The sect grounds had only just begun to settle after the bustle of the River Trial preparations when Haotian, ever restless, turned his mind to the next task that had been weighing on him. The looming Sea Bridge seal was not just a barrier of stone and spirit—it was the front line against what lay beyond, and he knew half-measures would not stand against the tides of demons. With the sect's current resources gathered and stabilized, he finally had what he needed to attempt what only a handful of array masters would even dare to imagine: the creation of his grand formation.
Not the true version, not yet. The Sea Bridge itself would require a formation vast enough to drown mountains in light. But here, within the sect's grounds, he would craft the miniature—a proving model, the heart of his vision.
He named it with solemn weight: The Nine Divine Flying Dragons Array.
This was no common killing formation. It was one meant to summon nine flood dragons, each condensed from the spiritual veins and runic marrow of heaven and earth. Individually, they would possess the might to stand against an Initial Saint Realm cultivator. Together, woven by the runic paths and his own command, they would fight as one. In unison, they could clash evenly against even a Peak Saint Realm expert. It was, in its essence, a weapon against calamity.
Haotian spent the following days not in idle rest, but in tireless carving, inscribing, and weaving. The sect's perimeter soon bore the marks of his design.
First, thirty-six chi gathering nodes were embedded at critical points, placed with precision no elder of the sect could even track with naked eyes. Each node was a reservoir, a lung through which the array would breathe, drawing the ambient essence of heaven and earth.
Next, he inscribed three layers of defensive formations. Runes etched into stone, soil, and spirit veins interlinked like a web of shields. Together they formed a barrier that could hold even under the onslaught of Saint Realm attacks.
Beneath that, he wove two concealing formations. When activated, the array would not shine like a beacon to enemies beyond their walls—it would veil itself, drowning its brilliance into the folds of heaven's flow. Unless someone pressed their face against the wards, they would never know that a grand killing formation encircled the sect.
Eight days passed in this labor, the sound of his spirit brush against stone and jade echoing at night, golden runes crawling into place like veins of molten light. The disciples of the sect whispered as they watched him work from afar—he never slept, never faltered, his movements flowing as if the heavens themselves guided his hand.
And on the ninth day, the final stroke was laid. The last rune seared into the earth, glowing, then vanishing into silence as though it had never existed. The mountain air stilled. The array slumbered, complete but waiting.
That morning, Haotian climbed alone to the highest peak of the sect, robes flowing in the mountain wind. His eyes swept the horizon. All was calm—the calm before revelation.
He inhaled deeply, hands forming ancient seals that twisted the air. His right foot slammed into the peak's stone with a sound like thunder splitting the sky.
At once, the thirty-six chi gathering formations awoke. The world responded.
The ambient chi across the sect convulsed, pulled from the air and ground into swirling torrents. Above the mountain range, the sky itself darkened as clouds spun into a great vortex. Chi rivers surged toward the gathering nodes, each glowing like a newborn sun, their veins feeding into the web of formations Haotian had drawn.
The first defensive layer shimmered awake—an invisible dome that rippled like glass in sunlight. The second followed, its barrier overlapping the first, humming with dense resonance. Then the third, a roar of power vibrating the bones of all who felt it.
The sect disciples fell silent, their breaths caught. A sense of vast oppression bore down on them, as though heaven itself had taken form above their heads.
Then the concealing arrays activated. To those outside, nothing could be seen. To those within, it was as though a veil of night had been lifted, showing the bones of the world beneath.
Finally—
Haotian's hand seals shifted, faster than mortal eyes could follow. The earth trembled. The vortex above condensed, spiraling down into nine pillars of golden light that tore open the heavens.
From those pillars erupted the shapes of dragons—nine flood dragons, each vast, their scales forged of radiant gold, their eyes blazing with will. They coiled and twisted across the skies of the sect, their roars echoing through the valleys, shaking the hearts of every disciple to their core.
Their presence was suffocating. Each one radiated the pressure of a Saint.
The nine dragons did not scatter but circled together, weaving in formation, their movements aligned by Haotian's design. They were not beasts, not mindless constructs—they were soldiers, extensions of his will, bound to fight as one.
From the peak, Haotian stood unmoving, his robes snapping in the gale. His golden eyes reflected the nine flood dragons above, each roar resonating in his chest.
The disciples below fell to their knees. To them, it was no longer a sect they stood in. It was a fortress—a divine fortress under the watch of dragons.
The Nine Divine Flying Dragons Array had awakened.
The nine golden flood dragons coiled above the sect, their roars echoing across the mountain range, shaking earth and sky. Below, disciples stared with wide eyes and trembling legs, unable to decide whether they were witnessing protection or apocalypse.
Far in the sect's grand hall, on a high balcony overlooking the skies, five figures watched in silence. The Four Saint Dragons—Yangshen, Yuying, Jinhai, and Meiyun—stood side by side with the Azure Dragon Sect Master. Each of them bore countless years of cultivation, yet none could mask their awe.
