. Disciples stirred, elders gathered, word spreading like wildfire:
The Sect Master has declared a public trial. Haotian will face it before the entire sect.
In his quarters, Haotian rose to his feet, adjusting his robes. His fingers brushed against his cauldron, the faint glow of rune-etchings pulsing softly within. He breathed deep, shoulders straightening.
If this is their game, then I will not play as a piece. I will play as the hand that tips the board.
And with that thought, he stepped into the mist, toward a trial that would etch his name deeper into the sect's marrow—whether in reverence or in blood.
The Grand Arena of the Cold River Sect stirred awake at dawn.
Built into the mountain's side, its vast terraces curved like a dragon's coil, able to hold tens of thousands of disciples. Today, every seat was filled. The air hummed with anticipation, whispers snapping back and forth like sparks. The Sect Master had decreed a trial unlike any in recent memory, and the sect's beating heart gathered to witness.
At the arena's center, an enormous jade platform gleamed beneath the sun. Three cauldrons stood upon it, each inscribed with runes that glowed faintly, radiating suppressed power. Behind them shimmered vast storage arrays, where herbs and ores floated in suspended light.
Haotian stepped onto the platform alone. His plain robes swayed in the wind, yet he walked with calm steps, his eyes fixed upon the trial ahead. A sea of gazes pressed down upon him—disciples muttering, elders watching from elevated seats, rivals sharpening their teeth in silence.
Above it all, the Sect Master presided, seated beneath the dais that towered over the arena. His eyes were still, unreadable, like a mountain lake that hid unknown depths. Elder Bai stood among the elder's circle, his expression stern, hands gripping his staff, while Elder Mo's lips curved faintly in disdain.
The Sect Master's voice rang out, low but clear enough to shake the air.
"Disciple Haotian. Before the eyes of the sect, you will attempt three refinements. Each cauldron holds conditions beyond the ordinary: hostile essences, conflicting attributes, unstable arrays. If you falter, they will consume you."
The silence in the arena deepened, disciples leaning forward in hushed awe.
"Rise or perish, the heavens will decide. Begin."
The first cauldron's flames ignited.
BOOOOM!
A geyser of crimson fire erupted, heat rippling outward so violently that even outer disciples shielding themselves from the stands flinched. The ingredients array flared, releasing herbs that hissed like snakes: Inferno Thorn, Molten Lotus, and Skyburn Ore. A recipe designed to annihilate balance, to collapse into ash.
Haotian's heart thundered, but his hands did not waver. His chi surged, pressing down upon the flame. The fire bucked and snapped like a wild beast, eager to devour. With sharp motions, he struck the air—each stroke a rune that glowed gold before sinking into the cauldron.
DONG. DONG. DONG.
The arena reverberated with every chime. Slowly, the flames coiled inward, tamed by runes that bent their fury. The herbs screamed as they melted, essence clashing violently. The cauldron shook.
Gasps rippled through the disciples.
"He's forcing Skyburn Ore into balance with flame essence? That's suicide!"
"Look—he's binding it directly with runes!"
The mixture trembled at collapse, but Haotian's will pressed harder, each rune locking essence to essence, fire to ore, lotus to flame. Sweat slicked his brow, his veins glowing faintly with golden chi.
With a final gesture, he sealed the lid. The cauldron roared, then went still. When it opened, a single pill rose—red-gold, veins of runes carved across its surface like flowing magma.
A hush fell. Then the fragrance struck—rich, violent, intoxicating.
An elder leaned forward, eyes wide.
"It… it didn't explode. He actually stabilized it."
"Impossible. At his level… this should have been beyond him."
Even Elder Mo's sneer faltered for a heartbeat.
The second cauldron flared awake. Its flames weren't fire at all, but cold blue frost that devoured heat itself. Mist poured across the jade platform, freezing cracks into the stone. The ingredients floated down—Venom Grass, Ghostroot, and Frostheart Crystal. A poisonous, ghostly, frigid trinity.
Disciples shuddered. "Even a Nascent Soul master would hesitate!"
