A cold, sharp wind swept through the ruins of the Heavenly Flying Sect—once a proud sanctuary of cultivation, now reduced to shattered stone and scorched wood. The halls that had echoed with the voices of arrogant elders now stood silent, haunted by the memory of their fall.
Amid the rubble, Hei Mo's elite puppeteers and trained assassins moved like whispers in the dark. Clad in black, their eyes glinted beneath hoods and masks as they plundered every corner. No door was left unopened, no chamber unexplored. Even the formation-sealed vaults, buried beneath layers of spiritual barriers, were cracked open by ancient puppetry scripts and brute force.
By the time the sun set, they had harvested the sect's entire legacy.
Inside the deepest vault, they unearthed:
1,000+ high-grade spiritual stones, each one shining with dense condensed energy.
10,000 mid-grade stones, crackling faintly with elemental qi.
100,000 low-grade stones, scooped into sacks like ordinary gravel.
Dozens of forbidden scrolls—wrapped in silk, sealed by ancient runes. Techniques that had been guarded for centuries now lay in their hands: mental domination arts, poison and corrosion techniques, soul fragmentation scripts, illusion techniques designed to drive enemies mad, and more.
By nightfall, they had returned to the mountain stronghold.
The great hall blazed with torchlight. Its obsidian pillars stood like silent guardians, the Shadow Army lined up in formation—orderly, respectful, and alert. Warriors in dark armor, robed alchemists, masked puppeteers, demi-human beastkin with gleaming eyes—every division of the growing force was present.
At the far end of the hall, seated on his elevated throne, Xuan Long watched them. He wore a black robe embroidered with silver dragons, and his eyes burned with unshakable authority.
Hei Mo stepped forward, kneeling with a bow.
"Master," he said, his tone sharp and reverent. "We have returned. These are the spoils."
Behind him, rows of subordinates marched in carrying chests and crates, laying them out for inspection. Piles of glowing spiritual stones, pill furnaces inscribed with runes, scrolls radiating dangerous auras, rare herbs packed with medicinal essence, and equipment salvaged from the corpses of sect elders—all now belonged to Xuan Long.
He nodded slowly, his voice echoing in the hall.
"Summon everyone."
In minutes, the great hall was filled to the brim. Shadow cultivators knelt with one knee to the floor. The energy in the room pulsed—loyalty, ambition, and excitement stirred beneath the surface like a rising tide.
Xuan Long stood. His voice rang out with clear power.
"From today onward, we lack nothing."
He raised his hand, gesturing toward the treasures.
"These are yours. Take what fits your path. Choose your future—whether it be swordsmanship, poison, illusions, alchemy, or puppet arts. No more scarcity. No more begging for resources. We rise from here."
A tremble ran through the crowd. Whispers spread like wildfire. Hope lit in the eyes of some; others were consumed by eagerness, already picturing their path to ascension.
Meanwhile, in the quiet backyard of the fortress, something miraculous took shape.
Xuan Long walked alone to the cultivation grounds. There, he stood before the Spiritual River—a powerful water source infused with endless qi, a reward gifted by a blood puppet elder in the past. He raised his hand and began carving channels through the land, threading spiritual veins deep into the soil.
He embedded spiritual stones of every grade into the channels, layering formations to accelerate the flow. Rare herbs—some thousands of years old—were planted beside the river to nourish the air. As spiritual energy surged, mist rolled in, forming a dense fog that carried the fragrance of raw power.
Then, he turned his focus to the residence chambers.
Using the river's qi, he rebuilt every room with reinforced formations, channeling energy directly into the walls and floor. Now, even a novice cultivator sleeping in those rooms would experience a tenfold acceleration in growth.
He stood in the center of it all, breathing in the raw potential.
"Anyone who cultivates here," he declared, "will ascend faster than any sect disciple ever could."
Mu Chen watched from a distance, silent and focused. In his hands, he clutched a particular scroll that seemed to throb with dark energy—the Poison Soul Art, once belonging to the now-dead Poison Elder of the Heavenly Flying Sect.
His hands trembled as he read through the technique.
"This… This can let me kill someone three levels above me…" he muttered.
But he didn't stop there.
Mu Chen gathered the one hundred poison specialists under his command—silent killers, once orphans, street rats, or failed disciples who had pledged their loyalty to him. Together, they secluded themselves, learning and refining the Poison Soul Art.
Under Mu Chen's leadership, their training intensified. Venoms brewed in sealed chambers. Insect-type puppets were modified to deliver enhanced poisons. By the end of the week, that unit alone could destroy an entire sect's outer court undetected.
Back in the fortress, Xuan Long summoned his pill master, Lin Qian, a genius alchemist with peerless spiritual sense.
She knelt before him.
"I assign you a task," Xuan Long said. "These are yours—high-grade pill furnaces, rare herbs, and fifty captured alchemist disciples. You will lead them. Train them. Turn them into a production force."
Her eyes widened. "You mean…"
"Yes," he nodded. "They'll make the mid and low-grade pills. You'll focus on breakthroughs and high-grade refinement. I want an alchemy division that can rival the major sects."
Lin Qian lowered her head, trembling.
"I understand, Master. I will build you a pill hall that will shake the world."
As the fortress buzzed with progress, training, and resource allocation, Xuan Long quietly withdrew from the public eye and returned to his private chamber.
There, lying on the bed, was Xun'er.
She sat upright the moment she saw him enter, eyes red from crying. Her voice was small and filled with guilt.
"Brother…"
He walked over, crouching beside her bed. His tone was soft, but heavy with emotion.
"Do you know what mistake you made today?"
She lowered her gaze, lip quivering.
"I'm sorry… I just… I thought you'd get hurt. I was scared. I didn't want to lose you…"
His heart ached at her words, but he kept his expression calm. He reached out and pulled her into his arms.
"I don't get hurt, Xun'er. I'm strong enough to protect everyone."
He paused, voice growing heavy.
"But you're not. If even one attack had touched you today… you would've died."
Tears slipped down her cheeks as she clung to him.
"I promise… I won't do it again…"
He stroked her hair gently, holding her close like a precious treasure.
"That's good. Sleep now. I'll always be here to protect you."
A few minutes later, her breathing softened. She had fallen asleep, curled against him like a kitten.
Xuan Long gazed down at her face, his heart softening.
"You were trying to protect me, huh?"
He smiled faintly.
"You're really too cute…"
His smile faded into quiet resolve. Outside, the world was changing. Alliances were forming. Enemies were watching. But here, in this moment of peace—this tiny life resting in his arms—was his reason to fight.
To rise.
To rule.
And to never fall again.