The sect's main hall stood silent beneath the sweep of its towering banners, their golden threads catching stray beams of morning light. Haotian's boots echoed across the polished stone floor as he crossed the vast expanse toward the raised dais.
The elders sat in a crescent formation, their expressions ranging from curiosity to cool scrutiny. At the center, the Sect Master regarded him with an unreadable gaze. Haotian halted three paces from the platform, cupped his hands, and bowed deeply.
The Sect Master's voice was calm, yet carried the weight of command."Haotian. Give your report."
Without hesitation, Haotian straightened. His tone was measured, but his words were flint on steel. "The Bloodshade Moon Sect targeted the Moonfang Tigers. In their greed, they ambushed and pursued the Burning Sun Sect's disciples. Their hunt escalated until more of their people joined—culminating in the arrival of a Soul Transformation Realm elder."
The Sect Master's brows drew together. "And what became of the elder… and his group?"
Haotian didn't blink. "Dead."
A ripple of shock passed through the hall. Several elders exchanged uneasy glances.
The Sect Master's eyes narrowed. "Explain. What do you mean 'dead'?"
Haotian's reply was deliberate, his voice unwavering. "All of them are dead. I killed them all."
The silence that followed was almost physical. Then, with practiced precision, Haotian reached into his spatial ring and set a small mountain of proof before them: forty-seven Bloodshade Moon Sect emblems, each marked with the sigil of their owner, and one larger, heavier emblem bearing the elder's crest.
The sharp clink of metal on stone drew every gaze. But Haotian wasn't finished. He drew out several neatly wrapped bundles and set them beside the emblems. When the cloth bindings fell away, rows of well-preserved cultivation manuals and technique scrolls were revealed.
"These are duplicates," Haotian said evenly. "I kept one copy of each for personal study. These are offered to the sect."
An elder from the Mission Hall stepped forward, his eyes scanning the titles with growing interest. "Mid-grade techniques," he announced after a brief inspection. "In pristine condition. These could fetch a high price on the open market."
The Sect Master leaned forward slightly. "How much for each?"
The elder's fingers traced the spines of the nearest volumes. "Between five thousand and fifteen thousand contribution points apiece… depending on rarity and demand."
Heads turned as the count of books was made. Over eighty manuals in total. The weight of what Haotian had just placed before them began to sink in, not only in value but in implication.
The Sect Master's gaze lingered on Haotian, as if measuring the storm that now stood in his hall.
The Sect Master's eyes held on Haotian for a long, weighted moment. Not a single elder dared to speak. The air felt heavy, as if the hall itself were waiting for his next words.
Finally, the Sect Master spoke, voice low but edged with authority. "You slew a Soul Transformation elder and an entire Bloodshade Moon Sect hunting party. Such an act will not go unnoticed. Their retaliation will come."
Haotian's gaze didn't waver. "They will find nothing."
The elders shifted at his tone.
"I cleaned up the battlefield," Haotian continued, his voice steady, almost clinical. "Every corpse was destroyed. Every drop of blood, every weapon fragment, every imprint in the earth—gone. I used elemental fire and earth essence to return the land to its untouched state. Not even a trace of disturbance remains. Their scouts will find only wind-swept grass and unbroken soil."
He let the weight of his next words hang in the air. "To their eyes, an entire party of disciples and one of their elders will have simply vanished into thin air. Their investigations will lead nowhere, because there is nothing left to find."
A silence followed, more dangerous than shouting. Some elders looked impressed, others unsettled.
The Sect Master's gaze narrowed slightly. "You've hidden your hand well. That buys us time… but also deepens the mystery in their eyes." He glanced toward the Mission Hall elder. "The manuals?"
The elder stepped forward, handling the stack with measured care. "Mid-grade techniques. Easily worth between five to fifteen thousand contribution points each." His eyes flicked over the count. "Over eighty volumes."
The Sect Master nodded once. "Credit his account in full—ten thousand for each. His actions will be recorded as a mission completion beyond exceptional merit."
But his voice sharpened again, cutting through the undercurrent of approval. "Haotian, you have given us strength, but you have also shifted the board. The Bloodshade Moon Sect will test us. They will seek you out. You will not act outside the sect's sanction unless ordered. Do you understand?"
