The survivors gathered at the far end of the Bridge, exhaustion etched into every face. The mist had settled again, but the disciples still glanced back, as though expecting another eruption at any moment.
Haotian stood with the Azure Dragon Sky Sect disciples, his mask once more concealing his features. The reverence in their eyes had not dimmed; if anything, it burned brighter now that the battle was over.
One of them stepped forward, voice low but urgent. "Saint Son, let us escort you back to the Sect. You are our savior, our rightful heir. The Sect Master waits for you. The Saint Daughter…" He trailed off, lowering his head.
The others joined in, voices trembling with loyalty. "Return with us. Your place is not here in the North."
Haotian shook his head, his gaze steady. "Not yet."
The words fell like stone, and silence followed.
"I still have matters to take care of," he continued, his voice calm but resolute. "I will return, but not now. Send word to the Sect Master. Tell him I am alive. Tell him I will come."
The disciples' shoulders sagged, a ripple of sadness passing among them. None dared press him further, but reluctance weighed heavy in their eyes.
At last, the eldest among them—a senior disciple with silver cords embroidered into his robe—stepped forward. His bow was deep, his tone measured. "If that is your wish, we will not force your hand. As long as you return. But, Saint Son… do not take too long. The Saint Daughter longs for you. Too much waiting may harm her, and it may affect the child."
The words struck Haotian harder than any blow on the Bridge. His chest tightened, the ache sharp and unyielding. For a moment, his fingers curled faintly at his side before he forced them still.
He inclined his head, voice low. "Thank you for your advice, elder. Please tell her not to worry. I will return."
He cupped his hands, the gesture of farewell firm and respectful. Then, without hesitation, he turned and walked back toward the Northern disciples who had already begun their weary trek home.
The Azure Dragon disciples watched him go, their faces a mixture of sorrow and pride. To them, he was their Saint Son—but for now, he walked with the North.
Shuyue lingered, her gaze fixed on Haotian's back. The heart-seal stirred within her, pressing like iron against her chest.
She remembered the moment the beast had lunged, how his arms had lifted her clear of its fangs, how he had carried her to safety without a word. The image replayed endlessly in her mind, each repetition tightening the ache she could not name.
Her lips parted, but no words came. The seal bound her silence as surely as it bound her heart.
Only when the others had gone ahead did she finally move her feet, her steps slow, as if drawn unwillingly. She fell in line behind the Moon Lotus disciples, her hand brushing against her chest as though she could press down the weight inside.
The ache did not fade.
It deepened.
And she did not understand why.
The disciples gathered at the far end of the Bridge, weary and battered but alive. The mist had settled, yet unease clung to every breath.
Haotian stood before the Azure Dragon Sky Sect disciples. Their faces shone with reverence, some even with tears, their voices unsteady as they pleaded.
"Saint Son, come with us," one begged. "The Sect Master waits. The Saint Daughter waits. Your place is in the West, not here.""Return with us," another pressed. "The Bridge itself testifies—you are Heaven's chosen. You must not linger in the North."
Haotian shook his head slowly. His grip on the spear tightened, but his gaze was steady. "Not yet."
Their pleas faltered, silence falling heavy between them.
"I have matters here that must be settled," Haotian said, his tone calm but resolute. "But I ask two things of you. First—report everything you have seen here to the Sect Master. Leave nothing unsaid. He must know the truth of the seal."
The disciples bowed deeply, acknowledging the command.
"Second—send a message to the Zhenlong household. Tell them I live. Tell them I will return." His voice caught faintly, just for an instant, before he forced it steady again.
The disciples' eyes glistened, sadness and pride warring in them.
At last, the eldest among them stepped forward. His bow was deep, his tone respectful. "If that is your will, Saint Son, then so it shall be. But…" He hesitated, his voice dropping lower. "Do not take too long. The Saint Daughter longs for you. Her heart and the child's well-being may suffer if her wait stretches too far."
Haotian's chest ached at the words. His breath hitched before he forced it even. He bowed slightly in return, his voice quiet but firm. "Thank you, elder. Please tell her not to worry. I will return."
He cupped his hands in farewell. Then, without another word, he turned and began walking toward the Northern disciples who had already started their slow march back to the continent.
The Azure Dragon disciples remained where they were, watching his retreating back. Their Saint Son had returned to them, yet he walked away again, choosing another path for now.