Never before had such a sight unfolded within these walls.
And then, with the faintest ripple, Haotian appeared beside them. His robes whispered in the wind, his expression calm but carrying the faintest of smirks.
"So," he asked lightly, as if presenting a simple trinket, "do you like it?"
Yangshen snorted through his nose, his aged face cracking into a grin. "Like it? Brat, you've gone and defied the heavens again. Even I must praise this."
Yuying's sharp eyes turned toward him, suspicion and amazement mingling in her voice. "Haotian… just how strong is this array?"
Haotian raised one hand toward the sky, where the dragons twisted in synchronized arcs, their scales scattering golden light."Individually, each dragon can stand against an Initial Saint Realm cultivator. But together, woven by the array…" his golden eyes narrowed, "…they can challenge even a Peak Saint Realm expert."
The air stilled.
"What?!" Yuying's voice cracked in disbelief. Jinhai and Meiyun both stiffened, while the Sect Master's jaw slackened. Constructs this powerful were beyond what even most divine sects could forge. And yet Haotian said it so simply, as though stating that water ran downhill.
Their eyes locked on him. They did not believe it.
Haotian smirked. "Don't trust my word? Then test it yourselves. But—" his tone dipped into a teasing warning, "—since all of you are peak Saint Realm… try not to destroy the array I spent nine days weaving."
Yangshen's pride snapped taut. With a harrumph, he shot into the sky in a flash of blazing aura. "Fine then! Let this old dragon taste your little toys!"
One of the golden flood dragons snapped its head toward him, eyes gleaming with killing light. Its roar cracked like thunder as it lunged.
Yangshen's fist blazed as it met the beast's claw in midair.
BOOOOOM!
The collision detonated across the heavens, ripping clouds apart. A shockwave blasted through the sect, shaking the mountains.
And then—Yangshen's body was hurled downward like a meteor.
"!!"
The disciples gasped as the proud Saint Dragon slammed into the training grounds with an ear-splitting crash. Dirt and stone erupted skyward, and when the dust cleared, he lay half-buried in a crater, coughing, his robes tattered and smeared with earth.
Yuying's eyes went wide. "What in the heavens…? Aren't you supposed to be at peak Saint Realm?!"
From the pit, Yangshen spat a mouthful of dirt, face flushed crimson. "Tch—I slipped."
For a breath, silence held—then Haotian chuckled. Jinhai burst out laughing, Meiyun covered her mouth, and even the Sect Master hid a grin. The disciples all around erupted into laughter, the sound rolling down the mountains.
Yangshen's face darkened to the color of wine. "Enough! This time I'll fight seriously!"
He burst back into the sky, aura blazing brighter, his fists igniting with draconic light. The golden flood dragon roared and dove again, their clash shaking the heavens.
But this time, Yangshen did not fall. His strikes rang against the dragon's claws, his aura tore through its golden breath, his body weaving between tail sweeps and crushing bites. The sky itself quivered as Saint and Dragon battled evenly.
Below, Yuying's voice was faint. "Impossible… He's fighting it evenly?"
Meiyun's gaze shone with disbelief and awe. "And this is only one dragon. What happens… when all nine strike as one?"
Haotian stood silent, hands folded behind his back, golden eyes fixed on the sky. He did not answer—for the truth was already roaring above them.
The disciples trembled. The Sect Master's heart pounded. The Saint Dragons exchanged glances heavy with shock.
The Nine Divine Flying Dragons Array had proven itself.
The sect still buzzed with whispers of the Nine Divine Flying Dragons Array when Haotian quietly excused himself from the grand hall. While disciples still trembled in awe of dragons circling the skies, his mind was already shifting toward another responsibility.
This time, it was not for defense. It was for his allies.
The Moon Lotus Sect, with whom bonds had steadily deepened, carried a cultivation heritage built upon the flowing grace and lethal precision of the jian—the slender, double-edged sword. Their arts were elegant, like the lotus blooming upon water's surface, yet sharp enough to pierce through mountains. But Haotian had noticed during the River Trial and their training sessions: their swords, though refined, were beginning to show their limits.
Steel and spirit jade were not enough anymore. Against what awaited at the Sea Bridge, they would shatter.
Haotian resolved to change this.
He descended into the sect's forging quarter, the air immediately thick with the tang of iron, smoke, and chi. Rows of anvils and bellows lined the cavernous hall, and disciples in aprons hammered diligently, sparks flying like fireflies in the dusk. Each strike sang of discipline, yet when their eyes lifted and saw Haotian enter, their hammers froze midair.
The disciples bowed hurriedly, murmuring his name in reverence. Haotian merely raised a hand, signaling them to return to work. He needed no worship here.
