The days that followed were deceptively calm. The storm that should have descended upon the Zhenlong household after the duel and the ninety-ninth lightning strike never came. Instead, the city's pulse seemed to slow in their direction, as though wary eyes were now watching from a respectful distance.
Haotian took the opportunity without hesitation. Under the watchful gaze of Yangshen, Yuying, and Jinhai, his training intensified. Each dawn, the inner courtyard would echo with the crisp rhythm of his strikes, the flare of his techniques, and the hum of cultivated qi. Without the usual political noise or external distractions, his focus became absolute—tempered steel sharpening against itself.
What no one expected was how quickly the tone outside shifted from caution to courtship.
No sect, guild, or political family was willing to test the Zhenlong boundaries after witnessing—or hearing of—that final lightning strike. Instead, they sought to get closer. Delegations began arriving with carefully chosen gifts, rare herbs, spirit ores, and treasures "too humble for such a house, yet offered with sincerity."
Some were more transparent in their ambitions. Polished letters arrived from prominent families, delicately inquiring about alliances through marriage. Sons and daughters, draped in silks and subtle perfumes, were introduced at garden banquets, winter teas, and temple gatherings. The underlying message was always the same: Let us be part of your future, so that your shadow might also shield us.
The ancestors accepted the attention with the calm diplomacy of seasoned rulers, but made no promises. Haotian, for his part, treated the sudden influx of would-be suitors with the same indifference he gave to lightning bolts—acknowledging their presence, but never letting them break his focus.
And so, in the hush that followed chaos, the Zhenlong household grew stronger—not just in cultivation, but in influence. Each day of silence outside their gates was another stone in the fortress of their untouchable reputation.
The problem began when one particular political family—the Qianlong clan—refused to take polite deflection for an answer. Their envoys came thrice in a single week, each time with more ostentatious gifts and increasingly suggestive "chance encounters" between Haotian and their so-called jewel of a daughter.
At first, the ancestors managed it quietly—Yuying declining visits with graceful words, Jinhai turning away processions at the outer gates, Yangshen delivering subtle warnings that would have frozen lesser men in place. But the Qianlong persisted, sending invitations directly to Haotian, bypassing the elders entirely.
The boy himself gave them less attention than he gave to the morning wind. No matter how artfully phrased the offers, no matter how delicate the poetry or grand the promises of alliance, he only had one response: "Not interested."
His heart was in the pill furnace, not in matchmaking. His hands itched to grind herbs, his mind swam with the ratios of spirit root infusions and flame control cycles. To him, every hour wasted entertaining proposals was an hour stolen from his theories.
The morning after their latest visit, he vanished.
One moment he was in the inner courtyard adjusting a formation for heat distribution, the next… gone. No guards saw him leave, no disciples noticed his passing. Only the faint scent of crushed star-anise root lingered in the air, a telltale sign he'd taken his portable furnace kit.
By midday, the estate was in quiet uproar.
Yuying suggested sending elders to track him down, but Jinhai proposed someone else—someone Haotian would not avoid. Lianhua.
She found him hours later, sitting cross-legged beside a stream in the secluded East Grove, tinkering with a tiny alchemy array carved into the flat surface of a river stone. He didn't look up when she approached; he didn't have to.
"You're hard to find," she said softly.
"You're the only one I didn't mind finding me," he replied without pausing his work.
She sat beside him, their shoulders almost touching, and for a moment the air felt… still. Lianhua had been there since he was a baby—feeding him, watching over him, laughing at his early mischief. But now, the boy she once carried in her arms had grown, and the closeness between them carried a weight neither entirely recognized but both quietly felt.
"You could have told me," she murmured.
"You would have stopped me," he said, a faint smile curling at the edge of his lips.
"Of course I would have."
They sat in silence after that, watching the ripples on the stream. No matter the political noise outside, no matter the expectations pressing in, for now, Haotian had his peace—and someone who understood why he needed it.
By the time Haotian and Lianhua returned through the shaded avenue leading to the Zhenlong estate's front gate, the late afternoon sun was casting long spears of gold across the flagstones. The quiet of the grove felt far away now—replaced by the heavy tension of waiting eyes.
The Qianlong envoy stood in the open courtyard just beyond the gate, a full retinue arrayed behind him. Crimson-robed attendants held lacquered chests of gifts, their corners gleaming with embossed gold seals. At the center stood Qianlong Han, the clan's silver-tongued second elder, wearing a smile far too polished to be sincere.
The moment they stepped into view, the elder's eyes sharpened.
"Ah… Young Master Zhenlong," Han's voice carried like oil on water, smooth yet cloying. "We were concerned. Your household did not inform us you had… stepped out."
