Ren exhaled slowly beneath the pine, flames flickering faintly across his inner domain. Step by step, his cultivation continued to rise. Too fast. Too smooth. And now: Late Step Six.
He felt it—the shift in atmosphere—the tension in gazes not spoken, in footsteps not announced.
Other prodigies were being drawn to him.
Not for guidance.
Not for respect.
For confrontation.
They didn't understand him.
They didn't believe in luck.
And they certainly didn't accept how the world kept bending for someone so plain.
Ren looked across the courtyard—past flowering pavilions and calligraphy banners—and locked eyes with Liáng Xu and Fei Yan. Their cultivation had surged to Peak Step Five, driven not by insight, but by humiliation and envy.
They didn't speak.
But Ren saw it.
Deep behind the eyes, swirling like storm clouds behind glass:
We are handsome.
We should have them.
This is unfair.
Three silent screams, coated in pride and perfume.
It wasn't about cultivation anymore.
It was about attention.
Ren had gained the favour of Lady Yueh and Fairy Jin—two radiant pillars of sect prestige. And worse?
He hadn't chased it.
He hadn't flaunted it.
He was simply there—quiet, plain, infuriatingly inevitable.
Ren considered halting his cultivation. Not from fear. From strategy.
Every breakthrough drew heat. Every step forward summoned insects.
And he saw it—behind polished robes, behind polite bows—the unmistakable glint of jealousy ripened into hatred.
Lady Yueh intervened first. Her voice was frost-cutting silk.
"You will not appear before me again until both your cultivation and your character evolve. You're not just weak. You're spoiled."
Then Fairy Jin, eyes narrowed, voice icily calm:
"You've become a disappointment. Not because you failed. But because of who you are. It disgusts me."
The two disciples bowed—ashamed, stung, quietly ruined.
And Ren?
He watched. Unmoved.
He hadn't stolen their thunder.
He hadn't pursued their master's.
He existed.
Back in the flaming void of his domain, Emperor Shadow reclined upon his obsidian throne—flames licking the air around dragon-etched armour, mask unmoving.
And beneath that mask, a grin.
Far too entertained for a creature of wrath.
Liáng Xu and Fei Yan continued. Their cultivation had stalled. Their favour evaporated. And Shen Wuyin—barefoot beneath the pine, squirrel half-asleep on his shoulder—stood where they once belonged.
They dropped to their knees before Lady Yueh, tears staining silk, pride unravelling.
Fei Yan spoke first, voice trembling, half-choked between sobs:
"Master… please. Show us mercy. We beg you."
"We can't stand it—look at him. What has he done to deserve your attention?"
"What has he given you… that we haven't, for all these years?"
Liáng Xu remained silent, but his eyes overflowed. His chest rose with unspeakable grief.
Fei pressed on, the wound festering:
"We sacrificed everything. Since we were children, we devoted ourselves to you. You were happy with us. Were you not?"
"You treated us with kindness… and now you treat us like trash."
His voice cracked—
"All because you've found a better pet!"
Silence followed.
Not just from Lady Yueh.
Not just from Fairy Jin.
But from the squirrel.
From the heavens themselves.
Ren watched, impassive. He felt the depth of their pain. The heartbreak. The loss.
But he did not interrupt.
Because in their words, he saw the truth:
They loved not her heart, but her attention.
They valued not the bond, but the position it held.
And love wrapped in entitlement is only ever a transaction.
Lady Yueh's expression did not soften.
Fairy Jin looked away.
And somewhere in Ren's domain, upon a throne of flame and void, Emperor Shadow chuckled—without pity.
The mask never smiled.
But the fire did.
Lady Yueh's voice thundered through the courtyard—not with rage, but with finality.
"How dare you raise your voice to your master?" she said, each word measured like judgment carved in stone.
"I never treated you like pets. I treated you like sons—the sons I never had. And now I see I raised you wrong. I gave you warmth when you needed temperance. I gave you praise when you needed silence."
Her gaze did not waver.
"It was Shen Wuyin who revealed the truth. Not through lectures. Not through sermons. Just by being himself. Through the way you responded to him. Through how you lashed out at those who surpassed you."
She inhaled slowly.
"I do love you both. That will never change. But it will never be more than a master's love. Because I cultivate the Dao—not attention, not sentiment, not vanity. I am not interested in Shen Wuyin romantically. Neither is Fairy Jin. We respect him because he helped us push beyond our limits. We honour that."