Haotian's breath fogged instantly. His chest constricted, lungs burning with the cold. He pressed his palm over the cauldron, chi surging into the frostfire. It resisted, snapping at him, but his runes struck out like chains of light.
DONG. DONG.
Each glyph shimmered, forming binding lattices to restrain the venom essence. Ghostroot flared, its shadowy qi writhing like phantoms. Frostheart threatened to shatter everything into shards.
Haotian's teeth clenched, veins standing out along his neck. His chi roared within, golden light clashing with the cold mist. For a moment, it seemed the cauldron would split open. The audience leaned forward, hearts pounding.
Then—
BOOM!
A flash of light burst upward, nearly blinding. When it cleared, a pill floated in silence above the cauldron—black as night, runes glowing like constellations across its surface. Its aura was sharp, ghostly, yet perfectly bound.
The stands erupted in uproar.
"He did it again!"
"No—this… this is beyond ordinary grade!"
"Who is he?"
Elders exchanged glances, some in awe, others in thinly masked dread. Elder Bai's lips curved ever so slightly, his faith vindicated.
The third cauldron awoke.
This flame was golden-white, pure, searing, divine. Its radiance filled the arena, making disciples squint, elders stiffen. The ingredients that descended were sacred: Phoenix Plume Herb, Celestial Dew, Dragonbone Fragment. A recipe meant only for sect masters' hands—too volatile for any disciple.
The crowd held its breath.
Haotian stepped forward, his robe snapping in the heat. His core flared, golden light racing along his meridians. He lifted both hands, fingers tracing runes in rapid succession. They fell like meteors, weaving a net of light over the cauldron.
The fire screamed, resisting. The Phoenix Plume burst into flame, Celestial Dew sizzled, Dragonbone cracked. The cauldron shook so violently the platform trembled beneath him.
Disciples cried out. "It's going to explode—!"
But Haotian's eyes blazed, pupils shimmering with faint golden flecks. His will pressed down like a mountain. His chi roared through him, every rune locking, bending, forcing impossible harmonies together. His body shook, sweat dripping like rain, but he refused to yield.
Finally, with a resonant BOOOOM, the cauldron stilled.
When the lid opened, a single pill rose into the air—brilliant as a star, runes glowing in flawless symmetry. Its light washed across the arena, reflecting in every stunned gaze.
The Sect Master leaned forward at last, his eyes narrowing with something like hidden satisfaction.
"This," he said, his voice calm yet heavy enough to shake the stands, "is no child's trick. This is a storm the sect must reckon with."
The arena erupted in chaos—shouts of awe, gasps of fear, mutters of envy.
And at the center of it all, Haotian stood drenched in sweat, chest heaving, but his gaze steady.
He had not only survived the crucible. He had bent it to his will.
The Grand Arena still rang with echoes of astonishment long after the disciples dispersed. Whispers clung to the terraces like mist: "A star-born pill… at Core Condensation…""Did the Sect Master smile? He never smiles…""He will change the sect—or burn in it."
But far from the muttering crowds, the elders gathered in the North Wing Chamber, a place seldom used except for matters the sect could not allow to breathe openly. The chamber was dim, its high walls marked by suppression arrays. A brazier at the center cast its flame upward, shadows carving deep lines into the elders' faces.
Elder Mo was the first to speak, his voice taut with fury.
"This cannot stand. Before the entire sect, that boy bent flames, venom, and even sacred ingredients to his will. If his method spreads, who will need our alchemists? Who will respect tradition? He will unravel us from within."
Several elders nodded sharply, their robes rustling.
Elder Yun's tone was softer but no less cutting.
"Do you not see? This is no mere talent. This is disruption. He has already bypassed our hierarchies. Core Condensation or not, disciples already whisper his name above that of their masters. What happens if he is allowed to grow unchecked? If the Central Continent hears of this?"
One gaunt elder leaned forward, his smile a thin knife.
"Then the Central Continent will move first. They will kill him before his roots spread, and we will be spared the risk. But if we wait… if we let him take deeper hold in our sect, then their blades will fall not only on him, but on us."
