Song Qi stands among the menial disciples gathered around the vast training ground at dawn. The air is cold and tense. Above, on the stone palisade circling the ground, an elder stands with his hands behind his back. Song Qi recognises him—one of the inner elders he saw when first joining the sect.
After a long pause, the elder speaks, his voice carrying clearly across the silent field, "This is an elimination-style competition. We will not stop until only thirty remain. There are fifteen rings. Each round, thirty participants will enter. Each winner will receive a ten-minute rest before their next match. Fights will last fifteen minutes. If no winner is decided, we elders will make the judgment."
A low murmur spreads among the disciples. This competition is being held at dawn, away from the usual crowd of spectators, and only the participating menial disciples are present. Song Qi feels it too—an urgency behind the quiet. Something is coming, and the sect needs strong disciples prepared for it.
The elder raises a hand. "The competition begins."
Immediately, thirty disciples rise into the air, drawn toward the rings. One by one, they land, two to a ring. The first fifteen battles begin at once, bursts of energy lighting the air as fists, weapons, and spells clash.
Song Qi watches closely. As fights end, one victor from each ring rises to the palisade, where a deacon steps forward, healing them with a flash of green light. Their defeated opponents are sent out of the training ground, disqualified.
He exhales slowly and begins circulating his energy—first his own inner energy, then the secondary flow he's been practising. Weaving them together is hard, but he's improving. He learned this from Omar, and though it's not perfect, it gives him an edge.
He doesn't know when he'll be called, but he'll be ready.
As another disciple lands above the palisade, glowing with green healing light, and another is flung outside, defeated, Song Qi suddenly feels the shift. His body lifts into the air, drawn upward along with another disciple beside him. The wind whistles past as they rise, and from above the palisade, Song Qi looks down—fourteen rings filled with intense battles, one ring still empty. That's theirs.
They land at opposite edges of the stone ring, feet steady, eyes locked. Before they can speak or size each other up fully, the nearby deacon declares, "Begin."
No hesitation.
Both surge forward. The disciple's weapon is a long, dark stick that glows red as he swings it, aiming fast and sharp strikes. Song Qi meets the attack with his fists, his gloves lighting up with the same crimson hue, energy flowing up to his elbows. Metal clashes with wood as spiritual energy sparks between them.
Song Qi doesn't hold back. From the first strike, he uses his full strength, punching with both arms, weaving in footwork and body movement, and he trains relentlessly. His opponent counters well, spinning his staff in arcs of red light, but Song Qi presses forward, blow after blow, a storm of fists and glowing force.
The fight rages as both Song Qi and his opponent pour everything into their attacks, aiming to end it before the fifteen-minute mark. Their weapons clash with surging red light, every blow striking with the force of spirit-powered desperation. Neither backs down. Each strike, each counter, drives them closer to exhaustion.
But as the minutes tick down, Song Qi exhales sharply and lowers his stance.
Time to finish this.
He channels all his inner energy into his right fist. The air shudders around him as the red energy of the Bull Boxing technique coils and thickens, swirling into his glove until it gleams like molten iron.
With a roar, Song Qi steps forward and punches.
The blast of energy bursts forth, a concentrated force smashing into the centre of his opponent's stick just as he raises it to block. The impact staggers the disciple. He digs in, feet skidding across the stone, trying to resist—but the energy builds. Then it detonates.
A red shockwave explodes outward, launching the opponent off his feet and flinging him clear out of the ring.
It's over.
A breath later, Song Qi and his opponent lift into the air again. Song Qi lands firmly on the stone palisade. The defeated disciple crashes outside the training ground.
A deacon steps up beside Song Qi, pressing a pill into his hand. Song Qi swallows it without hesitation as the deacon lays a palm on his back. Warm green light pulses through him, easing the strain in his arms and the ache in his chest.
One fight down. Still more to come.
One fight down. Still more to come.
