Time passed quietly in their secluded aisle, the air filled only with the faint rustle of pages and the soft thud of scrolls being set aside. Footsteps approached. The rest of the guards emerged from between the shelves, each holding two manuals wrapped neatly in protective cloth.
One of them, a broad-shouldered man named Fengrui, set his selections on the table first. "We've made our choices."
Haotian reached for the top manual — Iron River Fist. A sturdy, defensive art built for counterattacks. He scanned its diagrams in a heartbeat, and the golden text sank into his inner library. His expression did not change.
"This will make you slow," he said flatly. "It teaches you to anchor yourself, but you'll sacrifice too much mobility. Against a skilled spear user, you'll be picked apart before you can land a blow."
Fengrui blinked. "…It's one of the recommended beginner manuals."
"Recommendations are for those with no better options," Haotian replied. He set it aside and took the second — Stone Shield Breathing. A cultivation method heavy on defense. After only a few lines, his brow furrowed faintly. "This wastes qi circulation on reinforcing the skin while leaving the meridians underdeveloped. In the long term, it will stunt your growth."
Another guard stepped forward, laying down her chosen pair: Wind Fang Daggers and Featherlight Step. Haotian's fingers moved quickly over them.
"The movement skill will make you quick, but only in open ground. In enclosed spaces, the stance structure will betray you. As for the dagger art…" His eyes flicked to her. "It spends more effort on flourish than lethality. Against a real enemy, you'll die mid-pattern."
They exchanged uneasy glances. One by one, the others presented their choices, and one by one, Haotian dismantled them with the same cool precision — pointing out the hidden flaws, the wasted potential, the fatal blind spots.
When the last manual was set aside, a small stack of rejected techniques sat between them. The group stood in awkward silence.
Haotian looked at each of them in turn. "All of you… wait."
Lianhua tilted her head slightly. "Wait for what?"
He leaned back, glancing toward the shelves towering over them. "Until I finish reading everything here. Then I'll create something better — for each of you."
Fengrui raised an eyebrow. "Better than the sect's manuals?"
"Better for you," Haotian corrected. "Movement skills that suit your build and instincts. Combat arts designed for the weapons you favor. Cultivation methods that won't choke your growth after ten years. Techniques that will carry you beyond the level these scrolls expect you to reach."
They stared at him, caught between disbelief and the memory of what they had already seen him do — pass the Ninth Flame trial, walk through heat like water, and cut down illusions no one else could pierce.
Lianhua gave a soft, knowing laugh. "You really are going to read everything in this library."
"Yes," he said simply, the calm certainty in his voice making it sound less like ambition and more like inevitability.
The group lingered a moment longer among the shelves, exchanging quiet murmurs before deciding to explore the mission hall. Lianhua gave Haotian a last glance. "We'll see you later?"
"I'll be here," he replied, already reaching for another scroll.
They filed out in twos and threes, their footsteps fading into the echoing stillness of the library. Only the soft crackle of oil lamps remained, casting long shadows between the rows.
Haotian's eyes shifted again, the faint star-glow of the Eyes of the Universe returning. His hands moved with unbroken rhythm — pull, unroll, absorb, replace. Each scroll's knowledge dissolved into golden motes and sank into the library within his mind. The pile of displaced manuals beside him grew steadily, then collapsed into several neat stacks as he re-shelved them with mechanical precision.
Hours blurred together. Candles burned low. Outside, the moon climbed the sky and slid toward its peak.
By the time the first gray hints of dawn touched the windows, he stopped. His inner world was heavier now — over a quarter of the library's contents neatly shelved in golden rows. Sword arts, spear forms, elemental patterns, footwork sequences, breathing methods — all preserved, all ready to be dissected, refined, and rebuilt.
At this pace, he would finish everything by the fourth day.
He rolled the last scroll closed, set it in place, and straightened. The library was still silent, save for the faint rasp of someone's breathing.
By the front counter, an elder sat slouched in a high-backed chair, head tilted as if asleep. His white hair spilled over his shoulders, and his long, ink-stained sleeves hung loosely at his sides.
