The silence pressed in. After weeks of scrutiny and chaos, the inner sect courtyard felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still. Irelion stood in the center of the raked gravel garden, alone. Above him, the branches of a single, ancient weeping willow swayed in a breeze he couldn't feel, its fronds brushing the air like fingers. His new home. His gilded cage. The air hummed with Qi, dense enough to feel against his skin—a stark contrast to the thin, starved energy of the outer sect. It coiled around him, a silent promise and a constant reminder of his elevated, exposed position.
He walked into the house. Small, compact, built with casual elegance. Polished mahogany floors gleamed softly. Clean wood. New linen. The scent of wealth. On a simple, sturdy table lay the symbols of his new status.
A stack of deep blue robes sat folded neatly. He picked one up; the silk felt unnaturally smooth against his calloused fingertips, cool and fluid. Wearing this would be like wearing a target. Beside the robes lay a sword. He lifted it, the weight solid, reassuring. The scabbard was plain leather, but the blade within... He drew it slowly. Thirty-six inches of folded steel emerged with a soft, singing shink. Moonlight rippled along the layered patterns of the metal—a master smith's work. The balance was perfect. It felt alive in his hand, humming with faint energy. A true spiritual weapon. Holding it felt like reclaiming a piece of his lost self, even as the irony gnawed at him. A Saint's soul, finally holding a worthy blade, trapped in a body that could barely command it.
Lastly, a small, embroidered pouch. He opened it. Ten mid-grade spirit stones rested within, glowing softly like captured stars. A thousand low-grade stones worth. A fortune, handed to him as a mere monthly allowance. Resources to fuel his climb. Chains to bind him to the sect's expectations.
He sat cross-legged on a woven meditation mat in the center of the main room, the new sword lying across his lap. He closed his eyes and finally, truly, breathed.
He drew in the essence of the mountain. The Qi flooded his senses, thick, rich, pure. Not the muddy trickle of the outer sect; a vast, clear, deep lake, inviting immersion. His newly reforged meridians thrummed, absorbing the energy through every pore.
His body, still healing from the Felguard, drank it in with desperate thirst. He felt the Qi flowing like a warm tide, soothing micro-fractures in bone, purging lingering demonic shadows from tissue, knitting together the very fabric of his being. The healing draught had been a splint; this was reconstruction.
He guided the flow, solidifying his new 7th Stage foundation, polishing the rough edges left by his violent breakthrough. He packed the energy into his dantian, compressing it, refining its quality, preparing for the climb through the final stages of the Mortal Realm. Hours melted away. The world outside ceased to exist. Only the breath, the energy, the silent work of forging a vessel worthy of the soul it contained.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
Sharp. Arrogant. An unwelcome summons hammered against his gate.
Irelion's eyes opened, cold vigilance replacing deep calm. His senses identified the intruders. Two disciples. Early Spirit Realm. One burned with aggressive, resentful energy. The other, a fainter echo. Trouble.
He didn't rise immediately. He took one more slow, centering breath, banking the fires of his cultivation. Let them wait. Let them stew. Finally, he rose, movements fluid, deliberate.
"Enter," he said, voice calm, carrying easily across the courtyard.
The gate swung open. The leader strode in as if he owned the place. Jin Feng. Tall, sharp-faced, with the same arrogance as his younger cousin—amplified by Inner Sect entitlement. His robes were immaculate silk, embroidered silver. A showy, jewel-hilted sword hung at his hip. The disciple trailing him was a near-identical shadow.
Jin Feng's eyes swept the modest courtyard, lingered on the willow with a dismissive sniff, landing on Irelion in the doorway. Contempt curled his lip. "So, the rumors are true," he announced, voice nasal. "The sect's new pet hero. Irelion Vance." He stepped closer, deliberately letting his Spirit Realm aura press down—a clumsy intimidation. "My younger cousin told me… stories about your cowardice. Seems reports of your prowess were exaggerated."
Irelion's expression remained unchanged. Jin. Predictable. Arrogance ran in the family. Tedious sect politics.
"You have a reason for disturbing my recovery, Disciple Jin?" Irelion asked, tone polite but devoid of warmth. No bow. No averted gaze.
Jin Feng bristled, his face flushing at the lack of expected submission. He strode into the house, expensive boots scuffing the clean floor, stopping to look down on Irelion.
"A message, Junior Brother Vance," Jin Feng emphasized mockingly. "You fooled the elders. Perhaps even Senior Sister Aurelia, though gods know why she'd waste time on refuse like you. But not us. You're a stray dog in the dragon's den. Know your place." He leaned in, voice conspiratorial but loud enough to carry. "Stay quiet. Stay out of sight. Don't embarrass the Inner Sect. Stick to your kennel, and perhaps we'll let you chew on the scraps." A territorial display, meant to establish dominance.
Irelion slowly lifted his gaze, meeting Jin Feng's eyes. He didn't release his aura. He simply looked. He let the weight of sixty-seven years settle into his gaze. Battles fought. Empires fallen. Seven women watched die. The ghost behind his eyes peered out, ancient, weary, utterly unimpressed.
The sneer on Jin Feng's face faltered. He felt it then—an inexplicable pressure, a suffocating weight that had nothing to do with Qi. It was like looking into the eyes of something ancient, something that had watched empires rise and fall. His arrogance cracked. His Spirit Realm aura felt thin against the sheer, silent weight of that gaze. The room seemed smaller. His subordinate unconsciously took a half-step back.
"The difference between a dog and a dragon," Irelion whispered, voice soft but cutting like chilled steel, "is that a dog barks. A true dragon… has no need to."
He lowered his gaze, attention returning inward, dismissing them completely.
Silence. Heavy. Broken only by Jin Feng's suddenly ragged breathing. Threats died in his throat. He had come to put a stray dog in its place and found something terrible that refused to acknowledge him. He didn't understand. He only knew he needed to leave. Now.
Without another word, red-faced and trembling, Jin Feng spun on his heel and strode out. His subordinate scrambled after, nearly tripping. The courtyard gate slammed shut.
Irelion let out a slow breath. First probe repelled. More would come. Gnats. Easily swatted, but irritating. Distractions. His mind turned back to the real threat. Seraphine Stormcaller. In his first life, she arrived less than a year after his promotion, a newly ascended Spirit Realm duelist, hungry for challenges.
He was an Inner Disciple now. The "Felguard Killer." A controversial talent. The whispers would reach her sooner. She would come for him.
He looked at his new sword, feeling the solid weight of steel. He felt his own power, the dense Qi of the 7th Stage, already straining towards the 8th.
It was not enough.
She would come for him. And he needed to be ready.