The brazier cracked, flame spitting as though it shared their agitation.
Elder Mo slammed his hand against the table.
"We cannot simply wait for the outside to move. By then, it will be too late. Already disciples flock to him like moths. We must act now."
"How?" another elder asked, his voice trembling. "The Sect Master himself acknowledged him. To move openly is suicide."
Mo's lips curled into a cold sneer.
"Then we do not move openly."
Elder Yun's eyes narrowed, catching the implication. "You mean to… suppress him in shadows."
Mo nodded.
"Cut his resources. Block access to rare ingredients. Sabotage his training grounds. Let him stagnate until disciples lose their faith in him. And if… accidents happen along the way, who can say? Many a genius has fallen to pride and carelessness."
A ripple of approval spread across the chamber.
But Elder Yun raised a finger. "Careful. The Sect Master has already placed eyes on him. Move too quickly, and suspicion falls here. No… better to weave slow poison. Let the sect itself become his enemy. Rival disciples, jealous factions, families that fear the loss of their place. All we must do is… nudge."
The gaunt elder chuckled, voice rasping like dry leaves.
"Yes. Let the storm devour him, and we will stand back, clean of stain."
Elder Mo's eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction.
"Then it is decided. We will strangle him not with daggers, but with silence and shadows. By the time he realizes, the sect's weight will already crush him."
From the far side of the chamber, Elder Bai's absence was keenly felt. He had not been summoned to this meeting. Perhaps the conspirators feared his thundering voice would shake their plans apart.
But outside, beneath the pale moonlight, Bai stood alone at the edge of a high terrace, his robes stirring in the night wind. His eyes lingered on the distant flame of the North Wing brazier. Though he could not hear their words, he did not need to. His years in the sect had taught him the scent of scheming.
"Fools," he murmured to himself, his grip tightening on his staff. "To crush what the heavens themselves have chosen…"
He closed his eyes. In the depths of his heart, he knew: the path ahead for Haotian would not be forged only in flame and runes, but in shadows sharp enough to bleed even the brightest star.
The days after the grand trial should have been filled with celebration. Disciples still spoke his name in awe, whispers spreading through courtyards and training fields. Yet for Haotian, the air felt… different.
He sensed it in the way conversations cut short when he approached. In the respectful bows of juniors—bows that vanished the moment their seniors appeared. In the subtle narrowing of elder eyes during passing glances, where once there had been cold indifference, now lay calculation.
Walking across the sect's stone bridges, he could feel the weight of unseen gazes. Not only admiration, but envy sharp enough to cut. He was not naïve. He had touched the sect's marrow in the Cold River Hall; now the marrow sought to bind him.
The first cut came with silence.
At the alchemy pavilion, where disciples claimed ingredients for refinement, Haotian's token was returned to him with a polite smile.
"Apologies, Brother Haotian. Rare herbs are reserved for senior disciples. Supplies are thin."
But when he lingered outside, he saw another disciple—one of Elder Mo's line—handed a bundle of the very same herbs with ease.
The second cut came with subtle traps.
During evening cultivation, while meditating within the sect's Spirit Spring, Haotian felt the flow of qi twist unnaturally. A ripple, faint yet deliberate, tried to draw his core into turbulence. His eyes snapped open, golden flecks glimmering. Hidden beneath the spring's surface, a talisman shimmered faintly before dissolving.
If he had been less stable, the disruption could have shattered his foundation.
That night, Elder Bai found him sitting alone beneath the lantern light of his quarters.
"You've noticed," Bai said flatly.
Haotian gave a faint nod. "Supplies denied. Traps in the springs. Rivals emboldened enough to mutter 'heretic' in the open. The wind shifts against me."
Bai's eyes darkened, his hand tightening on his staff. "The elders' council cannot move against you openly. So they bleed you with shadows. Death by a thousand cuts."
Haotian's gaze sharpened, voice calm but steady.
"Let them bleed. Each cut only reminds me that I've struck deep enough to frighten them. If the sect intends to forge me through storms, then storms I will take."
The next day, the suppression grew sharper.