He walked toward the heart of the quarter, to the sealed iron doors that led to the Forging Library—a treasury of manuals, treatises, and records collected by the sect across centuries. Though he had forged before, his recent years had been consumed by cultivation, formations, and battle. His hands itched for the weight of a hammer again, but knowledge came before fire.
The doors parted with a low groan, and the scent of old parchment and ink greeted him. Lanterns burned softly along the walls, illuminating shelves stacked high with scrolls and leather-bound tomes. Titles leapt at him as he passed: On the Tempering of Spirit Iron,The Harmonization of Metal and Chi,Draconic Fire as Forge Flame.
Haotian's fingers traced the spines, his golden eyes flicking over passages as he selected several works. He moved to a long wooden table in the center of the library, unrolling scrolls one after another.
Hours slipped into silence broken only by the rustle of pages. He studied new forging sequences devised in recent decades, diagrams of chi-infused hammer strokes, arrays for stabilizing molten cores, and updated methods of merging beast marrow with refined metals. Though his mastery once stood unmatched in his sect, the craft of forging was alive—ever evolving—and Haotian absorbed every detail with hungry precision.
At one point, he paused, eyes narrowing at a particularly intricate drawing of a forging array: an overlapping triple-spiral pattern used to compress elemental resonance within a blade's body. He committed it to memory. This would serve well in stabilizing a jian that bore both swiftness and cutting edge.
Finally, he closed the last tome, the lanternlight catching on the faint smile at his lips. "Good. I'm ready."
Rising from his seat, he carried the new knowledge with him as though he had forged it into his very blood. Tomorrow, the forges would burn, and he would rekindle the art that once defined his hands.
The Moon Lotus Sect would not wield ordinary swords. They would wield Haotian's swords.
The next morning, before dawn's first light touched the sect, Haotian was already standing in the forging hall.
The cavernous chamber was still, the air heavy with soot and the faint mineral tang of ore. A hundred forges lined the stone walls, but only one burned now—the central divine forge, its flames dormant, waiting. Rows of disciples usually filled this place with the clang of hammers, but Haotian had dismissed them all. Today, none but he would step foot into the circle of fire.
He stood before the cold forge, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hands resting upon its surface. For a long moment, he closed his eyes, listening to the silence. His body remembered this place, the countless hours spent long ago—hammering, folding, tempering steel until spirit and blade were one.
But now… he had not come to forge common steel. He came to birth blades worthy of the Moon Lotus Sect.
With a flick of his fingers, chi roared through the forge. Fire erupted, coiling like a dragon's breath, licking the air with radiant heat. The stone floor trembled under the sudden surge of spiritual flame, its glow reflecting in Haotian's golden eyes.
He placed materials upon the table beside him: refined moonsteel, lotus silver, beast marrow crystal, and spirit jade dust. Each had been chosen carefully to resonate with the Moon Lotus Sect's lotus-based sword arts. The silver for grace, the moonsteel for resilience, the marrow for raw edge, the jade dust for flow of chi.
"Let's begin."
Haotian lifted the first ingot of moonsteel and cast it into the forge. Flames swallowed it whole, the ore groaning as it melted. He added lotus silver next, then marrow crystal, then the jade dust sprinkled like starlight into the molten glow.
The forge screamed. A surge of light burst upward as the metals fused, sparks showering the hall. Haotian's hand seals wove through the air, and runes lit across the forge's rim—stabilizing, compressing, aligning the chaotic blend of essence into form.
Then came the hammer.
It was no ordinary tool—it was one he had forged long ago, its head etched with runic veins that pulsed when he gripped it. He raised it high, the weight heavy but familiar, and brought it down.
CLANG!
The strike rang like thunder. Sparks cascaded. The molten mass bent under his will, folding into shape.
CLANG!CLANG!CLANG!
Each blow was not merely force but rhythm. Haotian's hammer strikes were infused with chi, each one weaving a rune into the glowing steel. His movements followed the triple-spiral forging array he had studied the night before, compressing elemental resonance deeper and deeper into the forming blade.
Sweat traced down his jaw, but his arms never faltered. Every strike seemed to carry the roar of a dragon.
Slowly, the glow dimmed from blinding to steady, the form of the first jian emerging: sleek, balanced, shimmering with a pale silver light that rippled like water under moonlight.
He quenched it not in common oil, but in a basin of lotus-infused spirit water prepared overnight. The blade hissed as steam surged upward, carrying the fragrance of lotus through the hall. The water rippled once, then stilled—absorbed into the blade itself.
Haotian lifted the sword. Its edge gleamed with a faint blue glow, sharp enough to slice air into mist. A lotus sigil burned faintly along the guard, born from the fusion of marrow crystal and jade dust.
He smiled faintly. "One down."
But he did not stop.
Again he cast metals into the forge. Again the flames roared. Again the hammer fell in rhythm, striking like thunder, sparks painting constellations across the dim chamber.
