The chamber was heavy with the scent of aged sandalwood and the lingering hum of restrained cultivation pressure. Haotian sat upon the edge of the low ceremonial bed, posture upright but still, his expression unreadable beneath the soft lantern light. The faint traces of golden radiance flickered in his pupils—a residual echo of the second core's awakening—but his gaze was level, unwavering.
Before him, the four elders of the Zhenlong estate stood arrayed in a half-circle. Jinhai, arms folded, leaned slightly forward as if measuring the boy anew. Beside him, Meiyun's hands were clasped within her sleeves, her eyes sharp yet shadowed by thought. Yuying's gaze was steadier still, the calm of a deep lake hiding the weight of a thousand judgments. The fourth elder, Zhenlong Yangshen, regarded Haotian with the quiet patience of a man deciding if the storm before him would be a boon or a calamity.
The silence was not accidental—it was a test. The air pressed like an invisible weight, as though each breath Haotian took was being measured for intent.
Finally, Jinhai broke the stillness. "You woke sooner than we expected."
Haotian inclined his head faintly. "I did not wish to linger in weakness." His voice carried no arrogance, yet the words carried a quiet defiance—an answer that could be read as either discipline or challenge, depending on the ear.
Meiyun's gaze narrowed. "And yet you acted without restraint before. You forced the seal upon your second core open prematurely."
"I acted because the moment required it," Haotian replied, tone even. "If I had hesitated, the opportunity would have passed, and what was gained would have been lost."
Yuying's eyes flickered with something between intrigue and warning. "An opportunity… or temptation?"
"Both," Haotian admitted. "But I did not break."
Yangshen finally stepped forward, his presence more felt than seen. "You understand the cost of such actions? The damage done to your foundation is not light. There are paths in cultivation where a single misstep—"
"—becomes the path itself," Haotian interrupted quietly.
That drew a murmur from Jinhai, though his face did not change. "You speak as though you already see your way forward."
"I see what must be done," Haotian answered. His golden-slit eyes swept over them—not in challenge, but as though weighing their resolve as they weighed his. "I will not be caged."
The words settled in the air like a drawn blade.
For a long moment, none of the elders spoke. Then Meiyun's lips curved—not into a smile, but the faint acknowledgment of a truth she would rather not admit.
"You would be a dangerous man to guide," she said.
"More dangerous if restrained," Yuying murmured in return.
Jinhai's gaze lingered on Haotian a heartbeat longer, then he turned slightly to the others. "Then perhaps… the question is no longer if we guide him, but how."
Haotian remained silent, letting the weight of their own conclusions press against them instead of forcing his own will further into the moment.
The balance in the room shifted. The boy they had thought to contain was no longer merely a matter of control—he was already becoming a matter of consequence.
The air inside the ancestral chamber seemed thicker than stone—woven with incense smoke and the heavy weight of centuries-old authority. The twelve elders sat in a crescent, their robes trailing like shadows across the polished floor, while the carved dragon pillars along the walls gleamed faintly in the lamplight. The earlier debate in the main hall still burned between them, though now the audience was gone, and only the echo of Haotian's own voice remained.
He stood in the center of the circle, posture firm, eyes bright—not with defiance, but conviction.
"If I grow strong enough," he said, his tone steady despite the pressure of so many ancient gazes, "there will be no need for reliance on powers beyond my control. I will not need the Eyes to protect me. I will be the protection. And more—" his gaze swept the elders, "—I will study formations until I find a way to seal the cores, or at least limit their output when it's not needed. If danger cannot awaken them, then no threat will come from me."
The ancestors exchanged long, silent glances. A few narrowed their eyes; others' expressions softened with reluctant acknowledgment.
Zhenlong Yuying's voice finally broke the quiet, low and deliberate. "You speak like one twice your age, child. But words are not proof."
Haotian inclined his head. "Then let me earn the proof."
One elder tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, the sound sharp in the hush. "Your reasoning holds truth. If you avoid danger, the cores need not stir. But danger finds those with talent… and your talent burns too brightly."
"That brightness," Haotian said, "is exactly why I must sharpen it into something I can wield—before it blinds me or anyone else."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. The oldest among them, Elder Shenxiu, closed his eyes for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was gravel laced with finality. "Then we set conditions."
Another elder leaned forward. "You may continue your training—but under strict observation. Your cultivation speed will be monitored. You will report progress on any formation studies that may contain your cores."
"And," added Yuying, "you will not, under any circumstances, attempt to unseal them on your own. Should you sense a stir beyond your control, you will immediately submit to suppression protocols."
Haotian did not hesitate. "Agreed."