Haotian inclined his head. "I understand."
The Sect Master's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, then he dismissed him with a single, deliberate motion. "Go. Rest while you can. The ripples of what you've done will reach us sooner than you think."
As Haotian turned to leave, he caught the faint murmur of two elders whispering behind their sleeves. The words were too low to make out, but the tone was unmistakable—some saw him as a rising pillar. Others… as a spark that might set the sect aflame.
Haotian stepped out of the main hall, the heavy wooden doors closing behind him with a dull, echoing thud. The sunlight outside was sharp, almost blinding after the dim tension of the audience chamber.
But the brightness did nothing to soften the atmosphere waiting for him. Outer disciples scattered across the courtyard froze mid-step, their conversations dying as eyes turned toward him. Some looked at him with awe, others with caution, and a few with something harder to read—uncertainty, perhaps even envy.
The murmurs started low, threading through the crowd like ripples on still water. "That's him…""He killed them all…""Even the elder…"
Haotian ignored the whispers, his steps unhurried as he crossed the courtyard. Each movement carried the same calm certainty he had shown before the Sect Master—a steady, unshakable presence. He neither acknowledged the stares nor tried to hide from them. Instead, he simply walked through them, letting the weight of his reputation settle without a word.
By the time he reached his quarters, the air felt quieter, though he knew it was only because the rumors had already begun to spread elsewhere.
Inside, he sat down for the first time that day, letting his body relax against the wooden chair. His mind was already turning over the next steps when a soft knock broke the moment.
He opened the door to find Lianhua standing there, her expression tinged with curiosity and concern. Before she could speak, he smiled faintly and reached for her hand, guiding her inside.
She let him lead her to a seat, but as soon as she sat, her eyes searched his face. "Is everything okay?" she asked quietly.
Haotian nodded and told her what had happened in the main sect hall—about the Bloodshade Moon Sect, the ambush, the battle, and the Sect Master's reaction. He didn't embellish, didn't hide, but also didn't linger on the blood.
Then, without a word, he drew a small, faintly glowing spatial ring from his sleeve. Taking her hand again, he slid it gently onto her ring finger.
Lianhua's breath caught. A deep blush bloomed across her cheeks, her heart thudding faster as her mind leapt ahead. To her, the gesture felt unmistakable—intimate, symbolic. Almost like a wedding vow without words.
Haotian's smile deepened at her reaction, though he said nothing to confirm or deny her interpretation. "I have more," he said after a pause, "and I'll gift them to the others later."
Lianhua's blush softened into a warm smile.
She tilted her head slightly. "What's next?"
Haotian's expression sharpened. "The trials for the inner court disciples begin in two months," he said. "We'll train, and we'll be ready."
Lianhua lingered for a while longer, the weight of the ring on her finger feeling strange yet reassuring. They spoke in low tones about the coming weeks—sparring drills, endurance runs, refining their sword forms—until the sky beyond the window deepened into shades of violet and silver.
When she finally rose to leave, she paused at the door, glancing back at him with a quiet smile. Haotian returned it, and in that unspoken exchange, a shared understanding settled between them.
As soon as the door closed, the warmth in his eyes sharpened into focus. Without wasting a breath, he sat cross-legged in the center of his quarters, the faint scent of sandalwood lingering in the air. The soft lamplight flickered against the walls as his breathing slowed and his presence sank inward.
He began with the Solar Verdant Flame Codex.
A faint emerald-gold light flickered to life around him, coiling like slow-burning fire along his arms, shoulders, and chest. The warmth was gentle at first, then grew into a steady, pulsing heat that filled every breath, every heartbeat. Each cycle of energy refined his meridians, polishing away imperfections like fire tempering steel.
He pressed deeper into the method, seeking not just stability but advancement—pushing to reach a higher state before the inner court trials began. Outside, the sect grounds were silent, save for the occasional night breeze carrying the faint rustle of leaves. Inside, the only sound was the muted hum of his cultivation, like a flame breathing.
Hours passed unnoticed.
When the codex's heat had soaked through his bones and the flow had reached its limit for the night, Haotian's eyes opened briefly, golden light flashing across his pupils. Without hesitation, he shifted.
