The courtyard's air thickened as Haotian's six clones fanned out around him, each moving with just enough variance to blur the line between reality and illusion. The elders' gazes sharpened. Even those who had cultivated for centuries leaned forward in the stillness, the faint ripple of their spiritual perception brushing against the clones—only to be met with contradictions in speed, weight, and intent.
Haotian's mind pulsed in sync with the formation. He hadn't just made duplicates—he'd layered subtle delays and false signals into their movements, weaving a net of anticipation and feint. One clone dipped low with the promise of a thrust, another angled high with a draw-cut, while two drifted at the periphery, bodies loose yet ready to collapse inward. It was not just speed or strength—it was deception given form.
The elders felt their own instincts split and scatter trying to follow him. Every path they tracked dissolved into another's trajectory.
Then—Haotian stepped beyond the safe rhythm.
The clones surged, multiplying feints into feints, timing into anti-timing. His pulse thundered in his ears, blood hammering in his limbs as he pushed the technique's layering past his mental anchor point. The space around him warped with overlapping afterimages, as though dozens—no, hundreds—of phantom strikes filled the air.
For a breath, even the ancestors lost track of the real Haotian.
A sharp crack rang through the courtyard. The ground beneath his feet spiderwebbed, the pressure of his own chi compressing the air until it burst outward in a hot, rushing wave. One clone faltered—then another. The excess strain tugged at the seams of his consciousness, his control slipping as the entire pattern wavered on the edge of collapse.
Instead of withdrawing, he leaned in harder.
The clones flashed into overdrive, their arcs and cuts accelerating until they became lines of light bending unnaturally. The deception had gone so deep it stopped mattering which strikes were real—every possibility felt true enough to kill.
And then, as the pressure peaked—
SHHH-THRUM!
The formation shattered. Clones imploded into streaks of dispersing light, the force of their collapse kicking dust and stone high into the air. Haotian staggered forward, breath ragged, a thin line of blood at the corner of his mouth… but his eyes burned with the afterglow of what he'd just touched.
The elders sat in rare silence. They had come expecting to see a boy toy with new tricks. What they had witnessed was a technique still in birth—already sharp enough to split their attention, and dangerous enough to threaten even the most seasoned warrior if ever perfected.
The air inside the Dragonridge courtyard thickened until it seemed even sunlight dared not enter. Six spectral echoes of Haotian—his perfected clones—moved like molten shards of lightning through the air, each step weaving impossible angles, each strike vanishing into the seams between heartbeats. Their movements were no longer training drills—they were the manifestation of a theory forged in secrecy: deception born from multiplicity, surprise hidden in perfect synchrony.
The elders watching from the high terrace—Jinhai, Meiyun, Yuying—spoke no word. The technique's rhythm accelerated until the mind strained to keep track of who was real. The sound of strikes overlapped like rolling thunder, footsteps scattering into echoes that ricocheted against the courtyard walls.
Then Haotian pushed.
The first layer of movement dissolved into the second—each clone splitting once more, not in the measured cycle of his earlier experiments, but in a reckless surge beyond his own recorded limits. Twelve bodies became twenty-four, then thirty-six. The courtyard blurred into a storm of gold, steel, and afterimages. His aura swelled, folding upon itself, breaking and reforming with each breath.
The threshold snapped.
The world shuddered. The clones fractured into an infinite recursion, their edges bending space itself, causing brief rips of distorted light to flare open and close with a violent hiss. The air screamed with the pressure of his presence. Every movement he made now was an attack—and a feint—and a phantom—and the real him, all at once.
When it finally ended, the courtyard bore the scars of his audacity. Stone tiles lay split in perfect parallel lines. The air itself smelled faintly of scorched ozone. Haotian stood in the center, chest rising slow, his golden eyes dimming back to mortal hue. The clones were gone. Silence claimed the ground again.
The elders rose without a word.
Moments later, in the shadowed depths of the Ancestral Hall, the four walls glowed faintly with warding light. Seated in a ring, the elders let the silence stretch, the echo of what they had seen still running through their thoughts like a second heartbeat.
"It is no longer a technique," Yuying said first, voice low. "What he wields now is a battlefield distortion."
Meiyun's gaze remained fixed on the table between them. "If he perfects that recursion… even seasoned cultivators will fall before realizing which blow killed them."
Jinhai's jaw was set hard, the furrow between his brows deepening. "Perfection is the danger. That strain was not without cost. I felt his meridians screaming even from here. Push too far, and he will break himself before his enemies touch him."
They all knew the truth: the display had not been for vanity. Haotian had shown them not only what he was capable of—but what he was willing to risk to surpass the walls set around him.
The Ancestral Hall dimmed as the lantern flames shifted. None spoke for a time. The silence between them felt heavier than any verdict.