She turned, robes flickering with qi.
"We show our generosity in letting you stand among us still."
Her final words fell like chilled rain:
"Leave. Sleep. Reflect. Say no more today. Or what you regret tomorrow… will be your legacy."
They listened. Or tried to.
Knees pressed to the floor, heads bowed in shame, Liáng Xu and Fei Yan heard every word their master spoke.
Her disappointment.
Her lessons.
Her love.
But none of it reached the core.
Because in the echo chamber of their minds, only one name remained—
repeated like thunder,
like salt rubbed into memory:
Shen Wuyin.
Shen Wuyin helped her break through.
Shen Wuyin showed humility.
Shen Wuyin revealed their flaws.
Shen Wuyin earned respect.
It was always him.
The background character.
The anomaly.
The insult to narrative privilege.
Their master's voice had grown gentle near the end, even merciful.
But it didn't matter.
That mercy felt like dismissal.
That insight felt like betrayal.
To them, her praise was abandonment dressed in eloquence.
Liáng Xu's tears burned with quiet rage.
Fei Yan's thoughts twisted in self-contradiction.
And as they were dismissed—told to sleep, reflect, improve—they left not with clarity…
But with a deeper ache.
Because the most brutal truth of all?
They had loved her.
And they believed, in their heart of hearts, that she had once loved them too.
But now that love felt small.
Dwarfed.
Unable to compete with the respect given to someone who hadn't even asked for it.
Before they left, Liáng Xu and Fei Yan cast one final glance behind them.
Lady Yueh stood beneath the twilight sky—elegant, composed, a living portrait of cultivation perfected. Her beauty was legendary—her presence, magnetic.
And Fairy Jin, radiant beside her, was no less revered. Powerful. Poised. Every gesture is laced with refined qi. Every breath harmonised with the Dao.
To their eyes, it was maddening.
Two women capable of bending sect law with a thought—one, the current Sect Master. The other, her senior sister, who had willingly stepped aside and given the title to Lady Yueh years before.
Both of them…
Speaking to Shen Wuyin.
Not flirtatiously.
Not ceremonially.
But with respect so profound it grated against their hearts.
It was ridiculous.
It was unbearable.
Ren didn't have the looks.
He didn't have the charm.
And yet—he had their attention.
Not because he demanded it.
Because he had earned it. Quietly.
Liáng Xu clenched his fists.
Fei Yan swallowed the ache.
And with one final glance at the women who had once made them feel invincible, they turned away—
Haunted not by loss,
But by how much of that loss
Had been self-inflicted.
Liáng Xu and Fei Yan sat cross-legged within their cultivation chamber, the air thick with spiralling qi and unshed rage. The walls trembled—not from enlightenment, but from ambition sharpened into obsession.
They weren't cultivating peace.
They were cultivating revenge.
Step Six was no longer a goal.
It was a necessity.
A weapon.
In their minds, Shen Wuyin wasn't just an anomaly.
He was the reason.
The reason their victories soured.
The reason humiliation clung like a shadow.
The reason Lady Yueh's smile vanished the moment they walked in.
He was the fracture in their foundation.
The proof that effort didn't always equal reward.
That brilliance could be quiet, inconvenient, and entirely untamed.
And worse—he never gloated.
He existed.
And that made it unforgivable.
Their thoughts grew dark.
Sharp.
Plotting.
They would kill him.
Quietly.
Elegantly.
Not out of wrath.
Out of strategy.
They would make it look like a rival sect attack—clean, tragic, narratively convenient. A poisoned technique. An ambush from rogue disciples. Anything to earn sympathy.
And once Shen Wuyin was gone?
They would step forward.
Show grief.
Show strength.
Win their master's attention back.
Not as sons.
As something more.
They had been smiled at once.
Lady Yueh.
Fairy Jin.
They had looked upon them with pride, with promise.
As if the future of the sect shimmered in their ambition.
There had been warmth.
Encouragement.
The kind of quiet attention that makes disciples stand taller.
But that was before.
Before Shen Wuyin.
Before the anomaly.
Before the silence that replaced praise.
Now, they stood in the shadow of someone who had never asked to be seen—
and was seen anyway.
And the warmth they remembered?
It had cooled.
Not into cruelty.
But into distance.
Now, when the women entered the room, those smiles didn't follow.
Lady Yueh's eyes flickered.
Fairy Jin's expression held nothing.
Not disappointment.
Not scorn.