Shuyue lingered at the edge of the group, her gaze fixed on him.
Her heart-seal stirred, a hollow ache pressing into her chest. She remembered how he had carried her from the beast's fangs, his arms strong and steady, his presence unshakable even as the Bridge crumbled. The image burned in her mind, but she could not understand why it made her chest ache so deeply.
Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. The seal bound her voice as tightly as it bound her heart.
Only when the others had walked far ahead did she finally step forward, her feet heavy, as though each movement resisted her. She followed the others back toward the North, one hand pressed faintly against her chest.
The ache remained.
It deepened.
And she still could not name it.
Snow fell softly outside the Moon Lotus Sect, the courtyard quiet beneath its white veil. The group of returning disciples crossed through the outer gates, weary but alive. Relief should have settled here, but unease lingered in every step.
Haotian walked at the front, Shuyue and the third disciple just behind him. As they crossed the threshold, Haotian slowed. Then he stopped.
The others looked up, puzzled.
"Senior Brother?" the third disciple asked cautiously.
Haotian raised his head. His eyes closed, his breath sharp. For a heartbeat, he stood utterly still. Then, without warning, blood streamed from his mouth. Crimson lines spilled from his eyes, his ears, his nose. His body convulsed violently—then burst in a spray of blood, like a flower blooming on the snow.
"Haotian!"
Shuyue's voice cracked as she rushed forward, the third disciple stumbling after her. Haotian's body collapsed backward, crashing onto the white ground, painting it red. His muscles were torn, his skin shredded.
Shuyue dropped to her knees, her trembling hands lifting his head. The sight of his broken body burned into her eyes. "Go! Call for help!" she shouted, her voice sharper than steel.
The third disciple sprinted into the sect grounds, yelling desperately.
Shuyue fumbled for a pill bottle, pulling free a triple recovery pill. With shaking hands, she pressed it to Haotian's lips, trying to force it past his teeth. He didn't stir. His breath was shallow, each rise of his chest weaker than the last.
Her heart-seal trembled violently, but in that moment of raw dread, it was as if it shattered. The ache, the confusion—everything was forgotten in the rush of terror. Tears blurred her eyes as she cradled his head. Don't leave me…
Footsteps thundered across the snow. Disciples poured in, elders close behind. The third disciple pointed frantically. "Help him! Please!"
Elder Ziyue's eyes widened at the sight, but her shock lasted only a breath. She dropped to her knees beside Shuyue, voice sharp. "Bring him inside! Now! Triple recovery pills, meridian nourishing pills—everything!"
Several disciples lifted Haotian carefully, but his weight was slick with blood, his body barely holding together. They carried him to his chamber, the floor streaking red with every step.
Inside, Ziyue tore away his robes with no hesitation. Gasps filled the room.
Haotian's body was a battlefield.
Deep gashes crisscrossed his chest and back, his skin shredded, muscles torn apart. His ribs jutted through his sides like broken white stone. In places, even the gleam of organs showed through torn flesh.
Some disciples gagged, covering their mouths. Others froze in horror.
"Don't stand there!" Ziyue snapped. "Hold him! Keep his stomach steady—his organs are at risk!"
Hands shook but obeyed, pressing carefully against his sides, trying to keep him whole.
Ziyue ground several pills into his mouth, forcing them past his lips. She pressed her palm to his chest, sending a stream of qi into his body, coaxing the medicine into his torn meridians.
But the damage was too deep.
The Sect Master burst into the room, her robes sweeping like a storm. Her eyes narrowed at the sight. "Move."
Ziyue hesitated, then pulled back.
The Sect Master placed her hands firmly against Haotian's chest, her qi flooding into him like a tide. His shredded meridians quivered under the force, the faintest spark of stabilization spreading.
"Hold him steady," she commanded, her tone ice.
The disciples obeyed, tears streaking their faces in silence.
Shuyue stood at the side, her hands clasped tightly to her chest. For the first time since her heart-seal was placed, tears streamed freely down her cheeks. She did not even realize they had broken through.
"Don't die," she whispered, voice shaking. "Not like this… not after everything…"
Haotian lay pale and silent, his body torn open, yet his chest still rose and fell—barely.
The sect held its breath, every eye fixed on him.