The deacon steps away after finishing the healing. Song Qi sits quietly, refining the pill as warmth spreads through his meridians. His energy slowly recovers. Below, the training ground rumbles with movement and strikes—fifteen rings alive with fierce battles. Each disciple fights to prove their worth.
Ten minutes pass.
Song Qi rises into the air again. This time, his opponent is a female disciple, slender and calm, a sword gleaming in her hand as she lands across from him.
"Start," the referee says.
She moves instantly, sword flashing. Song Qi dodges back, instincts sharpened. A sword isn't like a staff—one wrong move could leave him bleeding. He keeps slipping away, side-stepping each thrust and slash, searching for an opening. But her footwork is tight, her swordplay even tighter. She gives him nothing.
Time ticks. Pressure mounts.
He doesn't want his fate decided by the elder's judgment.
Resolve hardens in his eyes.
He draws deeply from within, circulating the fierce red energy of the Bull Body Refining Technique—then calls forth the calm, enduring energy of the Evergreen Pine technique. The two clash in his dantian, wild and stubborn—but with his will and mind energy, he holds them together, forcing the fusion.
A burst of power floods his limbs.
His speed doubles.
He charges.
The sudden shift stuns his opponent. Song Qi moves like a blur, weaving past her guard, throwing heavy punches. Her sword still bites—light cuts bloom on his arms and side—but he doesn't stop. Every step, every strike pushes her back, testing her footing.
Then, an opening.
He slips past her blade and drives his fist into her belly. Red energy surges forth on impact. She gasps, blood spurting from her mouth as the force lifts her from the ground and hurls her out of the ring.
Silence follows. Then the wind.
Song Qi stands alone in the ring, breathing hard, blood dripping down his side—but his eyes are calm. Victorious.
Song Qi's third opponent floats into the ring, calm and composed. The moment Song Qi sees the faint shimmer of energy circling the man's body, he knows—he's up against a spiritualist.
So is he.
But Song Qi hasn't had time to train.
It's only been a few days since he broke through into the spiritualist realm. He had managed to acquire a spiritualist combat technique from the Sutra Pavilion, but studying it had to wait—between daily work, body training, and the looming competition, there was no room for learning new forms.
The referee gives the signal.
Song Qi charges in with raw strength.
The spiritualist calmly raises a hand. An ice shield forms with a crackling sound, translucent and solid. Song Qi's punch crashes into it, sending frost scattering—but the shield holds.
A water whip lashes out in response.
Song Qi ducks and rolls aside, the whip slicing through the air behind him. He lunges again, trying to break through with close-range strikes, but the spiritualist repeats his rhythm—ice to defend, water to repel. A wall and a whip. Precise. Controlled.
Song Qi grits his teeth. He can't close the distance.
Each time he steps in, the ice rises. Each time he circles, the whip lashes.
The crowd watches the exchange: strength against elemental control. A brawler trying to reach a mage who refuses to be touched. Song Qi narrows his eyes, breath steady, body light on his feet. He circles his opponent, each step calculated. He watches the spiritualist—calm, focused, always keeping just enough distance, summoning ice and water with fluid ease. The whip lashes again, cutting close, and Song Qi weaves around it, kicking up dust as he sidesteps and lunges in low.
The ice shield rises instantly, but Song Qi doesn't stop.
He slams into it with a crack of red energy bursting from his glove, forcing the spiritualist a step back.
No opening. Not yet.
But Song Qi can feel it. There's rhythm. A habit.
He keeps pressing, like a predator testing the defences of prey—every blow not to break through, but to observe. He forces the spiritualist to rely more and more on the ice shield, watches how the hand twitches before the water whip comes, how the left foot shifts just slightly before each casting.
Then Song Qi breathes in deep, and his pupils sharpen.
His inner energy churns. The raging force of the Bull Body Refining Art pulses through his veins, and alongside it, the calm endurance of the Evergreen Pine. They collide within him, clashing like wild beasts, but he clamps down with his will, mind energy surging to bind them. The fusion isn't clean, but it holds.