From the moment Haotian left the courtyard, the air in the ancestral chamber remained dense enough to still the lungs. The elders had not moved from their seats—each wrapped in their own silence, yet their gazes spoke in a language older than any oath.
Zhenlong Yuying's fan rested closed upon the table, her fingers tapping it once, twice—an unspoken I warned you to the others. Jinhai sat like a carved idol, but his eyes, narrow as the crescent moon, flicked once toward Wuhen, measuring. Across from him, Elder Meiyun's lips curved faintly—not quite approval, but a glimmer of satisfaction, as though she saw opportunity where others saw threat.
Wuhen, for his part, did not hide the slight clench of his jaw. It was brief—barely a ripple in the pond—but enough for Yuying to catch it and tilt her chin in quiet acknowledgment. A line was being drawn, though no one had dared name it.
When Yuying finally broke the silence, her voice was silk over steel."He is… beyond the scope we planned for."
Jinhai's gaze shifted, slow and deliberate, to meet hers. "Beyond the scope—or beyond control?"
The question hung in the air like the weight of a drawn bow. Meiyun's glance darted between them, the faint arch of her brow daring either to deny it. Wuhen did not answer.
Instead, he exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing toward the courtyard beyond the screen doors. "Let us observe longer. The boy has yet to reveal his limits."
Yuying's fan snapped open with a crisp tch. "Limits? Or thresholds he intends to shatter?"
No resolution came, only the mutual recognition that they were no longer discussing if Haotian would be a factor, but when he would become one.
Days later, they found their answer in the open-air training grounds behind the eastern wing.
Haotian was alone—if one could call it that. Six identical clones circled him, each moving with unsettling synchronicity. They weren't simply sparring. They were weaving.
The courtyard floor was a lattice of faint, glowing trails—marker lines laid in quick succession as Haotian darted between them. The clones matched his pace, forming an expanding spiral. The movement was erratic, almost chaotic to the untrained eye, but to the elders watching from the shade of the veranda, there was a pattern: the tightening of gaps, the sudden dispersal of force, the deliberate placement of contact points.
The chain-net-and-whip theory was coming alive before their eyes. The clones drew imaginary "chains" between their positions, trapping any foe within an unseen perimeter. Haotian moved at the center, "whipping" the perimeter into motion—forcing any imaginary enemy to be where he wanted, when he wanted.
It was not a technique meant to kill outright—it was meant to deceive, corner, and crush.
And judging by the narrowing of Yuying's eyes, she realized that in the right hands… it would be unstoppable.
Under the still canopy of the eastern training courtyard, the late-afternoon light fell in streaks across the stone tiles, throwing long, jagged shadows where Haotian stood. The air clung thick with that same hum the elders had come to dread—an anticipation that seemed to vibrate in the bones before anything even happened.
The chain lay coiled in his left hand, the weighted end glinting faintly. In his right, the whip's handle rested with deceptive stillness. But the air around both was already warping—threads of spiritual energy unspooling, weaving between the links and leather.
From the overlook above, Zhenlong Yuying's fingers tapped once against the lacquered railing. She did not speak. Beside her, Jinhai's gaze was fixed—narrow, calculating. Two other elders stood behind them, arms folded, pretending detachment but leaning forward ever so slightly.
Haotian moved.
The chain snapped outward—not in a straight arc, but in a spiraling blur that split in midair, six phantom chains fracturing off like reflections in broken glass. In the same heartbeat, the whip cracked—not once, but again and again in an accelerating rhythm, striking between the phantom chains so that each movement disrupted the perception of the last.
WH–CRACK!WH–CRACK!KSHHH!
The six illusory lines wove together midair into a glittering mesh, a living net that seemed to shift with predatory intent. His footwork carried him around its edge, pulling it taut, contracting and expanding the mesh like a breathing organism. At the edges of perception, the net didn't just catch light—it devoured it, folding the air into deceptive shadows.
Then, without warning, Haotian pulled.
The whip surged forward, striking the net's heart. Energy rebounded—twisting, amplifying—until the entire construct collapsed inward into a spearpoint of condensed force. The release detonated with a thunderous SHRANG that rattled the courtyard tiles, a pressure wave hammering up toward the overlook.
Yuying's robes fluttered in the shockwave. Her jaw tensed, but her eyes—sharp and gold-flecked—never left Haotian. Jinhai's arms had unfolded, hands now gripping the railing in a rare breach of composure. One elder took a half-step back; another leaned forward, lips pursed in thought. No one spoke, but the air between them was thick with unvoiced calculations.
Haotian stood in the settling dust, chest heaving just once before steadying. The chain hung slack again, the whip silent—but the faint shimmer in the air around him spoke of strain. He had crossed some invisible threshold, and everyone watching knew it.