Just absence.
They weren't hated.
Just… no longer central.
Their reflection didn't bend the room anymore.
Ren's did.
But still, they hoped.
Still, they believed.
That if Shen Wuyin vanished—
If he disappeared into mist or myth—
Maybe they'd matter again.
Maybe the spotlight would return.
Maybe the promises whispered to them as disciples would finally be fulfilled.
Maybe they'd be worthy again.
Not because they changed.
But because the comparison was gone.
Ren sensed it before the wind changed.
Not through sight.
Not through sound.
But through the subtle shift in silence—
the way the pine held its breath,
the way the squirrel stirred,
the way the Dao recoiled.
Something was coming.
Not a storm.
A decision.
Liáng Xu and Fei Yan had begun plotting.
They were cultivating spite now—refining envy into blade techniques, tempering humiliation into formations designed to kill.
But Ren didn't flinch.
Didn't warn his master.
Didn't break the rhythm of his naps.
He played along.
Let them try.
Let them scheme.
It was going to be useful.
Opportunities ripen under pressure.
And Ren could already see the value:
He'd gain insight into their techniques.
He'd set a trap only fools would fall for.
He'd kill them quickly.
No mercy.
No theatrics.
And then?
A moment of peace.
Brief.
Fleeting.
Ren yawned from the branch of the old pine, its bark warm against his back, the wind polite in its passing.
Below, the squirrel stirred—blinking once, then twice, before trotting over and nibbling delicately from Ren's open hand. When it was done, it rubbed its face against his cheek, leaving a tiny puff of fur and the kind of affection most cultivators dream of but never earn.
It adored him.
Not because he was strong.
Not because he was kind.
But because he was inevitable.
He smiled, then stretched, and strolled toward the stairway that spiralled up to the peak.
No aura flared.
No declarations followed.
Just a quiet ascent.
At the summit, he sat cross-legged and opened his palm.
Qi welcomed him like an old friend.
He absorbed it slowly.
Deliberately.
Without hunger.
There was no need to rush.
Others cultivated to escape death.
To lengthen their lives.
To defy heaven.
To rewrite what they saw as fate.
But Ren?
Ren was a true immortal.
Limitless power.
Eternal life.
So he sat.
Quiet.
Unbothered.
Ren opened his eyes slowly—like someone interrupting a dream not out of urgency, but mild curiosity.
Qi pulsed around him, soft and obedient.
The squirrel on his chest yawned.
Then came Lady Yueh's voice, echoing across the mountain—charged with urgency and cultivated command:
"Attention, all disciples! Another sect approaches—hostile intent confirmed! Defend your positions. This is not a drill!"
Ren didn't panic.
He chuckled.
Because, of course.
Of course Liáng Xu and Fei Yan couldn't stand failure in silence.
Of course they'd made a deal—probably with the Blood Orchid Sect.
A shortcut to revenge.
A borrowed storm.
The kind of plan that mistakes chaos for restoration.
Ren stood, brushed off a pine needle, and looked toward the horizon.
"So they brought help."
Then a voice split the air—
"Glass Lotus Sect!
Today, I claim your sect, your resources, your disciples.
I've tolerated this peace treaty long enough."
He strode from the mist.
Late thirties.
Cloak heavy with killing intent—
but also something else.
Pain.
Fairy Jin narrowed her eyes.
Lady Yueh raised a hand.
Ren approached, quiet as breath, joining the other disciples gathering at the base of the summit. He looked toward the peak—toward Lady Yueh and Fairy Jin, his master standing beside her, both gazes locked on the intruder.
No one moved.
Not yet.
Lady Yueh's voice rang out, sharp as breaking jade:
"Sect Master of Blood Orchid Sect—you are the one who shattered the treaty. Don't expect mercy from me or mine."
Her words echoed across the courtyard. Petals lifted. Qi stirred.
The man—regal cloak, contempt carved into his expression—gave her a long, bitter smile.
"Be quiet, Yueh."
He said it with dismissive authority. Not bravado—memory.
He spoke not to a rival.
But to someone he used to know.
"Last I recall," he said, stepping forward, "it was your master who killed my father. A thousand years ago. You remember that, don't you?"
He tilted his head.
"Or is your memory as brittle as your bones, old hag?"
Fairy Jin flinched.
The disciples tensed.
Even Ren raised an eyebrow—half-impressed by the sheer recklessness.