The elders sat back, the decision hanging in the air like a drawn blade, but something unspoken had shifted—an almost imperceptible recognition. They would watch him closely, restrain him where they could… but they had also, in their own way, entrusted him with the chance to prove himself.
And Haotian knew, in that silent moment, that they had given him exactly what he needed—a path to walk forward without chains, even if those chains still followed in the shadows.
The mountain plateau had been cleared of all other disciples for this day. The ancestors had decreed it—his first sanctioned training under the new limits they had agreed upon. The morning air was thin and sharp, the kind that prickled the skin and made the senses sharpen. Clouds skimmed low over the cliffs, dragging their shadows across the carved stone platforms.
Haotian stepped into the center ring, his breath steady, his gaze leveled. The restrictions they placed upon him were still fresh in his mind—how far he could push his cultivation, the thresholds not to be crossed, the balance between discipline and restraint. He had agreed to them, not out of submission, but because he understood that proving his mastery under limitation would only strengthen his resolve.
But as he moved into his opening stance, something inside him shifted. A pulse—deep and bright—flickered through his meridians. The hairs along his arms rose, and a sound like a low hum resonated in the air around him. He raised his hand, and the hum deepened into a sharp crack.
Lightning erupted from his fingertips—not the silver-white arcs he'd seen from others, but golden lightning. Rich, radiant, almost metallic in its glow. It danced across his skin like a living thread of the heavens, leaping and curling with uncanny precision. When he shifted his footing and swept his palm through the air, the wind stirred in perfect harmony with the current, merging into a seamless storm. The gust bent the golden arcs into a spiraling spear of light and motion—swift, fluid, without the slightest resistance between elements.
His eyes narrowed. The elders had spoken of restraint. But this… this wasn't something to suppress. This was his. And he would master it.
The elders exchanged no words at first—only silent, unblinking stares as the crackling arcs danced over Haotian's hands, wrapping around his forearms like golden serpents of light. The training field had fallen so still that the faint hiss of the electricity became the only sound.
The oldest of the four, Yuying, narrowed her eyes. "That is… not the same lightning as before," she murmured, her voice cutting through the quiet like a low chime. "It bears the purity of celestial tribulation… and yet, it obeys him."
Jinhai's gaze sharpened, studying the controlled flow. "No wild surges. No instability. He's weaving wind through lightning as though they were a single breath—like a calligrapher's brushstroke."
Meiyun stepped forward, her robes brushing against the stones. "This wasn't in the Heaven-Sundered Trinity Scripture's projections."
The fourth ancestor, Yangshen, folded his arms slowly. "Which means… something awakened during the incident. This is not mere elemental affinity—this is inheritance."
Below, Haotian remained unaware of their hushed deliberations, wholly focused on guiding the golden current. The arcs rippled in perfect sync with the gusts around him, spiraling together into a smooth, fluid vortex before dispersing harmlessly into the air.
Yuying's fingers tightened around the prayer bead she held. "If this is what manifests under restriction, what will happen when the seal is gone?"
No one answered. But in their silence, a new understanding settled between them—Haotian's path forward was no longer merely about containment. It was about preparing for the day when no seal could hold him.
Haotian's breathing slowed as the last flicker of golden lightning faded from his hands. Instead of continuing the drills, he stood still in the middle of the training ground, eyes distant, mind already chasing a dozen possibilities.
Movement first. Phantom Step and Silent Step had already given him unmatched agility, but with this new elemental harmony, he could elevate it further—into deception. His lips curved slightly as an idea formed: confusion and surprise. What if, instead of simply vanishing between steps, he split into multiple afterimages, each crackling with golden arcs? Six clones, all dashing outward in different directions. Opponents would falter, unsure which was real—and that instant of hesitation would be his opening.
He crouched, quickly pulling out his writing slate from his satchel. The ancestors, still observing from the upper terrace, watched in puzzled silence as the boy began scribbling furiously, head bent in concentration.
Then his focus shifted. "A way to stop runners…" he muttered to himself. His gaze tilted upward toward the clouds. A rope? No—too simple. A net? Possibly… but what if it was forged from chains? Heavy enough to resist spiritual cutting, reinforced with lightning to paralyze. He jotted the idea down. A chain-net for multiple targets, and for single opponents—a chained whip. Flexible, fast, with a sharp, bladed tip for cutting if needed. Both could double as anchors for pulling enemies back.
His stylus scratched rapidly over the slate. Next—wide area control. Something to dominate the field at once. His thoughts moved faster now, each idea feeding into the next. A network of lightning anchors driven into the ground around him, each acting as a node. Any opponent stepping within their range could be struck on command, a multi-target barrage triggered entirely by his will.