Lianhua's posture shifted subtly, placing herself half a step in front of Haotian. "The young master's activities are not for public schedule," she said coolly. "What matter demands such persistence at our gates?"
Han's smile didn't falter, but there was a flicker in his eyes—an irritation poorly hidden. "Merely a matter of mutual benefit. The Qianlong clan wishes to deepen ties. Our treasured granddaughter remains most eager to—"
"She will remain eager," Haotian cut in, his tone flat but carrying the faint crackle of residual lightning still clinging to his body. His eyes didn't even rise to meet the elder's; instead, they were fixed on the estate gates, as though weighing whether this conversation was worth finishing.
Han blinked, visibly caught off guard by the blunt dismissal. The attendants behind him shifted uneasily.
From deeper within the estate, the sound of footsteps echoed—measured, deliberate. The three Ancestors appeared at the far end of the walkway, their presence alone enough to shift the air.
Yangshen's gaze locked onto Han. "You've trespassed on our patience thrice this week, Elder Han. Once is persistence. Twice is intrusion. Thrice is insult."
Yuying's voice followed, smooth but edged like a hidden blade. "We will not repeat ourselves. The young master is not available for marriage proposals. This matter is closed."
Han's lips thinned, but the political calculus in his eyes told the rest—no alliance was worth provoking a house that could weather the 99th heavenly strike. With a curt bow, he gestured for his attendants to withdraw, the lacquered chests turning in unison as they retreated down the avenue.
Only when the gate closed behind them did the tension bleed from the air. Haotian exhaled, already turning toward the inner courtyards.
"Back to alchemy?" Lianhua asked quietly.
"Back to work," he said, the faintest curve of a smirk on his lips.
The clamor at the gates was already a fading memory by the time Haotian pushed open the heavy wooden doors of his workshop. The familiar scent of crushed herbs, mineral dust, and faint medicinal smoke greeted him like an old companion. Shafts of fading sunlight spilled through the high windows, illuminating the long tables laden with mortars, copper cauldrons, and jade vials.
But tonight, the air carried something else.
The residual charge from the tribulation still hummed beneath his skin, coiling in his meridians like caged thunder. Every step he took left the faintest snap of static in the air, and when his fingers brushed the bronze edge of a cauldron, a thin arc of blue-white lightning leapt to its surface with a sharp crack.
Haotian moved without hesitation. He swept aside the remnants of his earlier work and placed a thick-walled tribulation-forged cauldron at the center of the stone bench. From the storage rack, he selected a series of spirit herbs—some dried to brittle curls, others glistening with fresh dew—each chosen for their volatile affinity with lightning qi.
His hands blurred as he ground roots into powder, shaved crystalline shards into precise angles, and layered the cauldron with infusions in perfect sequence. The hum in his veins resonated with the flickering flame beneath the cauldron, until his own pulse began to dictate the rhythm of the concoction.
Then, he did what no alchemist in his right mind would dare—he opened the channels in his arms and let the tribulation energy pour into the brew.
A searing bolt arced from his palm to the liquid, sending the mixture roiling in a furious boil. The workshop walls shook under the sudden pressure, and the air filled with the crackling chorus of storm and flame. Sparks danced across the surface of the cauldron, igniting faint runic patterns etched into its sides—patterns Haotian had only ever seen in the oldest, most forbidden alchemical manuals.
The smell was sharp and metallic, tinged with the sweet bite of spirit flowers. Slowly, the storm inside the cauldron stabilized, the violent surges folding into a single, steady pulse—matching the rhythm of his own heart.
When the liquid settled, it was no longer the pale yellow of a common lightning tonic. Instead, it glowed a deep, translucent violet, arcs of miniature lightning crawling lazily along its surface like living veins.
Haotian lifted the cauldron lid, the heat brushing his face like the breath of a storm.
"This…" he murmured, almost to himself, "isn't just a pill base anymore."
It was something entirely new—an alchemical breakthrough born from surviving the heavens themselves.
Outside, in the deepening dusk, the three Ancestors stood in silent observation just beyond the workshop threshold. They exchanged glances but said nothing. Whatever this young cultivator was forging… it was no longer bound by the limits they understood.
The boy was gone. In his place stood a youth nearly as tall as Lianhua—leaner, broader in the shoulders, with a stance that spoke of refined balance. At thirteen, Haotian carried himself with a composure that unnerved visitors, his golden eyes calm, his hair tied neatly behind his head.
His cultivation had reached Core Formation—steady, refined, and without the instability that plagued most at his age. The old days of chaotic, ink-stained robes during alchemy trials were gone. Now, he worked with precise control, his workspace as immaculate as his movements.