The fourth day dawned beneath a pall of silver clouds, their edges lit faintly gold by the rising sun. The training field, still bearing faint scorch marks from Haotian's earlier experiments, was quiet but tense. Word had already spread through the estate—he was going to test a "wide-area variant" today.
From the shaded veranda, the elders gathered again. Yuying's fingers were interlaced too tightly in her lap. Meiyun leaned forward just enough that her sleeve brushed Jinhai's, though her gaze never left Haotian. Jinhai himself kept his arms crossed, but the slight tap of his index finger against his bicep betrayed a restless calculation. Wuhen's eyes narrowed every so slightly at the boy's stance—a flicker of pride in the set of his jaw, though his lips pressed thin with unspoken caution.
In the center of the field, Haotian exhaled. Around him, the air shimmered with latent charge.
Nine orbs of condensed lightning—perfect spheres of molten gold—blossomed into existence, each held precisely in its orbit by invisible threads of will. They hummed in unison, a steady, sharp-edged tone that set the hairs on the back of the elders' necks on end.
"Go," he murmured.
The spheres fired in sequence, golden lances snapping outward faster than the blink of an eye. Nine training dummies erupted in splintered wood and curling smoke, their remains raining down in charred fragments.
Somewhere in the veranda, Meiyun's lips curved—not quite a smile, but close.
But Haotian didn't stop.
His brows knit, his hands spread slightly at his sides. One by one, the nine spheres began to drift inward, edges flaring as though resisting the pull, until they merged into a single massive orb—pulsing, throbbing, radiating heat so intense the moisture in the grass around him hissed into steam.
A thin line appeared between Wuhen's brows. Jinhai's tapping stopped. Yuying's gaze sharpened.
Haotian's voice was low. "Let's see."
The orb detonated forward.
A single, colossal bolt of golden lightning roared from its core—thicker than a tree trunk, streaked with white plasma—slamming into the far end of the field. The impact was apocalyptic. A blinding flash, a rolling wave of thunder that shook the tiles under the elders' feet, and then—nothing left but a smoldering crater where the far wall and a dozen yards of soil had once been.
Haotian stood frozen, shoulders stiff, eyes wide. The corner of his mouth twitched—half disbelief, half dawning horror at what he'd just done.
From the veranda, silence reigned for a beat. Then Yuying exhaled through her nose with the faintest upward curl of her lips.
Meiyun hid a chuckle behind her sleeve.
Jinhai's mouth twitched as though he might scold—but the sound that escaped him was closer to a snort.
And Wuhen? He simply rubbed at his temple and muttered, "We're going to need… a much bigger field."
The scorched air still hung heavy over the ruined training field, the acrid tang of ozone curling into the nostrils. Haotian stood in the epicenter, the last echo of his golden bolt fading into a low, sizzling hum across the shattered ground. The crater stretched nearly to the far wall. Training dummies were nothing but smoking splinters.
From the overlook, the four Ancestors were frozen mid-breath.
"…Well," Zhenlong Yuying finally said, lips twitching, "at least we know the defensive wards on this place were… purely decorative."
Jinhai coughed into his sleeve to mask a chuckle. "No—decorative would have lasted longer."
Haotian blinked at the destruction, tilting his head like a boy who'd just been told the vase he broke had been in the family for a thousand years. "I… didn't think it would be that strong."
"That," Jinhai said, pointing down with his fan, "wasn't strong. That was an execution order for the land itself."
Yuying and Meiyun exchanged a glance before motioning him over. Haotian jogged up the stone steps, dust clinging to his boots, still looking faintly pleased with himself.
They didn't share his enthusiasm.
"You're developing far too quickly," Yuying said, her tone equal parts pride and concern. "If this continues unchecked, you'll burn through your reserves before the other two cores ever awaken."
Haotian frowned. "But… isn't that a good thing? Growing without needing the other cores means less risk of backlash."
"No," Meiyun said firmly, folding her hands. "It means you're skipping the foundation. The Heaven-Sundered Trinity Scripture is designed to balance all three cores. Overexertion now could cripple you later."
Haotian crossed his arms. "I feel fine. More than fine. I could keep going all day."
"Of course you feel fine." Jinhai's voice sharpened just enough to cut through the warmth. "Adrenaline and raw lightning will trick your body into thinking you're invincible—until it all collapses at once."
There was a long pause. Haotian's gaze shifted to the horizon, jaw tightening. "I'm still going to keep training. And… I want to learn more. Other elements. I don't want to be just lightning."
That drew a genuine spark of interest from the elders.
"Ambitious," Yuying murmured, one brow lifting. "And dangerous. But… possible."
Jinhai tapped the end of his fan against his palm. "Very well. We'll teach you—but under our supervision. If you push beyond safe limits again…"
"…Then I guess you'll get to see two training fields destroyed," Haotian interrupted with a faint grin.
There was a beat of silence. Then Meiyun sighed, Yuying pinched the bridge of her nose, and Jinhai muttered something about "raising another stormborn lunatic."