And then he moves.
He vanishes from sight for a blink. Reappears a breath later, fist crashing through the ice shield before it can fully solidify.
The spiritualist staggers, barely reacting before the red glow surging from Song Qi's glove bursts forward—an explosive arc of energy roaring straight at his chest.
A flash of silver light erupts from the opponent's necklace—his spiritual weapon activating, forming a second barrier.
The red blast slams into it.
The shield quivers but holds.
Song Qi doesn't pause.
He twists past a lashing water whip and drives another punch into the shield—cracks form. The spiritualist reels back, casting ice defensively now, not strategically.
Another strike.
A third.
The shield flares brighter, barely holding as cracks spider through it. The spiritualist's breathing grows rapid. His feet scrape against the edge of the ring.
Song Qi steps in again, fist cocked back, his aura burning with determination.
And suddenly, the spiritualist raises a hand.
He steps outside the ring.
"I surrender," he says, voice calm, but his eyes betray tension. He knows one more blow and the shield would shatter—and he'd have no time to cast again.
Song Qi exhales, energy simmering down. He straightens just as he begins to rise into the air, body floating back above the stone palisade.
As he lands, a deacon steps forward, placing a palm on his shoulder. Healing light seeps into his body. Another pill is handed to him—bitter but powerful. Song Qi swallows it and sits cross-legged as it dissolves in his stomach, hastening his recovery.
Below, the spiritualist walks silently from out of the training ground, defeated.
Song Qi closes his eyes.
Three wins. More to go.
Song Qi waits, watching the fights below as his body fully recovers—no trace of injury remains, thanks to the deacon's healing. He spots outer and inner disciples gathering on the mountains around the training ground, watching the competition in silence. The presence of these spectators confirms the importance of the event.
As he counts the time, ten minutes pass. He hasn't been called yet, but his heart stays calm. His eyes scan the other victors standing on the pallisade. Most of them are strong. Song Qi suspects his next fight might be the final one—his fourth match.
Suddenly, his body lifts into the air again. At the same moment, another figure rises beside him. As they soar over the palisade, Song Qi recognises the other disciple—Zhou Gou.
A familiar face twisted in a sneer, one of the three who used to bully him when he first joined the sect. The only one he never got the chance to face. Song Qi still remembers the smirk on Zhou Gou's face the day he robbed him of his hard-earned pay.
A quiet fury rises in Song Qi's chest, but his mind stays sharp. Determination hardens his gaze—this time, he'll settle the score.
They land in the ring. Before either can speak, the referee calls, "Start."
Song Qi launches forward without hesitation, fists flashing with red light as he strikes with all the strength of his Bull Body Refining Technique—but he holds back from merging the two inner energies just yet, saving that edge for when it's truly needed.
Zhou Gou is ready. Twin blades flash into his hands, and as he clashes them together, a translucent energy shield bursts outward, intercepting Song Qi's punch. Sparks fly as red light crashes against the curved barrier.
Zhou Gou grins behind the shield. "You still hit like a weakling."
Song Qi doesn't answer. He plants his feet, calm and silent, eyes locked onto Zhou Gou's every movement. The tension snaps as both leap into action again, fist and blade crashing together in bursts of light and sparks.
Song Qi ducks a sweeping slash, throws an uppercut. Zhou Gou leans back, deflects with the flat of his blade, and counters with a spinning kick that forces Song Qi to roll back. The shield between the knives reforms each time Song Qi comes in close, frustrating every attempt at a direct hit.
They circle, each probing for weakness. Song Qi launches into a series of rapid punches, forcing Zhou Gou to fall back a few steps, but the knives spin around him like twin wolves guarding their prey.
The fight drags on. Sweat beads on Song Qi's brow as he begins to feel the pressure of time ticking down.
With a sharp breath, he begins circulating both of his inner energies—the strength of the Bull Body Refining Technique mixing with the calm flow of Evergreen Pine. The energies clash, ripple, then slowly intertwine as his willpower forces them to obey.