The herb garden was no longer a simple plot. It had expanded until it covered nearly the entire eastern quarter of the estate—tiered, patterned, and humming with power. A matrix of chi-gathering formations wove through it, drawing in the essence of every element: fire, water, earth, metal, wood… and even the extended ones—wind, lightning, ice.
That same matrix had been adapted to the Zhenlong army's barracks. Slowly, subtly, the soldiers' elemental affinities shifted toward balance. The effect was quiet, almost invisible—but the ancestors saw the truth. They were creating a force that could adapt to any battlefield.
And Haotian… was the keystone.
The air shimmered faintly as the last rune pulsed, each intricate mark along the courtyard's stone tiles settling into a steady rhythm of soft light. Haotian stepped back from the final sigil, brushing a thin layer of dust from his hands, his expression calm yet quietly satisfied. The chi gathering matrix beneath their feet continued its steady hum, feeding the new network of arrays he had spent weeks designing.
The barrier formation flared first—an iridescent dome flashing briefly before vanishing entirely from sight, its defensive pulse sinking into the estate's very foundations. Then came the concealment layer, bending light and resonance in subtle, fluid waves. Within moments, it painted a perfect illusory copy of the estate over itself, seamless enough that even a cultivator's divine sense would detect nothing unusual. No energy bleed, no stray aura, no sound—only a tranquil, unassuming compound in the middle of Tianluan's noble district.
Lianhua, who had been watching intently from the side, broke into a smile and began clapping. "Perfectly executed," she said warmly.
Haotian turned to her, returning a small but genuine smile. "Thank you. This will keep the estate secure without drawing eyes."
They began walking side-by-side along the perimeter, their steps slow and deliberate as they inspected each segment. He spoke softly, explaining how the chi flow from the gathering formation could support the new barrier and concealment layers indefinitely without overtaxing the system. She listened, nodding, and occasionally testing the rune lines with her own spiritual sense.
Then he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I've been thinking about the next step—something even more… unconventional."
Lianhua gave him a side glance, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "Another one of your crazy ideas?"
"Of course," he said with a trace of humor.
She shook her head, though her eyes softened. Over the years she had grown used to his mind never staying still, flitting between formations, alchemy, and theories that would make even veteran cultivators hesitate. Yet unlike the boy she had once known—messy, unconcerned with his appearance, distracted—this Haotian carried himself with a quiet composure. His robes were neat, his hair tied back, his steps measured. Even his garden, now sprawling across the estate's grounds, was meticulously arranged, the air around it saturated with elemental chi.
They passed the central courtyard where the convergence point of the threefold formation lay hidden beneath polished stone. Around them, the estate felt subtly different—calmer, more still, as though the world outside had been pushed just far enough away to give them breathing room.
And for the first time in years, Lianhua allowed herself to think: perhaps his "crazy ideas" were exactly what the Zhenlong household needed.
The training ground lay quiet except for the steady hiss of the wind weaving between the courtyard's pillars. In the center, Haotian stood barefoot, eyes closed, his breath sinking deep into his dantian. Around him, faint motes of light—each a different hue—floated in the air like slow-burning embers. Fire coiled against water, earth pressed against lightning, wind brushed along ice's edge, yet all bent toward him in a slow gravitational pull.
He moved.
A single step forward—shff!—sent a ripple through the air. His palms cut the space in a wide arc, heat rolling in one arm, frost in the other, before crossing in a mirrored strike. The courtyard floor hissed under the sudden clash of opposing elements, steam curling upward in twisting columns. Without pause, he shifted into Phantom Steps, his body flickering from one spot to another, each footfall leaving behind a crackling imprint of lightning. Ghostly afterimages—blue, red, gold—hung in the air for a heartbeat before fading.
From the veranda, Lianhua leaned on the railing, watching the elemental colors flash across his movements like strokes on a living canvas. Her eyes followed him without blinking.
Farther back, Meiyun stood in silence, arms folded, gaze narrowing. There was something in the structure of his movements… a rhythm, a relentless cadence she had seen before. Then it struck her—these were the same sequences as the Demon God Killing Martial Arts.
Haotian blurred again, lightning-infused Phantom Steps snapping him across the courtyard in jagged lines. He halted, gathered wind into the soles of his feet, and attempted to merge it with the lightning, forcing the two elements into the same current. The air spat in protest—static flaring, wind scattering in dissonance. The merge collapsed.
A faint scowl touched his lips. He exhaled once, letting the frustration burn away, then shifted his stance. The temperature in the courtyard dropped a fraction as his chi condensed.
He drew the elemental flows together—fire, ice, earth, wind, lightning, water, crystal—leaving out only yin, yang, and origin. The colors bled into his arms like liquid light, spiraling down into his clenched right fist. His knees bent, his left hand braced against the air, chi pressure mounting until the ground trembled.