At the martial field, Han Yexun and his clique of rivals approached, smirks curled across their lips. One tossed a jade slip into Haotian's path.
"The elders have decreed a sparring exhibition," Yexun said, his voice laced with mockery. "And wouldn't you know it—you're first on the list. Tomorrow. Against me."
Disciples nearby laughed nervously. Everyone knew the truth: exhibition duels were often 'arranged accidents.'
Haotian bent down, picked up the jade slip, and studied its glowing characters without a word. Then he looked up, meeting Yexun's eyes. His gaze was calm, steady, but in it shimmered a glint that made Yexun's laughter falter.
"Tomorrow, then," Haotian said softly.
He turned, robe brushing the stone, leaving silence in his wake.
Behind him, disciples whispered, fear and excitement rippling together.
And far above, in the elder pavilions, unseen eyes watched with satisfaction. The web had been spun. Now they waited for the prey to thrash.
The Grand Martial Arena roared like a storm. Disciples filled the terraces, their shouts and whispers clashing in waves. The Sect Master's decree had turned Haotian's trial into spectacle, and now the elders fed the fire further—summoning him into combat against Han Yexun, one of the sect's most ruthless inner disciples.
At the center, the jade platform gleamed under the morning sun. Two figures stepped forward from opposite sides, robes snapping in the mountain wind.
Han Yexun smirked, his aura flaring with violent crimson chi that shimmered like bloodied flame. His eyes burned with hatred barely masked as confidence.
"Haotian," he sneered, his voice carrying across the arena, "you may trick cauldrons with runes, but against me? Against true martial skill? You'll kneel."
Laughter rippled through the stands, mostly from Yexun's allies.
Haotian's expression remained calm, his robe plain, his gaze steady. No boast, no retort. Only silence that cut deeper than words.
The Sect Master's voice boomed from above, serene yet heavy as a mountain.
"Begin."
Yexun moved first.
With a thunderous BOOOM, he launched forward, his crimson chi erupting in a blaze. His spear whistled through the air, sharp as a serpent's fang, aimed straight for Haotian's chest. The platform cracked under his momentum.
Gasps tore from disciples. "Fast!"
"Yexun's already at the peak of Core Condensation!"
Haotian's body blurred. His foot slid, his frame pivoted. The spear thrust tore through an afterimage, its tip hissing as it split the air. Before Yexun could retract, Haotian's palm lashed out—quiet, controlled, glowing faintly with golden chi.
CRACK!
The spear shuddered, thrown off balance, the impact echoing like thunder.
Yexun's smirk twisted into fury. He spun, crimson chi exploding outward in a wide arc, his spear sweeping like a storm meant to overwhelm.
"Die beneath my Crimson Fang Spiral!"
The spiraling strike birthed a vortex of crimson light, whipping the air into blades that cut shallow grooves into the jade floor. Disciples leaned back, shielding their faces from the sharp wind.
Haotian's eyes narrowed. His fingers flicked—and golden runes flared into the air, appearing directly along Yexun's spiraling path. Each rune pulsed once, then detonated in synchronized bursts.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The crimson spiral collapsed, its form torn apart mid-motion. The backlash hurled Yexun backward, his body skidding across the jade platform in a spray of dust and shattered stone.
The arena erupted in shouts.
"He inscribed runes mid-combat!"
"No one at Core Condensation should even—!""Impossible!"
Yexun rose, blood on his lip, fury in his eyes. His spear trembled as his chi flared violently.
"You dare humiliate me before the entire sect?!"
He roared, crimson aura bursting higher, coiling like a blood dragon. His killing intent surged, heavy enough to make outer disciples pale. Even some elders leaned forward, eyes gleaming—this was no spar. Yexun was out for blood.
The Sect Master remained silent, his gaze unreadable.
Haotian's calm did not waver. He raised his hand, and faint golden light shimmered around his palm—runes forming and dissolving like stars in water. His chi thrummed through the arena, quiet yet unyielding.
Yexun lunged again, his spear a crimson flash aimed at Haotian's throat.