His breathing deepened, his pulse slowing as his focus sank into the vast inner sea of his consciousness. He began the Heaven-Sundered Trinity Scripture.
The change was immediate—the air in the room grew heavier, charged with an invisible force. Threads of spiritual light unfolded around him like celestial script, rotating in complex patterns. The three points of power within him—body, mind, and soul—began to resonate in harmony, each cycle layering strength upon strength.
Outside, the first hints of dawn began to press against the horizon, but Haotian did not stop. His cultivation stretched through the entire night, each breath a step toward readiness, each pulse a quiet vow.
By the time the first sunlight broke across the sect walls, his eyes opened—not tired, but sharper than before.
The trials were coming. And he would be ready.
The first light spilled through the window, painting the room in pale gold. Haotian was still seated in the same spot, the faint shimmer of cultivation energy slowly dissipating from his skin. His breaths came steady and calm, his mind sharpened like a drawn blade.
A soft knock came at the door.
He rose smoothly, opening it to find Lianhua standing there, dressed in light training robes, her hair bound high, eyes bright despite the early hour. She glanced at him, then at the lingering warmth in the air, and smiled knowingly.
"You didn't sleep," she said.
"I didn't need to," Haotian replied, stepping aside so she could enter. "Ready?"
She nodded without hesitation.
They made their way to the outer courtyard while the sect was still quiet. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and stone. Shadows stretched long across the training field, broken only by the glint of their blades as they drew them.
Haotian began with paired movement drills, forcing Lianhua to match his shifting footwork step-for-step. He moved fluidly, changing speed without warning—slow as drifting snow one moment, fast as a striking hawk the next. Her breath quickened, but she adapted, her sword rising and falling in tight arcs to counter his sudden advances.
Then came the marker placement exercise. Haotian tapped the edge of his blade against her shoulder, hip, and forearm, leaving faint, harmless runic traces that flickered before fading. She had to strike back within three breaths, placing her own markers on him before his could vanish. The courtyard rang with the crisp sound of steel meeting steel, the rhythm sharp and unbroken.
They pushed harder.
Sweat gathered along Lianhua's jaw, her hair damp at the temples. Haotian's expression remained calm, but his movements were relentless—testing her angles, forcing her to pivot low, leap high, and recover without hesitation. The clash of their blades sent shivers of metal through the cool morning air.
By the time the sun cleared the treetops, both of them stood breathing hard, eyes locked in mutual respect. Lianhua's lips curved into a faint, determined smile.
"Two months," she said between breaths.
Haotian sheathed his blade. "We'll make every day count."
And with that vow, their training for the inner court trials truly began.
The days blurred into a rhythm of steel, sweat, and discipline.
Each morning began before the first birdcall, with Haotian and Lianhua meeting in the same courtyard. What started as simple paired drills evolved quickly—by the third day, their movements were so sharp and fluid that the clash of their blades drew lingering echoes against the stone walls.
By the fifth day, Haotian introduced aerial footwork circuits, launching from training posts while exchanging mid-air strikes. Lianhua's landings grew surer, her counters faster, until she could parry Haotian's sudden lunges without losing ground.
On the sixth morning, they layered elemental runic marker combat into the drills. Sparks of jade-green flame and threads of gold light danced in the space between them as each tried to outpace the other's placements. The tempo was fierce—blades weaving, feet striking stone in perfect rhythm.
They weren't alone anymore. Outer disciples began to gather along the courtyard edges, whispering among themselves. Some watched in awe at the fluid precision; others eyed Haotian with a thin veil of hostility, the kind that spoke of bruised pride and brewing rivalry.
By the seventh dawn, the watching crowd had doubled. Lianhua's breathing was ragged, her hair sticking to her neck, but her eyes burned with determination as she matched Haotian strike for strike. He pushed her harder still—forcing her into low sweeps, spinning parries, and narrow dodges through a haze of flickering markers.
Then, just as she closed in for a counter, a voice cut through the courtyard.
"Haotian!"
A disciple in crisp robes strode in, bowing with formal restraint. "The Director of the Martial Hall requests your presence. Immediately."
The onlookers went quiet, eyes flicking between Haotian and the messenger.
Lianhua lowered her blade, chest still rising and falling from the exertion. "What's this about?"