His body grows lighter and stronger. In a blink, he closes the distance and punches again, his fist now blazing red with enhanced energy.
But Zhou Gou doesn't yield. His footing is firm. He strikes faster. He absorbs each shock and retaliates with precision. Song Qi realises why Zhou Gou isn't just strong; he's already at the late stage of the Inner Energy Realm. Song Qi, though just a step from intermediate mastery, is pushing against a wall he hasn't yet broken.
Still, he endures. His dual cultivation grants him a strength equal to Zhou Gou's—but not for long. The merged energies within him burn hotter, faster. His stamina drains with every second. His breathing grows heavier, his limbs more sluggish.
Then Zhou Gou roars, and his fists explode in crimson light. He's using the Blood Bull Boxing Technique.
Blow after blow rains down on Song Qi. He weaves, blocks, counters—but each hit leaves a sting. The strength gap grows more apparent with every heartbeat. Zhou Gou's smirk returns, blade tips whirling like vipers.
Song Qi grits his teeth. He doesn't care if he loses—he just wants one clean strike.
A minute to fifteen.
In the middle of dodging, he feels something stir within his chest. A faint pulse, deep in his core—not inner energy, not mind energy, something... new. He doesn't understand it. No time to wonder.
He charges, the red energy blazing along his fist, pulling the last dregs of strength from every fibre of his being. Zhou Gou's knives rise, the shield forming again, solid, unyielding.
With a roar, Song Qi smashes his fist forward.
The red energy crashes into the shield—both explode in a burst of light and wind, the impact rocking the ring.
The disciples watching gasped.
But something else follows.
An invisible wave trails behind Song Qi's fist, unseen by all but the elder above. It snakes through the remnants of the shield, past the broken energy blades, and slips into Zhou Gou's chest.
Zhou Gou falters, his smirk fading as his body stiffens.
Song Qi drops to a knee, gasping for air. His reserves are gone. His body aches. His mind pulses with dull exhaustion. He watches Zhou Gou with tired, determined eyes, ready to take whatever comes.
But Zhou Gou doesn't attack.
He stands frozen, eyes wide. Then blood bursts from his mouth, and he collapses to the ground.
Silence.
Song Qi blinks. For a second, he doesn't believe it.
He won.
Sometime later, Song Qi rides atop a spiritual instrument shaped like a cloud, drifting steadily through the skies with twenty-nine other menial disciples. An elder stands at the front of the cloud, hands behind his back, while several deacons sit silently nearby, their eyes sweeping the drifting landscapes below.
Among the gathered disciples, Song Qi spots familiar faces—Liu Kui and Chen Jing. He isn't surprised to see them here. With their strength, as long as they didn't encounter each other or the top disciples in the early rounds, entering the top thirty was inevitable. The fights had never been about fair matchups. Song Qi knows now—the sect arranged it that way on purpose.
This isn't just a competition for menial disciples. It's preparation for something far more important.
A secret realm.
And they wouldn't risk losing their strongest to each other before that even began.
But what does surprise him is Chen Hai. Song Qi's gaze lingers on the young man standing at the rear of the cloud platform. Chen Hai had once robbed him, along with Zhou Gou and Li Fu. Three against one, back when he had no inner energy and only grit in his bones. To stop the bullying, he'd challenged two of them alone—broke Chen Hai's nose and almost lost to Li Fu if Deacon Ji hadn't stepped in.
He never forgot.
And now, Zhou Gou is defeated by his own hands, and yet here stands Chen Hai—not Li Fu—among the chosen thirty.
Curious, Song Qi asked around among the other disciples during the journey.
What he heard made his expression darken.
Chen Hai had hidden his strength well during their first fight. His spiritual weapon—an inner armour—allowed him to tank through his early matches without revealing much. His first three victories were clean, controlled. In the fourth round, his opponent had seen him as the weakest among the remaining contestants, still thinking of the day Chen Hai was defeated by someone who hadn't even stepped into the inner energy realm.
