Protector Fu led Mo Yuan and his two companions through corridors of gold and shadow until they arrived at a modest courtyard.
In the sprawling mountain stronghold of the Nine Saint Demon Gate, such lodging was reserved for minor envoys—guests beneath notice.
So this was their "alliance."
A mere hall master to greet them, a spare courtyard, no ceremony and no respect.
The Demon Gate had made its message clear before a word was spoken.
After a few perfunctory greetings, Protector Fu left without another glance.
Mo Yuan offered no complaint.
He had expected nothing more; after all, this journey was one of humiliation.
The Hidden Throne
Protector Fu moved quickly through layered halls that shimmered with sigil light, until at last he reached the great golden temple at the mountain's heart.
Thunder rolled above the roof.
Inside, a figure sat in the air, lotus blooming beneath him, chains of law looping through his skin like molten gold.
When he spoke, the sound filled the hall, restrained only by the runes etched into its walls.
"The Cleansing Dust Sect's disciple — what worth?"
Fu knelt, forehead almost to the floor.
"Reporting to Elder: a mere mortal body, mortal fate. Arrogant, ignorant—nothing worthy."
"Understood. Leave."
Relief struck Fu like air rushing back into his lungs.
Only when the shimmer of that divine light faded behind him did he realize his robes were drenched in sweat.
When he was gone, the elder remained silent for a while before murmuring,
"The Cleansing Dust Sect has withered past saving. To name such a boy their chief—truly pathetic."
A voice deeper and vaster than thunder drifted from beyond the roof:
"A pity. Mingren Emperor's techniques were worth more than that.
Rumor says their Heavenly Mandate Art still rests within their sect."
The elder bowed low, reverent trembling in every word.
"The report is true, Demon Emperor.
While that art remains, the day will come when it belongs to us.
The Cleansing Dust Sect no longer deserves to guard what once was divine."
The voice faded like an ocean receding into horizon.
If an outsider had heard it, they would have fallen to their knees in terror — for that voice belonged to the Nine Saint Demon Emperor, ruler of the Beast Kingdom, the power that made the current Demon Gate supreme over the Central Realms.
The Guest Courtyard
Meanwhile, the three visitors kept their own counsel.
Mo Yuan meditated in silence.
Nan Huairen slipped out early, already courting contacts and favor.
Only Li Qiye never wasted a moment.
Steel gleamed in his hands as he practiced without pause.
Blade after blade fell, each arc dripping sweat and moonlight.
One day, one night.
Shirt soaked, breath steady.
He had long mastered the theory of the Qimen Blades — but perfection lay not in knowing, only in the doing.
Each slash honed the distance between principle and truth.
He knew too well:
Enlightenment is easy. Mastery is not.
Even an Immortal Emperor, without the fire of repetition — turns to dust.
The blades sang through the night.
When he stopped, he could feel it — he was close to flawless, but not yet there.
Half an inch short of perfection.
A Visitor
"Impressive form, Senior Brother," came a voice at the door.
Nan Huairen entered with another youth — a lean disciple in the robes of the Nine Saint Demon Gate.
Huairen's eyes were bright with admiration.
He hadn't expected the boy he once pityed to bear such discipline.
Li Qiye re‑sheathed his blades and smiled. "Diligence compensates for lack."
Huairen nodded earnestly. "Indeed. Senior Brother, allow me to introduce my old friend — Brother Zhang from the Demon Gate."
The newcomer gave a short nod, expression cool, disdain barely hidden.
To him, this so‑called Chief Disciple was an amusing failure from a crumbling sect.
"Senior Brother might wish to see our grounds," Huairen offered, trying to lighten the air.
"Very well," Li Qiye replied gently.
"Brother Zhang, show us," Huairen said with a smile.
"Please," Zhang answered — the word polished, the tone icy.
Among the Peaks
They walked through sprawling ridges and terraced courts where spirit birds cut through the clouds, and purple fog hung over endless pavilions. Everywhere, disciples moved like shining threads among stone and light.
And everywhere Li Qiye went, eyes followed.
"Is that the Cleansing Dust sect's Chief Disciple?"
"A mortal body wearing a chief's title? Disgraceful."
"No wonder their sect fell — they crown fools!"
"Is he really Lady Li Shuangyan's fiancé? Ha! A worm dreaming of a phoenix."
Jealousy and derision mingled in every whisper.
To mock him was to flatter her — and none dared speak ill of Li Shuangyan, the Demon Gate's brilliant genius born with a Royal Constitution.
Even Zhang, guiding them, grew uneasy under so many stares.
He quickened his pace, as if distance could wash away the association.
Li Qiye walked as though alone.
His eyes lingered on each ridge and cloud, not with awe but with memory, as though seeing familiar landscapes from a past life.
"Senior Brother, caution your words," Huairen whispered.
"Lady Li Shuangyan is beloved here. Many pursue her—you'll draw wrath if you're careless."
Li Qiye's answer was light as breeze.
"A woman — nothing more."
The tone was so calm it felt like a comment on weather, not a person.
Huairen nearly tripped. "Please, Senior Brother, mind!" he whispered urgently. "This is not the place."
Li Qiye smiled and said no more.
In his heart, a different curiosity stirred:
time had twisted this sect so far from its roots. He wondered — how much of the old Nine Saint strength remained?
Before they realized it, the path opened onto a colossal stone plain.
Air trembled with the pressure of ancient marks burned into the earth — a place built for a hundred battles.
This was the Demon Gate Dueling Ground,
where disciples tested their Dao with steel.
At its center stood a solitary figure — sword raised, aura towering.
The space around them thrummed like a storm…
Li Qiye's eyes gleamed faintly, the corner of his mouth lifting in quiet interest.
The trial had begun long before he stepped onto the stage.