By the next morning, the tranquility of the Inner Court was gone.
Before Haotian had even stepped out of his quarters, three different messengers were waiting.
"The Forging Hall requests your presence—""The High Elder of the Blazing Sun Peak requires a custom weapon—""A spirit beast in the Inner Menagerie is gravely ill—""Elder Yao asks for assistance in testing a new pill recipe—""The Grand Elder's recovery depends on a rare medicine—"
One request followed another, each spoken with increasing urgency, until the hallway outside buzzed like a hive. Disciples carrying training blades and scroll cases paused to stare.
"Why are so many elders looking for him?" one whispered.
"Don't you know?" another leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "It's because of what happened in the Outer Court."
More heads turned, and soon half a dozen Inner Court disciples were huddled together. The storyteller's voice dropped even lower.
"They say Haotian took the top spots in every trial, forged weapons fit for elders, and healed injuries others said were beyond saving."
A murmur of disbelief spread. Someone smirked. "And I heard the wildest rumor—he killed a Soul Transformation Realm elder of the Bloodshade Moon Sect."
That earned a round of quiet scoffs."Ridiculous.""No one can master all those professions.""Sounds like Outer Court boasting."
Haotian and Lianhua, passing nearby, caught every word. They glanced at each other. Lianhua's lips curved into an amused smile; Haotian shook his head faintly. Without a word, they walked on, letting the murmurs fade behind them.
Their steps carried them toward Elder Yao's workshop, where the scent of rare herbs was already drifting through the air. If the old master needed help refining a pill critical to a High Elder's recovery, then that was where they would be—gossip or no gossip.
The herbal fragrance thickened as Haotian and Lianhua stepped into Elder Yao's pill refining chamber.
The room was a controlled chaos of alchemical activity—bronze cauldrons suspended over blue spirit flames, shelves lined with jade jars and crystal vials, and a faint haze of medicinal steam curling in the air. The rhythmic clink of pestle against mortar came from a side table, where Elder Yao stood with his sleeves rolled up, silver-streaked hair pulled back, and eyes narrowed in deep concentration.
"You're late," he said without looking up.
"We came as soon as we heard," Haotian replied evenly. Lianhua gave a small bow.
Elder Yao's hand paused only to gesture toward a half-prepared cauldron. "This is no ordinary batch. The High Elder of Sunfire Peak suffered severe internal damage in closed-door cultivation. The only thing that can stabilize his meridians is the Sevenfold Rebirth Pill. Problem is… the final fusion stage is too volatile. Even I can't hold the harmony alone."
He straightened, wiping his hands, and finally met Haotian's gaze. "You've got the control for it. I've read the records."
Lianhua's eyes flickered between them. "What do you need us to do?"
Elder Yao wasted no time. "Haotian, you'll guide the core flame during the last three phases. Lianhua, you'll channel auxiliary spiritual energy to keep the temperature steady. One slip, and the batch will detonate—taking half my hall with it."
Without hesitation, Haotian rolled up his sleeves and moved to the cauldron. The moment he extended his spiritual sense into the brew, he felt the roiling turbulence within—layers of heat, essence, and vitality twisting like caged dragons.
"Ready," he said.
Elder Yao flicked his sleeve, releasing a stream of powdered herbs into the cauldron. The contents erupted in golden vapor. "Now."
Haotian's palm pressed to the cauldron's surface, and a thin stream of his controlled inner flame poured inside. It wove between the unstable currents, threading harmony where there was chaos. Lianhua knelt beside him, her hands glowing with a steady, cool radiance that wrapped around the cauldron like a protective veil.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Sweat dampened their brows. Elder Yao's eyes darted between their movements, a faint glimmer of approval in his gaze.
At last, the cauldron's roar softened into a low, steady hum. The golden vapor condensed, coalescing into seven perfect, gleaming pills that floated gently above the cauldron's heart.
Elder Yao exhaled slowly, catching them in a jade bottle. "Perfect… better than I dared hope."
He looked at Haotian with a faint smirk. "If you keep this up, the rumors about you might start sounding too modest."
Outside, the Inner Court disciples were still whispering, but Elder Yao's smile said enough—word of this would spread faster than any gossip.
By the next morning, the storm had already begun.
The High Elder of Sunfire Peak—one of the sect's most respected figures—was seen walking the Inner Court gardens with steady steps, his complexion restored, his aura calm but undeniably potent. Word spread in waves: the Sevenfold Rebirth Pill had worked flawlessly. Within hours, every elder and deacon who mattered knew whose hands had guided its most dangerous stage.