He paused, looking over his notes, then added refinements in the margins—potential formations to enhance power output, rune inscriptions to stabilize the lightning flow, ways to weave wind into every step of these techniques for added speed.
Up on the terrace, Jinhai murmured, "He's not just training—he's designing."Meiyun's eyes followed each movement of his hand. "Every battle he's seen, he's already thinking of counters."Yuying's gaze lingered a moment longer. "…And not a single one of those ideas is conventional."
For the next several days, Haotian worked in seclusion, preparing materials and adjusting his formations. The training ground filled with partial constructs—half-finished rune circles, chain lengths forged from special alloys, carved anchor spikes humming faintly with stored lightning. Each night, he revised his notes by lamplight, perfecting the theory before moving on to field tests.
By the time the week was over, the golden lightning no longer just answered him—it danced to the rhythm of his plans.
Haotian's breathing slowed as the last flicker of golden lightning faded from his hands. Instead of continuing the drills, he stood still in the middle of the training ground, eyes distant, mind already chasing a dozen possibilities.
Movement first. Phantom Step and Silent Step had already given him unmatched agility, but with this new elemental harmony, he could elevate it further—into deception. His lips curved slightly as an idea formed: confusion and surprise. What if, instead of simply vanishing between steps, he split into multiple afterimages, each crackling with golden arcs? Six clones, all dashing outward in different directions. Opponents would falter, unsure which was real—and that instant of hesitation would be his opening.
He crouched, quickly pulling out his writing slate from his satchel. The ancestors, still observing from the upper terrace, watched in puzzled silence as the boy began scribbling furiously, head bent in concentration.
Then his focus shifted. "A way to stop runners…" he muttered to himself. His gaze tilted upward toward the clouds. A rope? No—too simple. A net? Possibly… but what if it was forged from chains? Heavy enough to resist spiritual cutting, reinforced with lightning to paralyze. He jotted the idea down. A chain-net for multiple targets, and for single opponents—a chained whip. Flexible, fast, with a sharp, bladed tip for cutting if needed. Both could double as anchors for pulling enemies back.
His stylus scratched rapidly over the slate. Next—wide area control. Something to dominate the field at once. His thoughts moved faster now, each idea feeding into the next. A network of lightning anchors driven into the ground around him, each acting as a node. Any opponent stepping within their range could be struck on command, a multi-target barrage triggered entirely by his will.
He paused, looking over his notes, then added refinements in the margins—potential formations to enhance power output, rune inscriptions to stabilize the lightning flow, ways to weave wind into every step of these techniques for added speed.
Up on the terrace, Jinhai murmured, "He's not just training—he's designing."Meiyun's eyes followed each movement of his hand. "Every battle he's seen, he's already thinking of counters."Yuying's gaze lingered a moment longer. "…And not a single one of those ideas is conventional."
For the next several days, Haotian worked in seclusion, preparing materials and adjusting his formations. The training ground filled with partial constructs—half-finished rune circles, chain lengths forged from special alloys, carved anchor spikes humming faintly with stored lightning. Each night, he revised his notes by lamplight, perfecting the theory before moving on to field tests.
By the time the week was over, the golden lightning no longer just answered him—it danced to the rhythm of his plans.
The mountain winds howled across the Zhenlong ancestral training plateau, sweeping over stone terraces carved by generations of cultivators. The elders stood in a half-circle along the upper ledge, their gazes fixed on the solitary figure below.
Haotian stepped onto the central ring—barefoot, loose training robes stirring in the breeze. The faint crackle of lightning already coiled around his arms and shoulders, whispering like the breath of some caged storm. Yet it wasn't the pale blue-white of ordinary lightning. This was molten gold, running in steady, smooth arcs, as if each spark had weight and purpose.
He inhaled.
The air trembled. Golden sparks threaded upward into the sky, spiraling around him before snapping back to his body in a whip-like recoil. With a slow, deliberate step, he drew his foot across the ring's surface. The moment his sole pressed down, wind surged in a circular sweep, carrying the lightning with it.
The wind-lightning combination flowed seamlessly—no jagged resistance, no destabilizing flare. The golden arcs merged with the wind's currents as though they had been born together.
A single elder's brow furrowed, the crease deepening as Haotian moved faster. One instant, he was at the center of the ring. The next, his body flickered—wind carrying him into a blur, golden lightning snapping in delayed echoes where he'd been.
The ground rang with each footfall, and the plateau air sang with that strange harmony of wind and light. It was beautiful, dangerous… and deeply unnatural.