The chamber reeked of blood and medicine. Around the bed, disciples held Haotian steady, their palms pressed to his sides, sleeves soaked in red. Elder Ziyue's breathing was rough, her face pale from overexertion.
The Sect Master's qi surged, threads of shimmering light weaving into Haotian's broken body. Torn meridians shuddered under her guidance, ruptured vessels faintly knit, and the violent energy raging inside him dimmed to a smolder. His breathing grew steadier, though shallow, and the flow of blood finally slowed.
At last, Sect Master Yinxue pulled her hands back. Her body swayed once before she steadied herself, but the change was immediate. Her hair, once a river of ink, streaked with silver. The luster of her face dimmed, fine lines surfacing across her skin. The decades she had kept hidden revealed themselves in a single moment.
Gasps filled the room. "Sect Master!" disciples cried out, horror in their voices."You gave too much!"
Yinxue raised her hand, silencing them with a firm gesture. Her voice was weaker than before, but her composure unshaken. "Do not concern yourselves with me. Rest will restore what was lost. Tend to him."
Her gaze shifted to Shuyue and the third disciple, sharp despite exhaustion. "What happened? Speak."
The two exchanged a glance. Shuyue swallowed hard, her hands trembling. "At the Sea Bridge… when the seal broke, he stood alone. He pushed his strength to its limit. He fought until the last of us escaped."
The third disciple nodded quickly. "He held back the eruption himself. He never faltered, even when the beasts swarmed. It… it didn't seem human."
Disciples around the chamber gasped, whispering in disbelief."To fight like that at the Saint Realm…""No wonder his body is in ruins…""Anyone else would have died a hundred times over…"
Elder Ziyue clenched her fists tightly, her lips trembling, but she kept her silence. She and Yinxue alone knew the truth: it had not been mere Saint Realm power. Haotian had burned all three cores as one, a feat no cultivator should have survived.
The Sect Master's eyes softened, though sorrow weighed in her gaze. She looked down at Haotian's blood-stained frame. "That he still breathes at all," she said quietly, "is a miracle."
Around the chamber, the disciples bowed their heads, their awe mingled with grief.
Shuyue stood apart, her chest aching as though pierced. Her heart-seal trembled, confusion clouding her mind, but tears fell freely down her cheeks. She could not name the feeling, only that it consumed her.
Yinxue straightened slowly, her voice regaining its command. "Guard him closely. His recovery will be long. His survival is not yet certain."
Haotian lay unconscious, his face pale, his body broken—but alive. And that alone was enough to shake the Moon Lotus Sect to its core.
The great hall of Frost Tide Sect blazed with light. Lanterns swung overhead, and the banners of the Nine Northern Sects hung side by side, their colors rippling faintly in the draft. Elders, sect masters, and honored representatives sat in their places, the air thick with unease.
Word of the Sea Bridge eruption had already spread, but tonight they had gathered to speak of it directly.
An elder from Cloudveil Sect slammed his palm against the low table. "If not for that boy Haotian, every disciple we sent would be nothing but bones in the mist!"
Murmurs of agreement rippled around the chamber. A representative of Ironcliff Sect shook his head slowly. "The reports are unanimous. He fought alone at the peak of the eruption. He saved not just the Moon Lotus disciples, but ours as well. We owe him thanks—our very bloodlines owe him thanks."
Even the sharp-tongued Frost Tide Sect Master could not disagree. Her voice, usually biting, was solemn. "What he did has no precedent. No one else could have endured so long, or shielded so many. The Nine owe him a debt."
From the far side of the table, a Cold River elder asked the question that had been sitting unspoken. "How is he? After such a battle… surely even one as gifted as he must be paying a price."
Dozens of gazes turned toward Moon Lotus Sect's corner, where Sect Master Yinxue sat composed, her robes immaculate, her expression unreadable.
For the briefest instant, Ziyue, sitting behind her, stiffened. She knew Haotian's condition too well. But Yinxue raised her hand faintly, silencing her.
Her voice was calm, smooth as polished jade. "Haotian rests within Moon Lotus Sect. His injuries were heavy, but not beyond recovery. In time, he will stand again."
It was a lie, spoken without hesitation. For now, only she and Ziyue would know that Haotian lay unconscious, his body torn nearly beyond repair. The North could not be allowed to scent weakness—not yet.