Meiyun's eyes widened. She knew this setup.
Haotian's gaze sharpened to a killing edge.
"Fist of Ruin."
The world seemed to inhale. His fist came down in a savage vertical arc—THUUM!—striking the earth with a concussive detonation. The ground beneath him fractured in an expanding spiderweb, each crack glowing with residual elemental light. Shards of stone lifted into the air, suspended for a heartbeat before shattering outward in a low, rolling shockwave. The air was thick with heat and frost, the scent of ozone biting at the lungs.
A lingering hum of chi vibrated through the courtyard walls as the energy dissipated. Where his heel had planted for stability, the flagstones were ground into powder.
Haotian straightened slowly, exhaling the last traces of gathered energy, his shoulders rising and falling in steady control.
From the veranda, Lianhua's applause broke the silence, her voice warm with praise.
Meiyun did not speak—her eyes were still fixed on the crater, and on the young man who had just carved it.
The dust from his Fist of Ruin still clung to the air, drifting in lazy spirals toward the ruined courtyard floor. Haotian stood in the crater's heart, eyes half-lidded, letting his breathing slow. But inside, his thoughts were already turning back to the one thing he hadn't cracked—the wind and lightning merge.
He turned his left palm upward. Lightning arced into existence above it—white-blue forks crawling over his skin like restless serpents. With his right hand, he pulled the surrounding air into motion, coaxing the wind to spin into a compact vortex.
At first, the two energies swirled side by side, like predators circling in the same cage. Then he tried to weave them together.
Hsssss—KRAK!
The moment the currents touched, they spat each other away. The wind dispersed in a gust that threw his hair back; the lightning lashed upward, striking the courtyard wall in a burst of blue fire.
From the veranda, Lianhua leaned forward slightly, brows knitting.
Meiyun, however, watched with arms still folded. Her eyes sharpened—not in judgment, but in calculation.
Haotian exhaled once, then tried again. This time, he used his Phantom Steps to create controlled microbursts of wind under his feet, letting them build a circular airflow around his body. Sparks danced along his forearms as he layered lightning over the wind's skin instead of trying to fuse it directly.
WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP—the air began to pulse in rhythm with his steps. The lightning, following the wind's path, started to flow with it instead of against it.
For three beats, it worked. The air around him was alive with both speed and voltage, his movement blurring into a streak of electric gale.
Then—
BANG!
The merge collapsed, the lightning discharging wildly into the vortex. The resulting shockwave knocked him two steps back and sent a nearby stone lantern tumbling.
He hissed through his teeth, planting his feet to ride out the recoil.
In the distance, Meiyun's lips curved—not quite a smile, but the faintest sign of approval.
Lianhua called out, "That was closer."
Haotian shook out his arms, feeling the residual static crawl along his skin. His eyes narrowed. He wasn't finished. Not yet.
The Central Hall's quiet weight pressed down like the vaulted ceiling itself. Haotian stepped forward, the echo of his footsteps fading into stillness. Ruolan's gaze found him first—gentle but intent, her hands resting lightly atop one another in her lap. Wuhen sat at the head of the hall, posture straight, presence steady, eyes revealing nothing. Beside Ruolan, Qirou regarded him with her composed, unreadable calm, the air between the two women carrying a subtle undercurrent only long years in the same household could shape.
"Haotian," Ruolan began, her voice warm yet measured, "I have something to ask you."
He inclined his head, waiting.
"In two days, I will visit my parents—your maternal grandparents," she said, watching his face closely. "It has been too long since we have seen each other. I would like you to come with me."
For a heartbeat, Haotian's mind went blank.
Visit… her parents? Leave Tianluan?
The idea pressed against him like an unfamiliar wind. He'd never stepped beyond the city's protective walls, not once in his life. His days had been consumed with training, study, and the tight circles of the Zhenlong estate. The notion of traveling—meeting strangers, family though they were—felt foreign, almost daunting.
His mouth opened, then closed again. "I…" He glanced sideways, uncertain how to form the answer.
From beside him, Lianhua shifted just enough for him to notice. She met his eyes, a small, reassuring smile curving her lips. Her slight nod carried the quiet message: You should go.
The hesitation in his chest loosened.
"…Yes," he said finally, straightening a little. "I will go."
Ruolan's smile softened, relief glinting behind her eyes. Wuhen gave the smallest approving nod. Even Qirou's gaze flickered briefly, as though assessing him with a new weight.
Haotian didn't know it yet—couldn't know it—but this simple decision would pull him toward an experience that would carve itself into his life with cruel precision.
One he would not soon forget.