Meng Jinghe watched from above without moving a single muscle. His figure remained upright, hands tucked within the sleeves of his golden robe, his gaze following every step of the young man named Wei Han as he advanced toward the Black Gold Pillar to awaken his spiritual root. There was no visible tension on his face, yet his attention was fully focused on that youth.
It was strange.
After the incident with the meridians, he had ordered a thorough investigation into Wei Han's background. Villages, records, families, migration routes, and any possible connections to clans or minor sects had all been examined. The result was the same in every case: nothing. There was no verifiable past. No clear traces. Not even inconsistencies that could be dismissed as administrative errors.
In practical terms, Wei Han was someone who had appeared out of nowhere.
That fact weighed more heavily on Meng Jinghe's mind than any outstanding talent. As he observed, his thoughts moved calmly, evaluating possibilities that refused to align, searching for answers to questions that had yet to take a concrete shape.
Below, the young man stopped in front of the pillar.
His posture was steady, without stiffness or nervousness. He did not look around or seek approval from the examiners. He simply took one more step forward and raised his arm naturally. There was no anticipation in his expression—only a cold calm that felt inappropriate for someone facing a decisive trial.
Meng Jinghe followed the movement without blinking.
And while he still meditated in silence, trying to make sense of that persistent anomaly, Wei Han placed his palm on the surface of the pillar.
The moment the young man's palm touched the pillar, exactly what Protector Meng feared most occurred.
An absurd amount of aura and spiritual energy burst forth from the Black Gold Pillar, like an eruption held back for centuries. The energy did not disperse immediately. Instead, it condensed and was fired straight into the sky in the form of a luminous pillar—rigid and dominant—that pierced the clouds as if they did not exist. The ground trembled under the pressure, the engravings on the pillar shone with an intensity never before recorded, and the air itself began to distort around the point of contact.
The heavens responded.
This was no metaphor or ritual exaggeration. Clouds began gathering from every direction—not only above the plaza or the outer base, but from beyond the surrounding mountain ranges. Currents of spiritual wind collided, forming visible vortices, while lightning of uncommon hues—deep purples, dark blues, and flashes of silver—took shape without striking, as though awaiting an order that had yet to be given.
Meng Jinghe watched without looking away.
In more than twelve hundred years of life, he had witnessed countless awakenings of spiritual roots. He had seen exceptional talents and phenomena known to others only through fragmented accounts. Even so, this surpassed everything he had ever seen with his own eyes. Manifestations of this level existed only in ancient texts, in records from eras so distant they bordered on myth. The last time a comparable talent had appeared, Meng Jinghe had not even been born.
And this was only the beginning.
The energy continued to accumulate. The clouds kept expanding, spreading farther and farther until they completely covered the mountain range surrounding the region. Meng Jinghe could not help but wonder—without showing it on his face—whether the phenomenon intended to stop there or continue until it enveloped the entire domain of the sect.
At the center of the chaos, the silhouette of the sword became less and less illusory.
At first, it had been nothing more than an outline—a shadow formed of light and spiritual pressure. Now, however, its shape was defining itself with unsettling clarity. The blade gained depth, the hilt took form, and with each passing second the manifestation became more solid, more real. At the same time, the pressure descended with greater force, as though the entire sky were responding to the will being revealed.
Protector Meng's expression hardened as he perceived the change.
The instant the sword's edge gained definition, the spiritual energy enveloping the area ceased to be merely overwhelming and became sharp. It was no longer a diffuse pressure crushing from all sides, but something precise and dangerous—like countless invisible blades suspended in the air. Meng Jinghe knew clearly that this posed no real threat to him, but for the children and the disciples, it was a very different matter.
He did not hesitate.
He released his spiritual energy decisively, pouring it out like a silent tide that spread across the entire outer base. His power covered the pavilions, the stone paths, and the platforms, enveloping every person his spiritual sense could reach. It was not a violent suppression, but a firm containment, designed to isolate them from the most dangerous part of the manifestation.
Only after doing so did he allow his attention to return to the sky.
Then he felt the pressure.
It was heavy and constant, coming directly from the heavens responding to the awakening of the spiritual root. It was not lethal—at least not to someone of his level—but it was uncomfortable enough to remind him that this was no ordinary phenomenon. Even so, he remained upright, his breathing steady.
"Now…" he thought, "…everything depends on the willpower of those children."
His gaze slowly shifted toward a specific point within the celestial manifestation, where the energy seemed to converge differently, as if someone else were observing from there. For a brief instant, his expression softened, barely perceptibly.
He let out a light sigh.
"It was about time you arrived," he said quietly, without raising his voice. "Why did it take you so long?"
The sky continued to roar above them. The sword kept taking shape amid the chaos, and the sense that something far greater was about to intervene became impossible to ignore.
Jin did not know—nor could he possibly know—everything that was happening on Protector Meng's side.
At that moment, his world had been reduced to something far simpler and more brutal.
The pressure.
It felt as though something invisible were trying to crush him into the ground, forcing his knees to bend, his back to bow, demanding that he accept a posture his body could no longer sustain. Every breath required conscious effort. His child's body protested from every pore, every muscle and bone, as if it were being mercilessly squeezed.
Even so, he refused to fall.