That arrogance cost him. He underestimated Chen Hai and lost.
Song Qi narrows his eyes, watching the silent Chen Hai.
They're both headed into the secret realm now.
Whatever unfinished business remains between them, it won't be settled here.
But soon.
Chen Hai notices Song Qi staring at him. With a relaxed smile, he walks toward him through the drifting mist above the cloud-shaped spiritual vessel. Song Qi's eyes narrow, his body tensing as the footsteps draw closer.
When Chen Hai stops in front of him, he says casually, "Nice fight. You surprised me, defeating Zhou Gou like that."
Song Qi's voice is cold. "What do you want?"
Chen Hai chuckles lightly. "Just this. Let's bury our past conflict. Once we enter the secret realm, we'll need to work together to defeat disciples from other sects."
Song Qi studies his face for a long moment, then simply nods and looks away. His expression remains distant, but his mind is sharp. Inside the secret realm, picking a fight with Chen Hai would bring punishment from the elders. That wasn't worth it. But after the realm, then they'd see.
He turns his gaze to the front as the elder finally speaks, his voice firm and clear across the open air.
"Every one of you has heard that you'll be entering a secret realm," the elder says. "That's a lie. A story we spread to make the competition more intense."
Murmurs ripple across the disciples. Song Qi frowns, his brows drawn low.
The elder lets the moment stretch before continuing. "We needed the strongest among you. Because where you're going is far more dangerous than most secret realms."
The murmuring stops. Silence takes its place.
The elder lets the weight of his words settle before he continues, "Our sect—and several others—have discovered a new mortal realm. Untouched. Unclaimed. You and the selected disciples from other sects will enter this realm first."
He pauses, then adds, "Your first task will be to gather with the others and build a spiritual temple. A marker. Once the temple is complete, it'll serve as a beacon—so future groups we send will appear safely within it."
Song Qi listens quietly, the pieces falling into place.
"But," the elder says darkly, "when we send you in, the fluctuation will be noticed. By practitioners of other cultivation paths, even other realms. And the natives of that world—if they're aware—may come after you."
He sweeps his eyes across the disciples.
"So remember this: other sect disciples are not your enemies. Your enemies are those from foreign cultivation ways, other realms, and the mortals of that world."
His voice hardens.
"If you create conflict among yourselves, the consequences will be serious."
The elder's gaze sweeps across the group one last time, then he turns forward in silence. The cloud-shaped vessel drifts quietly through the sky. Moments later, it slows to a stop.
Song Qi looks up, and his eyes widen.
Across the heavens, other spiritual instruments fill the skies—floating palaces of jade and gold, bone-crafted towers shaped like lances, ships that pulse with demonic auras. One vessel is carried on the back of a massive demon beast with wings that span the clouds. Each represents a different sect, their presence heavy and proud.
And then, above even these, three figures appear in the sky—an old man with long silver hair, a stunning woman clad in flowing white, and a young boy who seems no older than ten, yet whose eyes carry centuries of depth.
The old man's voice echoes across the sky. "Everyone has arrived. Let us begin."
He turns his gaze toward the woman. She gives a slight nod. Then from her palm, a ray of light shines, brilliant and silent, casting down like divine moonlight. The beam splits and falls upon the thirty selected disciples in each sect's vessel, including Song Qi.
The moment the light touches his chest, Song Qi feels warmth rush through him—then something embeds itself within. His body tenses, but a soft, wordless calm spreads through his mind.
Though the woman's lips do not move, her voice resonates inside his skull like a melodious tune meant to seduce the soul. "I have placed a seal within each of you. The seal contains the knowledge to build the spiritual temple. It will also resonate if any of you come close to one another within the mortal realm."
Song Qi's brows furrow slightly, feeling the dormant presence of the seal inside him—subtle, but unmistakable.