Haotian passed without slowing, the soft fall of his boots barely breaking the stillness. He did not spare the elder a glance.
When the library doors closed behind him, the "sleeping" elder's eyes slid open. Clouded with age yet sharp with thought, they followed the door a moment longer.
"Interesting…" he murmured under his breath. "He plans to read everything here… and craft his own techniques? Just who is this fellow?"
The faintest smile creased his lips before he leaned back, letting the chair creak beneath him.
The courtyard outside the library was warm with afternoon light when Haotian found the others waiting near a shaded bench. Lianhua caught sight of him first, her lips pressing into a half-smile, half-sigh.
"You've been in there all day," she said, stepping forward. "Not even a break? Not a meal?"
Haotian rubbed the back of his head, an almost sheepish gesture. "I… forgot."
As if on cue, a low, hollow growl thundered from his stomach, loud enough to echo faintly off the courtyard walls.
Lianhua's eyes widened. "Unbelievable."
The guards burst into laughter, one of them clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "The great genius of the Ninth Flame brought low by hunger."
He gave them a look that wasn't quite a glare, but wasn't entirely amused either. Still, when Lianhua turned on her heel and said, "Come on — we're eating, now," he followed without protest.
The meal hall was alive with voices, the air rich with the scent of roasted meats, steamed buns, and spiced broths. Haotian ate without ceremony, his movements steady but quick, like a man refueling for battle. By the time the plates were cleared, his stomach was full and the faint fog in his head had lifted.
That night, he rested for the first time since beginning his reading marathon.
At dawn, the bell tolled again. The others were still stirring in their quarters when Haotian rose, dressed, and made his way back to the library. The moment he stepped inside, the quiet swallowed him whole. Shelves loomed, scrolls waited, and the familiar glow of the Eyes of the Universe returned as he resumed his relentless pace.
One scroll after another, knowledge streamed into the golden shelves within his mind. By the end of the second day, half the library was his.
Day three began before the first bell. The sky over the Burning Sun Sect was still deep blue when Haotian slipped into the library. The elder at the counter was already there, eyes half-lidded in the same "sleep" as before.
Haotian didn't greet him. He simply walked the aisles, his fingers brushing over scrolls and stitched manuals with mechanical precision. The Eyes of the Universe glimmered faintly, and each text dissolved into golden motes the moment his gaze passed over it.
By midday, the sound of parchment unrolling and rolling again was as constant as his breathing. When other disciples passed through, they gave him sidelong glances, some with curiosity, others with faint disbelief. No one dared interrupt.
By nightfall, three-quarters of the first floor lived inside the golden library in his mind. The walls of his inner world stretched higher, lined with endless rows of shelves glowing faintly in the dark, each scroll perfectly preserved.
Day four was different. There was no rush in his movements now — only inevitability. Each book taken down was another nail sealing the first floor's knowledge under his name alone. By late afternoon, the last scroll slid into place, the final diagrams and annotations locking into memory.
When the last glow faded from his inner world, Haotian exhaled slowly. It was done. The entire first floor of the Burning Sun Sect's library — every movement skill, combat art, cultivation method — now belonged to him.
He left the library without a word, the elder's closed eyes following him all the same.
That evening, he called the group to one of the unused practice yards on the west side of the sect. The sun had dropped low, staining the stone tiles in shades of amber and crimson.
They gathered in a loose semicircle. Lianhua was first to speak. "You've finished, haven't you?"
Haotian nodded once. "All of it."
He knelt, drawing his finger across the dusty tiles. With a few quick lines, he sketched a series of flowing arcs, angular strikes, and pivoting footwork patterns. "For each of you, I'll be developing three things: a movement skill, a combat technique, and a cultivation method. Nothing generic. Every pattern, every strike, every qi circulation route will match your body, your instincts, your strengths."
Fengrui stepped closer, peering at the rough diagrams. "You can make that from memory alone?"
Haotian didn't look up. "From memory, and from understanding. I know every flaw in the sect's methods — and every fragment worth refining."
