The morning breeze on Lonely Cloud Peak was very gentle. Down below, the whole world was still in a haze, and the city lights seemed like lost stars. Up there, Jun Tian always found peace: old stones, icy moss, and a profound silence.
That morning, he was alone, as always. The Nine-Colored Lotus floated in his mind, shining brightly, but not too brightly. He knelt, clasped his hands, and began to breathe deeply, calmly, as if each breath were an ancient song.
No one could see what was going on inside him. In training with the others, he took it easy, showing only a level 2.5. But there, in his own corner, he was already mastering level 3.10, almost at Spiritual Foundation—almost becoming something else.
Being at 3.10 wasn't just a number; it was like being trapped. It was as if his body was bearing a strange spiritual pressure, the kind you see in stories. When the Qi rotated, it didn't tremble; it was steady. When I thought of a rune, it responded easily.
The Lotus spoke, her voice short, almost windy:
"You feel the limit leaking. Stop? Or do you keep going?"
Jun Tian breathed in. There was no rush, just recognition.
"I advance slowly. No need to draw attention now," he murmured.
And so, as always, he worked. It wasn't brute force: it was polishing. Each breath was a precise cut, a placement of a stone in the core structure. The body responded with micro-movements that no casual observer would notice: pulsations, micro-contractions, punctual warmings. And the Lotus, impassive guardian, adjusted the outer seal so that, down below, the meters continued to see an ordinary young man.
When the sun was already warming the mountain, Jun Tian ended the session. He opened his eyes, and for a moment he was just a boy looking at a landscape that demanded no explanation. He thought nothing of possessions, children, alliances, or titles. Deep down, he knew that in the future he might have a Dao companion—someone who would walk beside him for reasons of the soul—but these were distant things, things the Lotus would whisper when the time was Dao.
He left the rock and descended with measured steps; the city claimed him in its public cadence. But that same day, in a chamber mounted aboard the Eternal Moon Sect's ship, another series of movements occurred—quick, clinical, veiled.
In the Sect Chamber — Private Assessments
The chamber where the masters gathered was simple and cold. Long runes ran across the floor, woven to probe not only the actual quality of Qi, but also courage, temperance, and growth potential. Master Yùan spoke so that any noise would have sounded like a mistake in etiquette:
"Young Yun Xiang has demonstrated fine development. 3.6 in public is worthy. But the sect needs to look beyond the spectacular flame. Observe her composure."
Master Han nodded:
"She has seasoning. Technique already, but we need to know endurance, character. The form works well under light."
The disciples watched in silence. Lǐ Ze stood at the edge, barely containing the curiosity that had flared since the unguarded gaze of the Jun clan's son. Still, there was precision in his desire: to prove that social merit was a reflection of power, not indolence.
Master Yùan faced Yun Xiang in private audience. The tests were brief—a few mock formations, affinity probes, questions about lineage and intentions. Yun Xiang responded with the elegance of someone who grew up under the gaze of a scrutinizer: firm, without excessive vanity, and with a restrained ambition that served as fuel.
At the end, Yùan touched the tip of a runic staff to her chest, tracing a temporary binding rune. The assessment indicated: real promise, possible loyalty, sufficient discipline. The sect discussed and decided: they would extend an offer of preliminary observation—an invitation for Yun Xiang to spend some time in the sect, learn, and prove her worth—a path that could lead to a formal binding.
Lǐ Ze listened to the decision like a wind scarf. And when the masters dismissed him, they allowed him to approach for a word, standing.
"Did you see her in public?" Lǐ Ze asked, cutting through the formalities. "The figures and the posture… are great. But the city speaks of a young man from the Jun clan. The one who looked as if the sky were not an offering. Did you sense that?"
Yun Xiang paused. Her eyes revealed something the parties and the lights didn't reveal: a memory of the boy who had scorned her. It wasn't pure hatred—there was wounded pride, a thread of curiosity, perhaps a trace of fear for what cannot be measured.
"He ignored me," she replied simply, as if recounting a fact. "I don't know if the contempt comes from indifference or something deeper. I'm not incapable of anger—but my focus now is the sect."
Lǐ Ze pushed his hand back, deflecting the heated emotion the question had stirred in him. There was something else there: a latent danger that this young man, who dared remain placid in the face of the light, was not as foolish as he seemed. For someone whose spirit sought competition, indifference was an affront that needed a response. For the sect, it was a matter of observation: not just the brilliance, but what lurks in the shadows of that brilliance.
Master Yùan, noticing the tension, changed the subject:
"Register Yun Xiang as a candidate. Lǐ Ze, conduct the routine observations. Examine the clan's connections, assess commitments. Don't let pride dictate fate—but bring me an honest report."
Lǐ Ze bowed, restrained, and left with a sign of duty—but his eyes remained fixed on one detail: the name Jun Tian. A small, contained, yet concrete obsession was taking hold. Not out of hatred alone, but out of something that had at its root wounded pride and the need to restore balance—a thread that, if pulled at the right time, could grow into a dangerous knot.
As dusk fell, the city welcomed messengers and altar boys. Yun Xiang walked around covered in smiles; the sect organized visits, dinners, and formal conversations. Jun Tian, for his part, returned to his nightly refuge: training in the Sea of Knowledge, practice cuts with a wooden sword, and the silence that only he and the Lotus understood.
When he finally lay down, the Lotus murmured:
"Be careful with the game of eyes. Some fight with blades, others with wounds of pride. Both can be dangerous."
Jun Tian smiled in the darkness, and his answer was simple:
"Let them come. I have time."
And so the sect had opened its private curtain—choosing the young woman in purple as a promise and leaving in the shadows a thread—the thread that was Jun Tian—that no measurer wanted to see, but which could, in time, rewrite the account of the ages.