Then the three figures stretch out their arms and move into a perfect triangular formation in the sky. From their feet, golden light weaves into an intricate array, the patterns shifting and shimmering as if alive.
And then, the sky cracks.
Like glass buckling under pressure, the heavens bend inward. Space itself collapses, forming a jagged rift. The rift grows larger, pulsing with chaotic power until it becomes a massive hole in the sky.
Before Song Qi can think, the cloud beneath him jolts and releases him. His body lifts into the air, light pulling at his limbs.
Then, he is falling. Or flying.
His body is shot like an arrow toward the gaping hole in the sky, the world blurring past him as he pierces the barrier between realms and vanishes into the unknown.
–
As the crack forms in the sky, a ripple of power surges outward—a vast, invisible fluctuation pulsing through space like a silent roar.
To the north, an ocean stretches beyond the horizon, its waters cold and deep, scattered with islands that resemble jagged mountain peaks piercing the waves. Beneath its surface, deeper than sunlight dares to reach, lies a grand palace built of coral and crystal, nestled within a cavern of obsidian stone.
Inside the palace, atop a throne carved from a single sapphire, sits a naga with gleaming purple scales. Her long body coils over the seat, her golden eyes closed in quiet slumber. But as the ripple touches the depths, her eyes snap open. She gazes southward, her pupils narrowing to slits. The sea stills around her, held by her will. For a long moment, she listens to the silence carried by the disturbance.
Then she exhales slowly, disappointment softening her face. "Not yet," she murmurs. With a faint hiss, she reclines again on her throne and drifts back into sleep, the palace sinking once more into stillness.
Elsewhere in the seabed, far removed from the palace, the sands begin to shift. A slow, deliberate movement stirs the silt—then, for a brief heartbeat, a massive eye opens beneath the sea floor. It gleams with ancient awareness. Then it vanishes, the sand resettling as if nothing had stirred.
Far to the east, across another great ocean dotted with thousands of islands, one of the largest islands holds a grand city. Six towers pierce the skies from its centre, each humming faintly with magic.
Within the upper floors of these towers, men and women dressed in long flowing robes pause what they're doing. Some look up from their meditation circles, others halt mid-incantation. Scrolls stop unfurling. Quills freeze above parchment. Their eyes narrow, and almost as one, they turn eastward.
No crack is visible to them from this distance. The sky looks the same. But they feel it—the rhythm of mana in the world has faltered for an instant, the natural flow tugged by something beyond. Robes flutter though no wind blows. The towers' wards shimmer faintly in response.
In silence, the mages share a look. No one speaks, but the message is clear.
Beyond the ocean, across the boundary of this realm, the fluctuation spreads into a larger, older realm. A land of colossal mountains and deep valleys, it breathes in untamed wilderness and ancient power.
In a hidden canyon of shadows, the colossal head of a black serpent emerges from beneath twisted roots, golden eyes gleaming. High atop a snow-swept peak, a grey-furred wolf lifts its head and howls toward the sky, its voice echoing across stone and cloud. Deep in the heart of a primordial forest, a gnarled tree shivers, its bark splitting to reveal a pale woman stepping out with silent grace.
A lake as still as glass parts in the centre. From its depths, an ancient tortoise's head surfaces, eyes slow and thoughtful. In a valley of golden grass, a lion lifts its head. From its forehead, a third eye opens, burning with golden light. High above, a gryphon unfurls its massive wings and releases a piercing cry, cutting through the wind.
And these are only the first. Across the realm, demon beasts old and powerful stir from slumber, each responding to the same call.
But the ripple does not stop.
It flies farther, reaching a distant realm wrapped in perpetual snow, where an immense temple sits atop the tallest mountain. The temple is silent, save for the cold wind, and its only adornment is a statue with four heads, each facing a different direction, each carved with serene expressions.
As the fluctuation passes, the stone statue twitches.
Stone turns to flesh.
Eyes open.