He shifted the diagrams toward Lianhua. "Yours will be first. A sword art stripped of wasted motion, built to cut through not just the body, but the opponent's stance itself. And a movement skill that accelerates with each step rather than slows."
Her lips parted slightly, the faintest flicker of excitement crossing her face.
One by one, he pointed to each guard, already outlining the foundation of their future styles — explosive short-range bursts for the dagger wielder, fluid deflection forms for the spear user, adaptive stances for the heavy blade fighter.
The air grew still as they realized this was not empty talk. His tone was calm, precise, and certain — as if the techniques already existed and he was merely recalling them.
When he finished, Haotian straightened. "We start refining them tomorrow. Until then — rest. What we build here will be stronger than anything on those shelves."
They dispersed slowly, the glow of the setting sun casting their shadows long across the yard. Lianhua lingered, glancing at the half-erased diagrams on the tiles before looking back at him.
"You really are going to change all of us," she said quietly.
Haotian met her gaze for a heartbeat. "That's the point."
The sect grounds were silent when Haotian returned to his quarters that night. Moonlight spilled across the desk by his window, pale against the black lacquer. He sat without removing his outer robe, unrolling fresh sheets of parchment.
The brush moved quickly, each stroke carrying both precision and intent. Pages filled with intricate diagrams — sword trajectories, footwork grids, breathing patterns that spiraled through the meridians in unorthodox flows. Each scroll bore a name at the top in clean, deliberate calligraphy: Lianhua. Fengrui. Shuyan. Qiao. Renli. Jinhai.
For Lianhua, he drafted a sword art that cut along the lines of her natural rhythm — a method that punished overcommitment and exploited hesitation, paired with a movement skill that accelerated with every successive step rather than tiring her.
For Fengrui, the heavy blade guard, he designed a stance sequence that absorbed force and returned it in a single, crushing counterblow, matched with a breathing method that reinforced his meridians without sacrificing speed.
For the dagger wielder, a path of compact, lethal arcs — no flourish, no wasted gesture — coupled with movement meant for enclosed spaces and sudden reversals.
One by one, he wrote, refining every detail until the ink's scent thickened in the air. By the time the eastern sky paled, seven scrolls lay neatly stacked, bound in crimson twine.
He had not slept.
When the sun rose over the sect, the private training yard was still cool with morning shade. The group arrived together, curiosity and anticipation plain on their faces. Lianhua's eyes darted to the stack of scrolls in his hands.
"These are yours," Haotian said simply, handing them out one by one. "Every skill, every movement pattern, every cultivation method has been shaped for you alone. Study them. But today… you learn the foundation."
They gathered around as he stepped to the center of the yard, Star-forged Sword in hand.
"For sword users," he began, glancing at Lianhua, "the first principle is economy — no wasted motion, no gap for the enemy to exploit." His blade moved in a slow arc, then split into a sudden burst of speed, cutting the air with a hiss. "Every strike starts and ends where the next begins."
He shifted to footwork, demonstrating the first phase of her movement skill — the subtle shifts in weight, the forward lean that compressed distance with each step. She followed carefully, her gaze locked on his stance.
For Fengrui, he set the heavy practice blade in his hands and had him repeat a single counterblow until the movement was one smooth pulse of muscle and steel. "Feel their strike. Absorb it. Then return it before they can recover."
The dagger user practiced in a narrow marked lane, each motion compressed into lethal economy, while the others drilled the opening forms of their own tailored styles.
Through it all, Haotian's voice remained calm, measured — never wasting words any more than he wasted movement.
By midday, their robes clung with sweat, their arms heavy. He called a halt, allowing them to catch their breath.
"This is only the surface," he told them. "When the foundation is solid, we will sharpen the edge. Until then — commit this to muscle, to breath, to instinct. The rest will follow."
They nodded, each clutching their scroll as if it were a weapon already forged.
The days bled into one another, the sun rising and setting over the west training yard as Haotian's group returned each morning. By the second week, the difference in their movements was already visible.
Lianhua's steps no longer faltered between strikes. Her blade moved in fluid arcs, every cut feeding seamlessly into the next, the acceleration in her footwork forcing even seasoned sparring partners to give ground. More than once, her opponents found themselves caught mid-step, their guard broken before they realized she had shifted angles.