He remained half-standing through sheer tenacity, legs trembling and arms rigid, using everything he had not to give in. The pain was constant—dull and deep—spreading like a tide that left no room for relief. Jin felt as though even his cells were screaming under that foreign pressure.
From the edge of his vision, he saw others.
Children collapsed on the ground, unconscious. Some older disciples were pressed flat against the stone tiles, unable to move, their bodies stretched unnaturally, like frogs crushed by an irresistible force. Others had lost consciousness entirely.
And the pressure kept increasing.
Jin clenched his jaw so hard his teeth creaked. A tremor ran through his neck and shoulders, but he did not lower his head. Instead, a laugh escaped his throat—dry, uncontrolled, mocking—shattering the oppressive silence that dominated the area.
"Hahaha…" he laughed hoarsely. "You want me to kneel?"
He forced his face upward, fixing his gaze on the convulsing sky, even as the pressure blurred his vision.
"I, Jin… have read thousands of pieces of crap like you," he thought fiercely. "A mere manifestation of Heaven and Earth isn't going to make me lose my dignity in this new life."
His body trembled, the pain did not lessen, and the pressure showed no mercy. Yet Jin remained there, held upright by pure will, refusing to yield even as everything around him seemed to demand it.
Then the pressure changed abruptly.
It did not vanish. It loosened just enough to deceive the body, but instead became sharp and acute, as though the force that had been trying to crush him now sought to strip him layer by layer. Jin felt the change instantly. The pain ceased to be oppressive and became cutting and precise, raking across his skin like invisible blades.
A strangled cry tore from his throat.
He clenched his fists with all the strength he had left, so hard that the skin of his palms split and blood began to seep between his fingers. The trembling in his body grew more violent, and for a moment his vision went completely dark. Confusion and rising rage tangled in his mind.
What the hell was happening?
Why was the sect doing nothing?
At this rate, someone could die right there. Jin knew it. He felt it in every part of his body, which was beginning to fail him slowly but inevitably. Even so, as his mind struggled to remain functional, he did not take his eyes off the sky. He continued to stare at it defiantly, refusing to bow his head.
He did not notice it at first, but blood began to slide from the corner of his lips. Then from his nostrils. Even his eyes burned as a dark thread escaped them, clouding his vision.
The pressure kept gaining ground.
His legs gave way a little more. Strength left his muscles and the world began to tilt. Jin felt himself reaching his limit, that he would lose consciousness at any moment no matter how hard he resisted.
And then he saw it.
Or at least, he thought he did.
Amid the chaos of the sky and the pressure overwhelming him, a silhouette began to take shape within his wavering consciousness—just enough to pull him back from the edge of collapse and make his breathing stop for a fraction of a second.
In the midst of the Heaven and Earth Phenomenon, something broke.
There was no sound at first, but rather a strange sensation, as though space itself had lost coherence. Jin, on the brink of losing consciousness, managed to "see" it as a crack appeared in the sky—long and irregular, like a mirror struck by a precise blow. The crack widened for an instant before shattering completely, revealing an absolute darkness so deep it seemed to devour the light around it.
From that void, a figure emerged.
He appeared to be a young man of around twenty-five years. He wore an immaculate white robe, long and simple, without unnecessary adornments, yet exuding effortless authority. His silver hair fell freely down his back, moving gently despite the chaos still ruling the sky. His expression was calm, almost indifferent, as though what was happening were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
He first observed the celestial manifestations.
Then he lowered his gaze toward the humans suffering under the pressure—toward the children and disciples forced to the ground, toward the trembling bodies struggling to remain conscious. He showed no surprise and no urgency. Only understanding.
A blue disc appeared in the palm of his hand—perfectly circular, translucent, with patterns within it that seemed to flow like contained currents of water. He raised it slightly, without effort, and spoke in a clear, serene voice that required no volume to assert itself.
"Suppress the heavens."
The disc began to spin.
As it did, it released strange patterns that expanded upward, unfolding like a delicate yet absolute net. Those blue tracings gradually covered the sky, wrapping around the swirling clouds, the purple lightning, and the multicolored light, as if a chaotic painting were being carefully enclosed within a canvas.
With a second gesture of his hand, everything changed.
The roar of the sky ceased. The pressure dropped instantly. The chaos was suppressed without violence, as though it had never had the right to exist. The nearly manifested sword trembled and emitted a sharp, metallic sound—clear and piercing—that echoed across the entire province before vanishing along with the last ripples of energy.
The sky regained its calm.
The clouds dispersed. The light returned to normal. The air stopped cutting and crushing.
The pressure disappeared completely.
Jin remained where he was, not collapsing immediately, his body still tense and his breathing uneven. His vision remained blurred, as if the world had not yet fully returned to its place, and his mind was a jumble of sensations he could not organize. The pain lingered—dull and persistent—coursing through his body like a delayed echo.
He tried to breathe more calmly, but the air scraped his throat.
With effort, he lifted his head slightly. He was not sure what he had truly seen and what had been the product of pushing his consciousness to its limit. Everything felt distant, distorted, like a memory already beginning to unravel.
A short laugh slipped from his lips, more reflex than intent.
"What the hell… just happened…" he murmured hoarsely. "Haha… it was… exciting… but painful…"
He could not say anything more.
The tension finally left his body. His shoulders slumped, strength abandoned him all at once, and darkness cut him off before he could resist. Jin lost his balance and fell forward, unconscious.