Pain.
That was the first thing Mo Chuang felt as his consciousness stirred. Each breath scraped his ribs, and every heartbeat sent a sharp pulse through his broken body. Yet, in that sea of agony, a single truth gleamed—he was still alive.
He opened his eyes to find himself in a dimly lit chamber carved into the side of the sect's mountain. The air smelled of herbs and blood. He was lying on a simple jade bed, inscribed with faint runes of restoration. But none of it mattered.
"Where is he?" Mo Chuang's voice was raspy but laced with fury. "Mo Lin."
A thin veil of golden light shuddered as someone entered through the barrier—an old man dressed in black with silver patterns resembling falling stars. His presence was suffocating, yet composed.
"Young master, rest. You've done enough for now," the elder said calmly.
Mo Chuang sat up regardless, coughing violently. "I asked where he is."
The elder's expression stiffened. "Mo Lin left the sect grounds. We believe he went to report this incident to the main branch."
"He left... without my permission?"
The temperature plummeted. It wasn't a technique. It wasn't qi. It was intent—pure, unfiltered, sovereign killing intent.
The elder knelt instantly.
Mo Chuang didn't speak for a while. He closed his eyes, recalling the moment he struck Mo Lin—the crack of bone, the satisfying feel of his fist breaking something divine. And then, the rage that came after.
Mo Lin had interfered. He had robbed him of vengeance. He had tainted his moment.
Unforgivable.
"Summon the shadow guardians," Mo Chuang said.
"But young master—"
"Now."
The elder vanished without a sound.
In the Celestial Desire Sect, panic spread like wildfire.
Ling Shuo had been demoted publicly. Her beauty arts shattered, her secrets exposed. She now wandered the outer gardens, her spirit core fractured, her followers gone. People avoided her as soon as they saw her.
Sonewhere in the vast sea of knowledge,
Mo Chuang's eyes snapped open. The darkness in the recovery hall felt thicker now, like a living thing pressing on his chest. His body was still weak, blood seeping slowly from the wounds, but inside his mind, the voice stirred again—sharper, colder.
"You can no longer run from who you truly are. The sovereign blood runs through your veins, whether you accept it or not."
He clenched his fists, breath ragged. Outside, the world carried on as if nothing had happened—sect disciples training, elders debating. But Mo Chuang knew: this was the calm before a storm that would tear the heavens apart.
Just then, footsteps echoed outside the chamber. The door creaked open, revealing a figure cloaked in shadow.
"Mo Chuang," the visitor said softly, "it's time you learned the truth about your lineage—and the price of your birthright."
The cloaked figure stepped inside, the faint glow of their aura barely piercing the gloom. Mo Chuang's eyes narrowed despite his pain.
"Who are you?" His voice was low, almost a growl.
The figure pulled back their hood, revealing a sharp face framed by silver hair, eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom and cold intent.
"I am the last remnant of the Sovereign's Bloodline," they said. "I've been watching you, waiting for the moment you could awaken what's hidden within you."
Mo Chuang's heart pounded. "Why now? Why reveal yourself after all this time?"
"Because," the visitor smiled thinly, "the forces hunting you have grown impatient. They fear your rise. And soon, the world will tremble under the shadow of your true sovereignty."
A heavy silence fell. Outside the chamber, faint sounds of the sect's life carried on—unaware that history was about to be rewritten.
The visitor extended a slender hand. "Come with me. There's much you must see, and no time to lose."
Mo Chuang hesitated only for a moment. The hunger for power, for truth, burned stronger than his wounds. He grasped the hand.
As the room dissolved into shadows, the voice inside his mind whispered once more, "welcome home, sovereign"