Lu Family Estate – Eastern Imperial City
The Lu Family hall, once a symbol of wealth and ancestral pride, now radiated tension. Crimson silk banners fluttered from the walls, embroidered with golden dragons, yet they failed to lighten the atmosphere. A suffocating silence clung to the marble floor, broken only by the slow, rhythmic tap… tap… tap… of a finger against wood.
Lu Changming, Patriarch of the Lu Family, sat atop his elevated throne—an ornate chair carved from thousand-year-old spiritwood. His face, weathered by age and fury, was a canvas of restrained violence.
Before him, a bowed elder stepped forward, holding out a sealed scroll with both hands.
"Patriarch," the elder said, voice even but cautious. "We have a lead."
Lu Changming took the scroll with deliberate calm, breaking the seal with a flick of his qi. As the parchment unfurled, a spiritual painting emerged—etched by an eyewitness with precise memory. A young man's face stared back at him. Cold eyes. Raven hair. Unfamiliar, yet unforgettable.
"This one…" Lu Changming muttered, voice low.
Another elder stepped in from the side, his tone sharp. "Two months ago, he killed four of our bloodline—Lu Hong, Lu Fan, Lu Jie, and Lu Ping. All dead in the outer district."
"For what reason?" Lu Changming's voice was barely a whisper, but every elder in the room flinched.
"To rescue a boy," the elder replied. "Name: Mu Chen. No known sect. A commoner. Mortal-born."
A crack echoed through the hall as Lu Changming crushed the scroll in his hand, spiritual energy leaking from his fingers.
"And this Mu Chen… now walks freely in the mountains?" he growled.
The air in the hall grew heavier. Even the jade floor beneath his throne seemed to tremble.
Another elder stepped forward, urgency in his tone. "We believe he is being protected. Hidden. Perhaps by the very same man who murdered our kin."
"Does this shadow have a name?" Lu Changming hissed.
"No. He carries no sect aura. No formal background. He is a ghost."
Lu Changming stood slowly. The aura of a peak cultivator surged around him, making the scrolls on nearby shelves flutter violently.
"Fifty low-grade spirit stones," he declared coldly, "for the head of Mu Chen. Triple that for the one who shields him."
He turned toward the gathered elders, eyes blazing.
"I don't care if they're hiding in caves or under the sea. Dig them out."
"Yes, Patriarch," they said in unison, bowing deeply.
As they turned to leave, Lu Changming whispered under his breath, "You dare spit on the Lu name… I will burn your bones into dust."
Heavenly Flying Sect – Outer Disciples' Courtyard
Sunlight filtered through tall pines, casting broken shadows over the stone courtyard. The wind carried the faint scent of pine resin and distant incense.
Feng Yao, an elite outer disciple known for his discipline and sharp blade, sat cross-legged beneath a twisted tree. His long hair was tied back in a crimson ribbon, his robe fluttering softly in the breeze. His cultivation had reached Qi Vein Level 9, and his aura pulsed with precision.
A jade slip buzzed in his palm, glowing softly. As the message embedded within unraveled, Feng Yao's calm expression cracked.
His brows twitched. Then his eyes narrowed.
"Liang Hai…" he muttered. "Killed? In the western mountains?"
He clenched his jaw, rereading the details: Demon cultivator. A man with no known spiritual signature. Unknown technique. No sect affiliation.
Feng Yao stood up, fists trembling.
"You dare strike down someone from my branch? You think the world won't respond?"
The wind howled across the courtyard as if answering his fury.
"I don't care if you are demon, ghost, or beast," he whispered darkly. "You entered the wrong world."
Mountain Shelter – Evening
Dusk settled over the mountains like a velvet shroud. The stone shelter glowed with a soft orange light as torches flickered along the cavern walls. Outside, cold winds howled between peaks. Inside, warmth and silence ruled.
In the main chamber, a wooden dining table sat beneath a hanging lantern. A large iron pot simmered in the center, filling the space with the rich aroma of beast meat stew and wild herbs. Steam curled toward the ceiling, dancing in the firelight.
Xuan Long sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed but alert. Around him sat Mu Chen, Hei Mo, and the two demi-human illusionists. The group ate quietly, the only sound the clinking of wooden spoons and the occasional crackle of flame.
Then, Xuan Long set down his bowl and turned to Mu Chen.
"Poison this."
Mu Chen froze, spoon halfway to his mouth.
"M-Master?"
"Use the strongest poison you've created."
The entire room stilled. Even the flames seemed to hesitate.
Mu Chen swallowed hard. His hands trembled as he reached into his pouch and pulled out a small black vial. Two drops—thick, glistening, and oily—fell into the bowl.
"This one can kill a Qi Vein Level 7 cultivator instantly," he said softly.
Xuan Long took the bowl without a word and raised it to his lips.
The others watched, breath held.
He drank it all in one motion. Set the bowl down.
Then… silence.
Ten seconds passed. Twenty.
Nothing.
Xuan Long exhaled.
"Devoured."
He wiped his mouth with a napkin, completely unfazed.
"Even poisons meant to kill me... turn into faint energy. Too weak to enhance me. But enough to confirm it."
His voice was calm, but something cold hid beneath it. Something tired.
He leaned back in his seat and looked down at his hand.
"This body… is truly indestructible."
Hei Mo stared at him, shaken. "Master… what realm are you really in?"
Xuan Long turned his gaze on him, and for a moment, there was a flicker—an ancient, unfathomable depth in his eyes. A storm trapped behind ice.
"You don't need to know that."
Hei Mo immediately bowed his head.
"Understood, Master."
Mu Chen remained silent, unsure whether to feel awe or fear. The demi-humans exchanged glances but said nothing.
Xuan Long stood and walked toward the cavern's exit. The wind outside howled louder now, sending thin sheets of snow drifting in. He stared out at the horizon, where the stars blinked to life one by one.
"I cannot be killed by poison. Not by blade. Not by curse."
He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the wind, to the silence between breaths.
"But immortality means nothing," he whispered, "if the past still bleeds."
And behind him, his disciples watched in silence—aware, finally, that the man they followed was something far beyond human.
He had become a truth no force could erase.