From the ledge, Zhenlong Yuying's voice was quiet, but the weight in it was unmistakable."…This is not what we taught him."
Haotian suddenly pivoted mid-stride. Golden lightning condensed into his palm, forming a short spear of pure energy. Without hesitation, he hurled it toward a row of training dummies at the ring's edge.
The spear didn't fly—it vanished into the wind.
A heartbeat later, it reappeared inside the chest of the lead dummy, discharging in a thunderous crack that shattered the first three in line. Splinters and dust sprayed into the air.
Haotian's eyes narrowed. He wasn't satisfied.
He spread his arms slightly, inhaling again. This time, the golden lightning didn't just wrap his frame—it expanded. The air for thirty paces in all directions shimmered with charged motes, responding to his will like a living tide. His stance lowered, his weight shifted forward—testing, adjusting, feeling every thread of energy respond without hesitation.
The ancestors exchanged glances. The debate from earlier—that struggle between guiding or restraining—suddenly felt far more urgent.
Because what they were seeing now… was no longer just talent.
It was something that should not exist.
The golden arcs began to cluster tighter and tighter around Haotian, the sound deepening from a sharp crack to a rolling THRUM that made the entire training platform vibrate. His hair whipped wildly, eyes aglow as he pushed the current further, feeding it through the wind streams he had summoned. The fusion was seamless—unnaturally so—until the very air began to shimmer like molten glass.
From the terrace above, the ancestors' expressions shifted from fascination to alarm. Even Jinhai, whose usual composure was unshakable, leaned forward. "He's… not dispersing the excess. He's channeling all of it inward."
Lightning bled into the wind until the two elements became indistinguishable, a golden storm orbiting his body. The ground beneath him cracked in spiderweb patterns, and the inscriptions along the platform's edge began to flicker under strain.
"Enough!" one elder barked—but Haotian didn't stop. He felt the energy surging beyond control, yet some instinct told him to push past that threshold. The power roared inside him, pressing against bone and tendon, flooding every meridian with heat and vibration until sparks danced in his vision.
Then—
CRACK–BOOM!
The golden lightning exploded outward in a dome of incandescent force, the shockwave flattening grass and sending the elders' robes snapping like banners in a hurricane. For a breathless second, all they could see was white-gold light swallowing the platform whole.
When it cleared, Haotian stood in the center, chest heaving, faint arcs still dancing between his fingertips. The platform was scorched black, the runes dim and broken.
"…By the heavens," one elder whispered. "This isn't mortal lightning."
ChatGPT said:
Golden lightning wrapped around Haotian's limbs like liquid fire as he stepped into the center of the ancestral courtyard. The air smelled faintly of ozone, and the stone tiles beneath his feet hummed with static before each pulse of his breath. High above on the terrace, the four ancestors stood in silent observation, their gazes fixed on him—not as a child, but as a cultivator testing the unknown.
He exhaled once, low and steady.The first spark ignited in his chest.
His body split into three golden silhouettes—each one a perfect mirror, rippling with the same lightning-threaded aura. The clones fanned out, boots slapping against stone in precise rhythm. Then, just as the first wave's presence settled in the ancestors' perception, each image fractured again, birthing six more figures. Now eight Haotians blurred across the courtyard, each weaving unpredictable arcs, disappearing and reappearing with bursts of wind and light.
The elders leaned forward slightly, their spiritual senses straining."This… isn't an illusion," one of them murmured. "They're all moving—independently."
Haotian's focus deepened.The clones didn't merely run; they crossed paths, switched positions, and mimicked false attack patterns. One would feint toward the terrace, another vanish into a blind spot, and a third rush straight at a stone pillar before rebounding in a streak of gold. The combined movement wove a web of misdirection so thick that even an experienced eye would lose track of the real body.
And that was the point.
Lightning crackled like a storm trapped in the courtyard. Golden arcs threaded through wind-gust trails, every flicker timed to mask his true trajectory. At one point, two clones clashed in midair, discharging a burst so blinding it forced the ancestors to narrow their eyes.
He was still refining it—testing spacing, timing, and whether the lightning surge could be sustained without draining his core. The real Haotian slipped between his own doubles like a shadow among storms, counting each heartbeat to track their fading lifespan. The instant one clone began to destabilize, another would take its place, keeping the illusion of eight seamless.
Above, the elders exchanged glances."This technique…""…isn't just speed," another finished. "It's a battlefield phantom dance."
Haotian skidded to a stop in the courtyard's center, lightning spilling from his skin in sharp, golden arcs. His breathing was steady, but the flicker in his eyes said one thing—this was only the foundation. The real test would be pushing it until the storm broke.