And from the temple, a deep, resonant sound vibrates outward—"Om…"
The sound echoes across the snowy land, and as if in response, bells begin to ring. From the highest shrine to the smallest village altar, every bell chimes in unison. A silent signal. A silent message to get ready to invade.
-----
In another realm, where time flows more slowly and the sun never truly sets, a giant tree pierces the clouds. Its trunk is so vast it takes up the centre of the realm, roots spreading like rivers through the land, branches veiled in mist and hung with glowing fruit. Suddenly, the bark at the heart of the trunk ripples. A face emerges—ancient and serene, as though carved from time itself. The eyes open slowly, glowing green with wisdom unspoken. The face turns slightly, gazing toward a distant point beyond the horizon.
Further north, where jagged mountains lie frozen under eternal snow, a long crack splits one of the tallest peaks. Within that crack, something stirs. A white serpent's head emerges, followed by another, and another, until nine snake heads rise, each moving with eerie unity. Their tongues flick out, tasting the change in the air. Then, all nine heads turn in the same direction, eyes locking westward, unblinking.
In the west, towering above clouds and land alike, stands the highest and widest mountain in the realm. It has never been climbed. A massive figure made of stone steps out of the cliff, shedding pebbles and dust as it moves. Its body is weathered like a monument lost to time. With slow certainty, the stone figure raises its head and fixes its gaze in the same direction as the others.
To the south, in the depths of a mist-choked jungle where light filters through layers of ancient vines, butterflies begin to stir. From every corner of the jungle, they flutter—blue, violet, gold—streaming toward a single glade. There, they swirl together in a luminous dance, then suddenly converge. When they part, a woman stands in their place, her skin pale as moonlight, and great butterfly wings shimmer behind her. Her eyes, glowing with three-ringed purple pupils, shine as they focus in one direction.
Farther still, across the sea that borders this realm, the water stirs unnaturally. Waves crash outward as a massive shape breaks the surface. What seemed a drifting island reveals itself to be the back of a living creature—a titanic whale. Its barnacled head rises high above the sea, eyes deep and old. It stares, unblinking, toward the same point as the others.
From each of the five figures—ancient, powerful, and bound to the rhythm of the realm—waves of fluctuation ripple outward. The pulses of power stretch across sky, sea, forest, ice, and stone, converging invisibly in the air. A voice, cold and sibilant like a whispering wind over scales, hisses through the stillness:
"Old Tree… are we not going to do anything?"
A voice follows, deep as rumbling tectonic plates—slow, weighty, unmovable.
"I say we stop them from entering our world."
Another voice answers, serene and feminine, like spring water flowing under moonlight.
"We can stop them now, but not forever. If not today, they will come another day. Sooner or later, they will arrive."
An ancient voice joins, tired yet clear, woven with the weight of countless aeons.
"I do not want them here. But our cultivation has reached our world's limit. If the outsiders carry knowledge of breaking through to the higher realm… I would risk it."
A booming voice, resonant and doubtful, echoes next.
"Will they share what they know?"
The serene voice replies softly, yet firm in its intent.
"When they open the gate into our world… I will learn about theirs. I can send a clone—let it slip through their door in return."
The hissing voice sharpens again.
"Will we let them roam free once they enter?"
The woman's voice answers without hesitation.
"The first wave will be weak. They can harm nothing here. When stronger ones arrive, we will decide how to respond. If needed, we will give a warning."
A pause. Then the ancient voice concludes with grave acceptance:
"Then so be it."
In the west, at the far edge of their realm, the air begins to ripple. A crack appears in the sky like a hairline fracture on glass, then spreads wider and wider until it becomes a gaping hole.
From the crack, streaks of fire shoot forth—hundreds of blazing trails like falling stars. They descend across the realm, meteor-like, but slow as they near the ground. These are not stones or fire, but people—outsiders—wrapped in spatial force, cast into this world.
The serene voice hums in the wind one final time.
"I will send a clone… to watch."
Then silence returns.