Haotian's body blurred. One step forward, one palm thrust—swift, decisive, a strike like a mountain falling.
BOOOOM!
The impact exploded across the platform, golden light colliding with crimson. Shockwaves blasted outward, hurling dust and debris into the air. Disciples cried out, shielding their eyes, elders leaned forward, eyes straining to pierce the storm of chi.
When the dust cleared—
Han Yexun was on the ground, his spear snapped in two beside him, blood spraying from his mouth. He tried to rise, but Haotian's rune-lit palm hovered an inch from his forehead, steady as death's hand.
The arena froze.
Gasps rippled. Some disciples stared in awe, others in disbelief, still others in barely concealed resentment.
Above, the Sect Master's voice finally broke the silence. Calm, measured.
"The duel is decided."
Haotian lowered his hand and stepped back. Yexun collapsed, unconscious, his broken spear gleaming in the sun.
The storm of whispers erupted instantly:
"He crushed Yexun…"
"At Core Condensation, against peak-level combat…"
"No wonder the elders fear him…"
Haotian stood in the center of it all, his chest rising steadily, his gaze calm. The jade beneath his feet was cracked, runes fading into silence. But in the eyes of ten thousand disciples, he was no longer simply a prodigy of alchemy—he was a force that could not be denied.
Far above, in the elder's pavilion, Elder Mo's jaw clenched, his fury hidden behind a thin smile. Elder Bai's staff tapped softly against the floor, his eyes glowing with quiet pride. And the Sect Master leaned back, his expression unreadable, but the faintest curve at the corner of his lips betrayed a thought:
The storm grows stronger.
The duel was over, but its ripples had only begun.
When Han Yexun was carried away, broken spear dragging in the dust, the Grand Martial Arena buzzed like a hive struck with fire. Disciples surged into knots of chatter, their voices clashing, disbelief and awe fighting for dominance.
"He shattered Yexun's spear—did you see? That was no trick of alchemy!"
"With a single palm! At Core Condensation!"
"First the rune-pills, now this… is he even human?"
Younger disciples, those who had once whispered mockery behind his back, now lowered their eyes when he passed. Some bowed deeply, too nervous to meet his gaze. A few dared to shout out praises, voices trembling with excitement.
"Senior Brother Haotian!"
"Teach us! Please—teach us your method!"
Others were bolder still, pushing closer with clasped hands and hopeful eyes. "Brother Haotian, if you'd allow me, I'd gladly serve at your side… even just to watch you refine!"
The frenzy spread like wildfire. For every disciple who bowed in reverence, another glared in envy, fists clenched tight at their sides. The name Haotian had become a weight—one carried with awe by some, with bitterness by others.
In the outer courtyards, whispers swirled faster still.
"Do you not see? He humiliated Yexun before the entire sect!"
"From branch family blood! If he can rise this high, what does that say about us lineal heirs?"
"It means the heavens themselves favor him. Perhaps he was born to rewrite our sect's fate…"
Some disciples, especially the ambitious, latched onto the chance. Already small groups gathered, muttering about pledging loyalty before anyone else. Others, fearful of elder wrath, hissed warnings: "Stay back! To follow him is to court death!"
But admiration burned brighter than fear. In the hearts of the young, a seed had been planted.
Haotian himself walked calmly from the arena, robes fluttering in the lingering wind. He heard the whispers, felt the eyes, sensed the frenzy. But within, his thoughts were quiet.
So this is how it begins… Reverence and resentment, bound together. A name is a blade—it cuts both ways.
At his side, Elder Bai's lips twitched into the faintest smile as he murmured low enough for only Haotian to hear.
"You've turned the sect upside down, boy. In a single month, you've gone from shadow to storm."
Haotian gave a quiet nod, eyes steady as he scanned the sea of disciples. Their awe did not stir pride in him—it only sharpened his resolve.
"Then I must become the storm they cannot cage."
By nightfall, his name echoed through every pavilion, whispered under lantern light, carved into sparring grounds with eager hands. Haotian. The boy who inscribed runes upon pills. The youth who shattered Han Yexun with a single palm.