Fengrui's heavy blade counters had become something to fear. He learned to read the smallest telegraph in an opponent's shoulders, his stance flowing from solid defense into a punishing return strike that made the practice yard echo. Those who underestimated the speed of his recovery often found themselves flat on their backs.
The dagger wielder's motions grew tighter, cleaner — no unnecessary flourish, no wasted energy. In narrow sparring lanes, she became a sudden, flickering threat, her blades darting in and out of reach with unnerving precision.
Haotian observed all of it in silence, the Eyes of the Universe active more often than not. Every flaw — a fraction too much weight on the front foot, a strike that failed to follow through, a breath that broke rhythm — was noted and corrected instantly. Sometimes, he would step into the ring himself, forcing them to adapt mid-flow.
"Your first step is too cautious," he told Lianhua after a sparring round, demonstrating the forward lean that would draw her opponent's guard before she cut past it.
"You're committing too much to the block," he told Fengrui, adjusting his grip so the counterblow landed with more force and less strain.
The others received the same treatment — tailored corrections that molded them further into the shape of their designed styles.
By the third week, whispers were spreading beyond the yard. Other outer disciples had begun watching from the sidelines, muttering about how quickly this small group was advancing. The pace was unnatural, the results undeniable.
One afternoon, as the sun dipped low and painted the yard in molten gold, Haotian called them together after a final sparring rotation. Their breathing was ragged, but their stances remained set, eyes still sharp.
"You've touched the surface," he said, scanning each of them in turn. "From here, refinement comes from pressure. We will move to live combat drills — not against each other, but against the sect's training constructs. They will not tire. They will not pull their strikes. And they will expose the cracks you still have."
No one flinched.
Lianhua's mouth curved faintly. "Then let's see how sharp we've become."
Haotian nodded once. "Tomorrow. Be ready."
While the clang of weapons and the sharp calls of sparring partners rang through the west training yard, Haotian slipped away without a word. His pace was unhurried, the morning sun casting a long shadow ahead of him as he crossed the sect's central terraces toward the Mission Hall.
The square was as noisy as ever — disciples crowding around the mission boards, debating task rewards, and haggling over contribution splits. Haotian ignored the noise, his eyes scanning the rows of parchment pinned across the black stone wall. Hunting beasts. Escort duties. Resource gathering. Most were low-tier rewards, hardly worth the effort.
Then one notice caught his eye.
The parchment was older than the rest, the ink faded but still legible:
Mission Type: Sect Assistance – Alchemy DivisionDescription: Aid Master Yao Lian, senior alchemist, in completing the refinement of a new pill.Reward: 10,000 contribution points.Notes: Requires cooperation in Master Yao's personal workshop. Success rate: 0%.
He read it twice, then a third time, his gaze lingering on the line about failure. No names listed under "completion."
His expression didn't change.
Haotian plucked the parchment from the wall and crossed to the main desk. The female attendant there glanced up, her hair pinned in a neat coil, her hands moving swiftly as she processed requests from a small queue.
When he set the parchment down before her, she reached for it automatically — then froze as she read the title. Her eyes lifted slowly to his face.
"…You're taking this mission?"
"Yes," he said simply.
Her lips pressed together in a thin line. "You know no one has succeeded, right? Most get chased out within the hour. The rest fail before they're even allowed near the cauldron. Master Yao is… difficult. Eccentric. And that's being polite."
Haotian's gaze stayed steady on her. "Register it."
She hesitated, searching his face as if trying to find some trace of uncertainty. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." The word left his mouth with the quiet certainty of a man stating the weather.
For a moment, she seemed caught between disbelief and a flicker of curiosity. Then she sighed, scribbling the registration with quick strokes before stamping the parchment. "Fine. Your entry pass to the Alchemy Hall. Don't say I didn't warn you."
Haotian took the stamped slip, turning away without another word. As he stepped out into the sunlight, the chatter of the hall resumed behind him — but more than a few eyes followed his retreating figure.