Yuēn Sīzhào's voice rang out, brittle with contempt, veined with grief, dressed for drama:
"We had a great friendship once, Yueh. As children. Maybe more, if I recall."
"But your obsession with the Dao made you forget. Forget me. Forget everything."
He stepped forward, eyes gleaming with ancestral malice.
The courtyard held its breath.
"So let's forget it together.
Today, I kill you—justice for my father's death.
You cold, heartless bitch."
Petals froze midair.
Even the wind folded itself out of the scene, tactfully.
Lady Yueh said nothing.
She didn't need to.
She might be centuries old—but she looked and moved like a woman of twenty.
Ageless. Calm. Radiating the kind of power that didn't flinch when challenged—because it had already measured the threat and dismissed it.
Ren blinked.
The squirrel flinched, one paw half-raised.
He lay sprawled near Fairy Jin, watching tensions brew like overheated tea.
"Well, that escalated dramatically," Ren thought.
"Good delivery. Terrible pacing."
Then his eyes moved—not to Sīzhào, but to Liáng Xu and Fei Yan, standing beside Lady Yueh.
They weren't pleased.
Not shaken.
And certainly not protective.
No, Ren caught it immediately.
They didn't look angry at Sīzhào.
They looked irritated.
Like lovers watching someone flirt with the person they'd already claimed in their heads.
Still devoted. Still obsessed.
But not to justice.
To Yueh.
And now Sīzhào—bold, venomous, theatrical—had wandered into their story without permission.
Ren nearly chuckled.
Nearly.
He smoothed the grin into a smirk, whispered to the squirrel:
"They thought they'd summoned a sword. Instead, they got a spotlight thief."
And Ren knew.
This wasn't about defending Lady Yueh.
It was about using Sīzhào's chaos—his sect, his ego—as a staged distraction.
So they could strike Ren.
He was the threat to their affections.
To their position.
To their place in the master's shadow.
They didn't bring the Blood Orchid Sect to wage war.
They brought it to make room for murder.
Ren exhaled slowly, brushing stone dust from his sleeve.
He didn't speak.
He didn't stand.
But every fibre of his cultivation braced.
"They're not waiting for Yueh to fall," he thought.
"They're waiting for me to look the wrong direction."
The squirrel tapped once.
Ren whispered: Ren thought, dry amusement blooming behind his eyes:
"Someone's about to do something stupidly predictable."
He didn't say it aloud.
Didn't even move.
He just watched as one disciple twitched, hand drifting a fraction too close to their blade.
The others tilted their weight, as if righteous intent had to be declared through posture.
Ren had seen it before.
Cultivators mistake chaos for opportunity.
Grudges masquerading as justice.
Plots that considered themselves original right up until they unfolded exactly as expected.
Ren smirked.
"Just once," he mused, "I'd love to be surprised."
But he wasn't holding his breath.
Not in a scene this carefully rehearsed.
Ren sighed. Audibly.
"Of course,compleon five he went for the full monologue," he muttered.
"Nothing screams 'lethal conviction' like dramatic stalling."
Yuēn Sīzhào's spirit projection surged behind him—massive, gilded, sculpted with insecurity masquerading as grandeur.
An idealised self: taller, sharper, unnaturally symmetrical.
Probably touched up by ego before summoning.
Its qi shimmered with ancestral signatures—ornate and bitter.
Resentment braided into ceremonial flourishes.
A storm dressed in silk.
He had promised death.
And conjured a parade float.
The shield around Glass Lotus Sect began to hum.
Petals spiralled into defensive formation.
Talismans flared—responding not to the shimmering form, but the festering intent behind it.
And that intent bled through like vinegar in wine.
Elders stepped forward on both sides of Sīzhào.
Disciples arranged themselves like pages in an overly embellished formation scroll.
Fairy Jin's fingers twitched.
Lady Yueh didn't speak—but the stillness around her had changed. The mountain itself seemed to listen.
Ren stood properly now, dust brushing off his robes like stage curtains.
"He summoned backup," Ren muttered, voice low.
"For something he claimed would be swift."
He paused.
"Always a bad sign."
The squirrel perched on his shoulder, tail wrapped like a scarf woven from silent judgment.
Liáng Xu and Fei Yan shifted their stances.
Not toward Sīzhào.
Toward Ren.
And Ren noticed. Instantly.
"They still think he's useful," he thought.
"Useful enough—
To get rid of me."
He didn't flinch.
Didn't bristle.
Just exhaled.
"Predictable."