The elders around the hall exhaled, some with relief, others with satisfaction.
A Clear Sky elder spoke warmly, "Then when he wakes, the Nine should gather again to thank him. A man of such power within the Moon Lotus Sect is no blessing to them alone—it is a blessing to us all."
There were nods of agreement. "Indeed. He has raised the reputation of the North with one battle.""A man like that is worth more than an army.""Let the Azure Dragon Sky Sect keep their pride—our North has produced its own savior."
Yinxue inclined her head slightly, the faintest smile touching her lips. "Moon Lotus Sect accepts your goodwill. When the time is right, he will hear it himself."
The debate turned to the demonic eruption itself—the runes, the mutating beasts, the voice from beneath the seal. Plans were drafted, arguments exchanged, warnings issued. But in the end, no true answer was found. They adjourned with heavy faces, each sect master retreating to their halls with new fears gnawing at them.
As the chamber emptied, Yinxue sat in silence a moment longer, her hands folded in her sleeves. She alone bore two truths unspoken: the weakening seal beneath the Bridge, and the unconscious Saint Son who had bought them all time with his blood.
The Moon Lotus Sect grew hushed in the weeks that followed. Behind closed doors, Sect Master Yinxue allowed few to approach the chamber where Haotian lay. The disciples only whispered: their savior, their miracle, broken and sleeping.
Inside, Elder Ziyue and Shuyue kept vigil by turns. Day after day, they checked his bandages, cleaned his wounds, and fed him medicine when his body stirred faintly enough to swallow. They watched over him with unwavering devotion, though they never once saw his eyes open.
But what they could not see was what lay within.
In the vast darkness of his inner world, Haotian floated cross-legged in the air. His form mirrored his broken body—skin torn, robes in tatters, wounds gaping like rivers.
Yet surrounding him was power.
Ninety-nine flood dragons wheeled endlessly through the air, vast bodies shimmering with rainbow qi, their roars echoing like thunder. They spiraled around him in an endless cycle, weaving a great formation with their movements.
Every so often, one dragon would dive, plunging into Haotian's body. He shuddered as searing pain ripped through him, then the dragon burst out again in a flare of light. Each time they entered and left, the edges of his wounds stitched faintly together, his torn flesh knitting, his broken meridians reforging.
The cycle repeated endlessly. A tide of pain and healing, destruction and rebirth.
Outside, Shuyue and Ziyue could only see his still body. They never noticed that each day, fewer scars remained.
One Month Later
The snow had thickened outside the Sect, but within Haotian's chamber the air was warm with faint herbal steam. His body no longer bore a single wound—his skin smooth, his frame whole again. Yet he still did not wake.
Disciples whispered solutions."Should we move him to the bathhouse? The steam might stir his qi.""Or place him beneath the Frost Lotus Tree? Its blossoms could awaken his spirit."
Sect Master Yinxue shook her head at each suggestion. "No. His recovery is his own. If we interfere, we may undo what he is building within. We will wait."
And so they waited.
One quiet morning, the routine shift arrived. A young Moon Lotus disciple slid the door open softly, expecting to relieve Elder Ziyue from her night watch.
Instead, she found Ziyue slumped over the bedside, her cheek resting on the sheets, breath deep in sleep.
The disciple smiled faintly. Even elders have their limits.
She padded quietly toward the bed—then froze.
Haotian was sitting up.
His dark eyes were open, calm and steady. His posture was relaxed, but his presence filled the room.
The disciple's heart leapt into her throat. She was about to cry out in shock when Haotian lifted a finger to his lips. His expression was composed, but his meaning clear: silence.
Her face flushed red as she nodded frantically.
Haotian's gaze softened as it fell on Ziyue, still asleep with her hand resting near his arm. He exhaled quietly. He didn't wish to wake her. Carefully, he began to move, sliding one leg from under the blanket.
But then—
"Mm… no, Haotian… not there…"
Ziyue shifted in her sleep, her face warming faintly, her voice a hushed murmur.
Haotian froze mid-step, his body stiff.
The disciple's face went scarlet. She covered her mouth with both hands to stifle the scream that wanted to burst out.
Haotian blinked, then let out the faintest wry smile. What in the heavens' name is she dreaming about…?
For the first time since the Bridge, he almost laughed.