Haotian sheathed his sword in one smooth motion. "Continue with the drills," he said, voice calm. "It will be fine."
He offered her a brief, reassuring look before turning and striding away, the murmurs of the crowd following him as he left the courtyard for the Martial Hall.
Haotian's footsteps echoed against the polished stone floor as he entered the Martial Hall. The air was thick with authority—rows of engraved pillars rose to a ceiling painted with the sect's storied battles, their colors muted in the morning light streaming through high windows.
Several elders stood in quiet conversation, their gazes snapping toward him the moment he crossed the threshold. At the center, the Martial Hall Director, a tall figure with an austere expression, turned to face him.
Haotian cupped his fists and bowed low. "Director. Elders."
The greeting had barely left his lips when the Director's aura exploded outward like a breaking storm. The air warped. A crushing Soul Transformation Realm pressure slammed into the hall as the Director blurred forward.
BOOM!
The first strike came fast—a palm heavy with spiritual force aimed for Haotian's chest. He twisted sideways, feeling the air split at his shoulder, and countered with a snap-kick toward the Director's ribs. The clash of force rattled the hall's jade inlays.
Without a word, the Director pressed the attack. Fist met open palm, knee met forearm, their exchanges snapping like thunderclaps. Golden arcs of lightning began to crackle faintly across Haotian's skin as he moved—his body a blur of controlled power.
An elder to the left stepped forward suddenly, joining the fray without hesitation. Twin streams of Soul Transformation energy lanced toward Haotian. He pivoted low, the air humming as his counterstrike forced both opponents to adjust their footing.
Then—another elder joined. And another.
Now four Soul Transformation cultivators circled him, their movements precise, coordinated, and relentless. The hall rang with the impact of their strikes, the floor fracturing under the pressure of each exchange. Haotian met them blow for blow, his lightning arcs flaring brighter, feet gliding across the stone with unbroken rhythm.
Through the whirlwind of combat, he read the truth in their movements—there was no killing intent. This wasn't assassination; it was a measure. A test.
He smiled faintly. "So, this is how the Martial Hall greets its guests?"
The elders gave nothing back but the weight of their attacks.
The stalemate held—until a fifth elder vaulted in from the rear. His strike came in low, spiraling with crushing force. Haotian barely caught the motion in time.
THUD!
The blow slammed into his chest. Even with his reinforced body, the impact sent him skidding backward several paces, boots grinding deep gouges into the stone floor.
Silence followed.
The elders straightened, their expressions shifting from challenge to surprise.
The Director broke the stillness with a slow clap, the sound sharp in the vaulted hall. "Impressive. It took five Soul Transformation cultivators to land a decisive hit. I have seen nothing like it from an outer disciple in decades."
He stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Haotian's shoulder. "With combat strength like yours, there is no reason for you to take the inner court trial. I will personally petition for your promotion. If I wished, I could recommend you directly to the core disciples."
The words struck Haotian harder than any blow in the spar. He bowed his head briefly in acknowledgment, but his voice was calm when he replied, "I am honored… but I must ask that my strength remain concealed."
The elders frowned. One spoke, "Why hide it? Such skill should be shown to the sect."
"It is a form of deception," Haotian said plainly. "The fewer who know my limits, the longer my enemies will underestimate me. Beyond my saint realm ancestors, no one has seen my full power—until today."
A ripple of understanding passed through the group.
"You are cautious. And cunning," another elder said. "That will serve you well."
The Director nodded in agreement. "Very well. It shall remain between us."
Haotian reached into his spatial ring, retrieving the single emblem that had belonged to the Martial Hall director. Stepping forward, he extended it with both hands in a gesture of respect.
"This is yours," he said simply.
The director accepted the emblem, his eyes narrowing just slightly as though weighing more than just the object in his palm. A faint smile curved his lips. "Good. You've shown both respect and restraint."
The elders exchanged glances, their earlier surprise at his strength now tempered with a newfound respect for his discipline.
With the test concluded, the director gave a final nod. "Return to your training. I will personally see to your advancement. But remember—keep that deception of yours well-guarded. In the right hands, it will be your deadliest weapon."
Haotian inclined his head once more before turning toward the doors of the Martial Hall, the murmurs of impressed elders following him as he stepped back into the daylight.