The face on the tree fades into bark. The nine snake heads retreat into the frozen depths of the mountain crack. The stone giant crumbles as it sinks into the heart of the western mountain. The woman's body dissolves, butterflies rising from her skin and vanishing into the jungle mist. The whale's massive head slips beneath the waves, and again, it is nothing but an island adrift.
But after some time, the ancient powers stir again. South of their realm, on the farthest edge where the sky meets the void, a door shimmers into existence—tall, silver, etched with unfamiliar patterns that shift like flowing ink.
The hissing voice returns, slithering through the unseen threads of the world.
"Another group of visitors."
The door creaks open, and once again, a rain of meteors, fewer in number than before but still many, pierces through and descends gently into their world.
Before the figures can speak, a distortion erupts in the northeast. Space itself tears apart as a claw, enormous and scaled with black mist trailing from its tips, rips the boundary of the world. Behind the tear, a milky white dog's bark echoes—low, strange, otherworldly.
As the tear widens, another wave of hundreds of meteors shoots into the realm.
And then again—this time from the southwest—reality shivers like a disturbed pond. A circular mirror forms, suspended in the air, its edges glinting with violet hues. It grows larger and larger until it spans the entire horizon.
Without warning, from its shimmering surface, yet another hundred meteors streak into the sky above.
The serene voice, soft yet resonating across the world, speaks again.
"Not one… but three."
The ancient voice follows, thoughtful, steady.
"It benefits us. Each may carry a different path. We can study the breakthrough methods from all of them."
But the mountain-deep rumble replies, hesitant and grim.
"I do not like this. More than one means a greater threat. They may even be stronger than us. We may be in over our heads."
The ancient one answers calmly, without emotion.
"If we stand united, their strength means little. Together, nothing they bring can break us."
The rumbling voice lingers in silence for a moment, then responds with a slow exhale of earth and stone.
"I wish that you are right… and this does not become a disaster for us all."
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A small village rests peacefully at the base of a hill, its people going about their daily lives—tending fields, repairing carts, drawing water, chatting in low, steady voices. Children run past chickens, laughter rising into the breeze. Smoke drifts lazily from chimneys. Above them, on the hillside, hidden among the leaves of an old tree, a shadowed figure crouches silently on a thick branch.
From beneath the shade, the figure murmurs, "They look like humans… I should learn their language before making contact."
Then the figure leaps lightly from the branch, landing without a sound as the light reveals his face—Song Qi. He dusts his robe lightly and walks toward the village below. Behind him, nearly weightless in the air, a single butterfly flutters, following his steps.
Remaining out of sight, Song Qi slips between buildings and scales the roof of a sturdy wooden house. He crouches low, listening, watching, studying the villagers' words and movements with silent intensity.
Far away, Ivy moves through another part of the realm. Her form is wrapped in a deep brown cloak, concealing her robes and features. She walks into a town with no guards at the gate, its stone archway marked with unfamiliar symbols. She doesn't slow, slipping into the streets unnoticed by the locals.
She roams the alleys with cautious eyes, stepping into a quiet, shadowed place between two buildings. Behind her, three figures appear—rough men with crude weapons at their sides. They speak words she doesn't understand, but their postures tell her everything she needs to know.
Without hesitation, Ivy raises her hand and chants. Two glowing magic missiles spring forth, streaking through the air and exploding against the heads of two of the men. Their bodies collapse instantly.
The third man stumbles back, fear overtaking his face. Before he can cry out, Ivy draws a scroll from within her cloak. She tears it cleanly in half. A grey, spectral hand rises from the parchment, floats forward, and grips the man's head tightly.
A moment later, his body crumbles like dust. A white light—shimmering with fractured memory—emerges from the spectral hand and flows into Ivy's forehead. Her eyes close as she stands still, letting the stolen memories settle into her mind.
Meanwhile, in a vast and quiet lake, water ripples faintly under the surface. The black serpent glides silently across, then dives, vanishing into the depths of the lake without a sound.