When Haotian and Lianhua stepped into the Inner Court training grounds that day, conversation dimmed, then shifted. Disciples who had been dismissive just yesterday now eyed him with a mix of wariness and reluctant respect. Others avoided his gaze entirely. A few bowed their heads as he passed, subtle but telling.
By midday, a messenger in red-gold robes appeared—a personal runner from the Upper Council chambers. His voice carried over the murmurs of the crowd.
"Disciple Haotian. The Upper Council summons you to the Jade Summit Hall."
A ripple of whispers followed. The Jade Summit Hall was reserved for high-level political discussions, rarely opened to someone who wasn't already an elder. Lianhua shot him a questioning look, but Haotian only gave a small shrug, his expression unreadable.
The hall itself was a place of deep formality—polished blackwood pillars carved with rising suns, the floor of clouded jade glowing faintly beneath one's feet. Nine elders sat in a crescent formation upon raised seats, their gazes heavy enough to test the spine of most disciples.
At the center, Elder Yao stood to one side, hands folded behind his back.
"Haotian," spoke the First Elder, his tone balanced between inquiry and assessment. "Your actions yesterday may have saved one of our pillars. The sect remembers such service." His eyes narrowed slightly. "But such skill brings… responsibility. You understand?"
"I do," Haotian replied evenly.
From the far left, another elder leaned forward. "Rumors of your… versatility have reached us. Weapon forging. Beast healing. Pill refining. Some claim these are exaggerated. I find myself curious to see where truth ends and fiction begins."
Elder Yao's mouth curved faintly, but he remained silent.
The First Elder continued, "We will be observing you more closely in the coming months. Expect invitations—requests—from the sect's halls. Refusal will not be taken lightly. Do well, and your future here will be… unusual."
It wasn't a threat, but neither was it simply praise. The council was marking him, and everyone in the room knew it.
When Haotian left the Jade Summit Hall, the air outside felt heavier, thicker—word of his summons had already outpaced him, and the stares from waiting disciples were sharper than before.
The first wave hit almost immediately after the Jade Summit Hall meeting.
Within hours, formal slips began arriving—some sealed with the gold crest of Sunfire Peak, others with the iron sigils of the Forging Hall, the Beast Taming Hall, and even the Martial Archives. Each carried the same message in different words: We require your assistance.
What began as two or three urgent tasks quickly turned into a daily barrage. One morning he'd be summoned to reforge a spiritual spear for the Spear Master of the Third Hall. By noon, he'd be in the Beast Taming yards, coaxing a rampaging stormhawk back into its pen with a combination of lightning suppression and pressure-point control. That same night, Elder Luo would drag him into a secluded alchemy chamber to attempt a volatile concoction for a merchant envoy's injured son.
It didn't stop.
By the end of the first week, Haotian had stopped counting the assignments. His training hours vanished. His cultivation sessions were cut short, replaced with endless problem-solving and sect errands that demanded mastery in half a dozen fields. He barely slept—his nights stolen by urgent knocks at the door and breathless messengers with "just one more" critical request.
The rumors only worsened it. Disciples whispered that Haotian could do anything, so the elders kept testing the theory. A few even sent overlapping requests, forcing him to sprint between pavilions just to keep from offending either party.
Finally—on the seventh day—a personal summons arrived from the Sect Master himself.
The Sect Master's private audience chamber was quiet, lined with scroll racks and a low brazier of sandalwood incense. Seated at the central dais, the Sect Master watched Haotian approach… and his eyes narrowed.
"You look," he said slowly, "as if you've been in a month-long war."
Haotian stopped a few steps short of the dais. His hair was unkempt, his shoulders faintly hunched, deep shadows carved beneath his eyes. He exhaled, then—without the usual reserve—looked straight at the Sect Master.
"War would've been easier," he said flatly. "I've barely trained. I've barely cultivated. I've slept in three-hour scraps between reforging shattered blades, brewing unstable pills, and being hauled into emergencies that don't even belong to my hall. I've been worked to the bone every single day. If this keeps up, I won't be worth the air I'm breathing in your sect."
The Sect Master's brows rose slightly at the uncharacteristic venting.
"I need help," Haotian pressed, his voice losing its edge and settling into raw fatigue. "I can't keep doing this without falling behind everyone else. I didn't come here to be the sect's errand slave."