The plan was set. Multi-element integration would begin at dawn.
From the veiled overlook above the Dragonridge Training Field, the midday sun carved molten streaks across the mountains. The heat shimmered faintly over the white stone platforms, giving the air a restless, quivering quality. The Ancestors—Yuying, Jinhai, Meiyun, and Yangshen—stood together, hands folded within their sleeves, eyes fixed on the lone figure below.
Haotian's breathing was measured but deep, every exhale steaming faintly in the warm air. His right hand held the coiled length of the chain-whip, its segmented plates etched with silver lines like rivers of frozen lightning. His left palm glowed faintly, not with a single color, but a shifting swirl of red, blue, gold, and pale white—each element pushing and pulling at the other in a barely restrained orbit.
When he'd first mentioned fusing multiple elements, the elders had exchanged glances—some doubtful, some intrigued. Now, watching him, even their practiced masks began to slip.
With a slow step forward, Haotian loosened the whip. The rings whispered against the platform. Shhhk-krk. The first pulse of energy rolled outward, flame licking along the whip's edge before being swallowed by crackling arcs of lightning. He twisted his wrist, and suddenly the whip bled into ice, shards flaking from its length as the lightning coiled tighter, fusing with the frost to form a piercing, glassy glare.
The moment he swung, the elements erupted—not blending into harmony, but colliding with deafening force.
BOOOOM!
A shockwave split the training field. Flames jetted skyward before being ripped sideways by a screeching gale, shards of ice carried with it like shrapnel. Lightning wove through it all, lashing the ground in random, brutal arcs. The platform beneath him cracked into spiderweb patterns.
Jinhai's brows drew together. "He's… not layering them. He's letting them fight for dominance."
"Dangerous," Meiyun murmured, though her gaze did not leave Haotian.
"Effective," Yangshen countered quietly.
The young cultivator's eyes narrowed, chains whipping faster. Each rotation gathered more chaotic energy, until the whip became a writhing coil of clashing light and shadow. With a final, whip-crack THRUM, he lashed forward—
—And the elements detonated mid-air.
A spiraling dome of fire, lightning, and frost burst outward, the sheer pressure flattening the grass for twenty meters in every direction. The mountain wind stilled, as though the world itself paused to watch.
Haotian lowered the whip slowly, breathing quick but steady, eyes still lit with the afterglow of the fusion.
"I can take it further," he said, voice carrying up to the elders without strain.
Yuying's gaze sharpened. "You will—"
"—if you survive it," Jinhai cut in, eyes narrowing.
But Haotian only smiled faintly. "Then I suppose I'll have to survive it."
From the moment Haotian finished stabilizing the first fusion, the air still hadn't stopped humming. The walls of the Ancestors' Hall still radiated heat from where his twin-element surge had scorched them, and yet… he was already stepping forward again.
"Haotian—" Yuying's tone held a clear warning.
"I can take it further," he cut in, golden eyes burning. "I can feel the pathways aligning. If I push now, before they fade, I can bring three elements together—lightning, flame, and wind—without breaking the flow."
Jinhai's brows knit. "That combination is not one you test without years of grounding. The harmonics will spiral—"
But Haotian was already moving. His palms came together in a sudden, ringing CLAP, and arcs of lightning flared between his fingers. Flame ignited over the crackling current, wind rushing in spirals to feed the blaze. The three elements strained against each other, hissing like wild predators locked in the same cage.
The sound built into a shriek—high and metallic—filling the hall until the floor itself seemed to vibrate under their feet. The energy sphere between Haotian's palms ballooned, edges warping into jagged, fractal shapes as lightning began to bleed out in wild lashes.
"Haotian, stop," Jinhai barked, his aura snapping outward like a whip.
But the boy's teeth clenched. "Almost—there—"
The moment the flame's heat hit a critical pitch, the wind surged too hard, feeding it beyond containment. A chain reaction ripped through the sphere, causing its surface to flash from orange to blinding white.
"DOWN!" Yuying's voice boomed, and in the same instant, she was gone from her position.
A THUNDERCRACK erupted as she slammed both palms into Haotian's chest, not to harm—but to sever the elemental channels with a precision only a millennium of mastery allowed. The energy sphere detonated mid-air, scattering harmless shards of light instead of the molten plasma it had been seconds from becoming.
Smoke swirled around them. Haotian staggered back, breathless but grinning, the hair at his temples faintly singed. "See? I almost had it."
"Almost would have cost us the roof," Jinhai growled, the faint shimmer of his defensive barrier still fading from the walls. "And maybe more."
Yuying's gaze lingered on the fading motes between them. "Your control is growing too quickly. If we do not temper it, you will burn yourself out before your second core ever opens."
But the spark in Haotian's eyes didn't dim. "Then we just train harder."