By the time the sun had risen fully beyond the horizon, nine swords lay upon the anvil stand. Each one unique, yet all siblings—lotus-forged blades, their edges alive with spirit. Their light was soft, not blinding, as though they breathed in rhythm with the world.
Haotian stood before them, breathing slowly, hands still warm from the hammer's grip.
"These will belong to the Moon Lotus Sect," he murmured. "Blades that will not fail when the tides of demons rise."
The forge dimmed, the hall silent but for the faint hum of the newly forged swords.
The forging flame had been rekindled.
The day after the Nine Divine Flying Dragons Array shook the sect to its foundations, Haotian stepped quietly into the forging quarter of the Azure Dragon Sky Sect.
The forge hall was vast, its ceiling arched high with carved beams blackened by centuries of smoke. Rows of anvils and furnaces lined the chamber, though at this early hour only a handful of embers glowed faintly. Disciples assigned to smithing duty stopped mid-swing when Haotian entered, their hammers stilling as though the air itself had frozen. His reputation after the Nine Dragons had already spread through every corner of the sect—yet now he came not as the array master, but as a blacksmith.
Haotian waved them back to their work and walked toward the inner sanctum where the sect's grand forge awaited. Few entered here; it was the heart of Azure Dragon's forging heritage, a place where saint-level weapons had once been born. Its stone floor was inscribed with ancient runes, its central forge dormant, waiting for one who could stir it awake.
Haotian laid his palm upon the cold metal rim. For a long moment he stood still, golden eyes half-lidded. It had been too long since he last touched hammer and flame. But though the world had swept him into battles, seals, and trials, this—this was his first craft.
A faint smile tugged his lips. "It seems I've kept you waiting."
He flicked his fingers, sending a surge of chi into the dormant forge. At once, runes along its rim blazed to life, and the chamber filled with a low, resonant hum. The central flame burst awake—blue at its heart, gold at its edges, twisting like a dragon's breath. Heat rolled outward, distorting the air.
Upon the worktable beside him he had laid out materials chosen with care: moonsteel refined from northern veins, lotus silver harvested from spirit-fed mines, marrow crystal ground to shards, and powdered jade essence. The Azure Dragon Sect Master himself had ordered these resources released from their vault when Haotian explained his intent—to forge new jian for the Moon Lotus Sect.
The reason was simple: their entire cultivation heritage relied on the jian, yet the swords they carried now were ordinary by the standards of what awaited them. Against demon tides and saint-level foes, ordinary steel would be nothing but shattered fragments.
Haotian's fingers hovered above the ingots. He exhaled once, steady, and cast the first into the forge.
Whoooosh!
The flames roared. Moonsteel shrieked as it melted, glowing white-hot. One by one, he added lotus silver, marrow crystal, jade dust, each swallowed by the fire until the forge pulsed with chaotic radiance. Sparks lashed outward, racing along the runes inscribed into the stone floor.
Haotian reached for his hammer.
The tool was old, its head lined with faint runic etchings. When his hand closed around it, the markings pulsed, responding to the rhythm of his chi. He raised it, the weight familiar, and struck.
CLANG!
The sound thundered through the hall, loud enough that distant disciples paused mid-hammer, their hearts quivering from the force.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Each strike folded metal and marrow into harmony, sparks flying like falling stars. His rhythm was flawless, guided by a triple-spiral forging array he had memorized the night before from the library's scrolls. With every blow, runes burned themselves into the blade's forming body, locking elemental resonance within.
Sweat beaded along his temples, sliding down to his jaw, yet his eyes never wavered.
At last, the first blade took shape—a slender jian, silver and blue, shimmering with a faint ripple of lotus light. He quenched it in a basin of lotus-infused water prepared from the sect's gardens. Steam burst upward, filling the chamber with a fragrance of fresh bloom.
When the hiss faded, Haotian lifted the sword. Its edge caught the forge-light, slicing the air into mist. A lotus sigil pulsed faintly at the guard, born from marrow crystal fused into its core.
He smiled faintly. "One."
But he did not stop.
Again and again, the hammer fell, each rhythm birthing another blade. Sparks showered, the forge roaring as though it too reveled in awakening.
By the time the sun had risen high over the sect, nine swords lay upon the anvil stand. Their forms were not identical—each bore subtle differences of weight, balance, and resonance—but all carried the same soul: blades of moon and lotus, destined to flow with the sect's sword arts.
Haotian stood over them, chest rising with calm breath, hammer resting at his side. His golden eyes lingered on the gleam of the nine swords, their light soft yet unyielding.
"These will serve the Moon Lotus Sect," he murmured, voice low but steady. "Blades that will not break, even when the sea itself rises against us."
The flames dimmed. The forge fell silent. Yet the nine blades hummed faintly, alive.