The morning sun had barely breached the mountain ridge when Shen Zian and Mei Xuan emerged from the beast tomb. Dew glistened on blood-hued leaves, and the valley's once oppressive aura now pulsed with quiet reverence. The corpse flame within Zian's core flickered in rhythm with the buried beasts' residual energy, calm and strong.
Zian's right arm, where the Blood-Etched Fang had embedded, was no longer bruised or inflamed. Instead, faint sigils had begun appearing just beneath the skin—runes from the beast vision, drifting in and out of visibility. They didn't hurt.
They hungered.
Mei Xuan watched him as they walked eastward through the overgrown trails.
"The way your aura changes now… it doesn't feel human anymore."
Zian nodded but didn't slow. "It's not. But I'm still me. That's all that matters."
She fell into step beside him, silent for a moment. Then, "This tournament—how do you know your brother will be there?"
"Because he's ambitious," Zian said. "He needs power and reputation. The Spirit-Taming Tournament is the perfect place for both. He'll want the Spirit Keys."
Mei frowned. "The ones that unlock ancient beast realms?"
He nodded.
Every fifty years, the cultivation world's central alliance opened a series of sealed spatial rifts known as Spirit Realms—ancient dimensional sanctuaries where primordial beasts once nested, died, and occasionally left behind unclaimed beast cores or living remnants of extinct species. The only way in: a Spirit Key, won through battle.
"And you want in," Mei said. "With no sect. No status. No backing."
Zian stopped walking and turned to her.
"I want in with the corpse of the sect heir who betrayed me beneath my feet."
Three days later
They arrived at the Skyroot Plateau, a massive terraced clearing that jutted from the eastern mountains like a throne carved into the world's spine. Thousands of cultivators, beast tamers, and spirit seers were already gathered—sect colors flying like banners, disciples posturing in formation, and rogue cultivators watching like hungry wolves.
At the center of it all stood a floating disc of light—the Ascension Ring, where the preliminary rounds of the tournament would take place.
Zian tugged the hood of his travel cloak lower. Mei stayed close, twin daggers hidden beneath her robes.
They blended in well—until they reached the entrance to the tournament registration ring.
A disciple blocked their path, his silver-and-black robes marked with the crest of the Jade Serpent Sect.
"No insignia," the man said, sneering. "Only sect members or official rogue registrants with proof of bounty or deed can enter. Try again, beggars."
Zian didn't flinch.
Instead, he drew a small crystal from his pouch—the color of dried blood, humming with trapped qi.
"Beast core. Rank 4. I extracted it from a mutated shadowpanther I killed alone. Its blood still stains the mountain three days west of here."
The man scoffed—until he took the crystal.
He inspected it, and his expression faltered.
Rank 4. Intact. Stable qi signature. No fracture. No signs of decay.
This wasn't scavenged.
This was harvested.
"Wh–where did you…?"
Zian leaned in slightly. "Mark me rogue cultivator of Class B. I'll earn my place in the ring."
The man hesitated, then grudgingly waved them through.
"You've got a death wish," he muttered.
Zian didn't answer.
Inside the ring's boundary, dozens of combatants had already taken the stage. Cultivators dueled under the watchful eyes of four Spirit Judges, each one a Master-tier beast tamer.
Zian scanned the crowd.
He spotted several notable clans and sects—Iron Fang, Sunfire Lotus, the Twin-Faced Monastery—but his gaze settled on one figure standing at the top tier of the terrace steps.
Shen Liang.
Cloaked in gleaming black robes with golden embroidery. Sword at his back. Hands folded. Surrounded by Shen Clan elders and elite disciples.
He hadn't changed.
Still cold.
Still proud.
Still carrying the sword that had shattered Zian's dantian.
"He's here," Zian murmured.
"You sure you're ready for this?" Mei asked softly.
Zian's eyes never left his brother.
"I was born ready. They just didn't know it."
Later that day
Zian stood alone on the dueling platform as his name was called.
A murmur swept through the crowd.
"Rogue cultivator?"
"No sect?"
"Why is his qi so strange?"
His opponent stepped onto the platform—a flame-element tamer from the Crimson Hollow Sect, wielding a spirit-bound flame lizard with three tails.
"Your first and last duel, trash," the boy smirked.
The gong sounded.
Zian didn't summon a beast.
Instead, he became one.
With a sharp motion, he activated Blood-Fang Extraction. The corpse flame ignited faintly across his chest, and crimson veins lit up his arm. The echo of the boar's strength, the fox's speed, and now—a sliver of the shadowpanther's stealth—all surged into him at once.
He disappeared.
The flame tamer blinked.
Then screamed.
Zian reappeared behind him, palm pressed to his back.
Flamebrand Surge.
A burst of corpse-tinged fire erupted from his hand, swallowing the boy's qi shield and hurling him off the platform.
Silence.
Then—
"Winner: Shen Zian of no sect!"
Gasps. Whispers.
And high on the terrace, Shen Liang leaned forward, finally paying attention.