The chamber was silent for a beat, the only sound the faint hiss of incense smoke.
The Sect Master studied him for a long moment… and then leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled. "Very well," he said. "If they insist on drowning you in requests, perhaps we can… turn the current to your favor."
The Sect Master tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing."…Tell me, Haotian—have you at least been given contribution points for all these tasks you've completed?"
Haotian blinked. "Contribution points?"
The words landed like a stone in his chest. His mind ran back through the endless days—reforging weapons, curing beasts, brewing pills, solving impossible requests—and then it hit him like a slap. Not once… not once had anyone handed him a single point. No credits. No tokens. Nothing.
His expression went slack, then tightened into incredulous disbelief. "I… haven't been paid a single point," he muttered.
The Sect Master's brows furrowed sharply, and for a heartbeat his gaze turned flinty. But then—unexpectedly—he burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the chamber.
Haotian's eye twitched. "You're laughing? I've been running myself into the ground for free and you find this amusing?"
Still chuckling, the Sect Master waved a hand. "Forgive me. It's just… the audacity of these halls is almost impressive. They've worked you harder than a debt-slave and didn't even bother with the formalities."
Haotian's voice was flat. "Yes, truly hilarious."
The Sect Master's smile thinned into something sharper. "Very well. Let's correct this. From now on, every completed request of the type you've been doing… will be paid at five hundred thousand contribution points. Retroactively. In addition, any future task will require the same rate before you lift a finger."
Haotian froze—then his eyes lit up like twin sparks. "Five… hundred… thousand each? For every one I've already done?"
"Exactly."
A slow grin broke across Haotian's tired face. "Sect Master… you're a man of vision." He bowed deeply. "Thank you."
"Good. Now go and rest before someone drags you to patch a roof or name a baby."
The next morning, the Sect Master's decree rolled through the sect like a thunderclap. The inner court buzzed with disbelief. The Forging Hall, Alchemy Division, Beast Taming Pavilion—all of them were stunned. The Martial Hall, however, was quietly pleased. With his time freed and payment ensured, Haotian could finally return to what mattered: training.
And every elder who had thought to use him freely… now had to consider if their "urgent" requests were worth half a million points.
The next morning, the martial hall's stone courtyard was already alive with the sounds of clashing weapons and the rhythmic stamp of footwork drills. The air carried the crisp bite of dawn, tinged with the faint scent of pine from the hills beyond.
Haotian stepped through the archway, posture straight, steps steady, eyes clear. The haggard exhaustion of the past week was gone—no dark bags under his eyes, no sluggish drag in his gait. His robes were immaculate, his hair tied neatly, and there was a quiet, razor-edged sharpness in his presence that hadn't been there since the Inner Court trials.
The moment the first few disciples noticed him, a ripple passed through the training ground.
A few exchanged glances and smirked. Others outright grinned, their eyes dancing with unspoken amusement. Even the normally stoic senior sparring instructor's lips twitched as if suppressing a laugh.
"Morning, Young Master Half-a-Million," one called lightly from the spear line, earning a low chuckle from those nearby.
Another leaned on his practice blade. "Careful, everyone. If you ask him to fetch a training dummy, you'll have to pay five hundred thousand points."
The teasing was half-jest, half-respect. They all knew of the Sect Master's decree by now—how Haotian had turned a week of exhausting exploitation into a declaration of worth that no one could ignore.
Haotian only smiled faintly, meeting their gazes with calm confidence. "Good. Then you all know my new rates. Now…" he rolled his shoulders, the faint shimmer of cultivation energy curling around him like heat haze, "…who's first?"
The smirks faded into focused grins. Wooden blades and spears shifted into ready stances. The sparring circle opened.
By the time Haotian stepped inside, it wasn't just another morning drill. It was the unspoken start of his reign in the Inner Court.
That night, the Inner Court was quiet, save for the whisper of wind threading through the tiled rooftops. Within his quarters, Haotian sat cross-legged, the faint glow of jade-green light swirling about his form.
The air around him shifted with subtle pulses, each inhalation drawing threads of wind essence into his meridians, each exhalation releasing them in controlled streams. This was no longer the generic sect method—he had switched to the Wind Soaring Meridian Flow, a cultivation technique designed to refine speed, agility, and reaction into instinct.
Hour after hour, he cycled his qi, shaping the currents to weave perfectly through his dantian, forcing them into compressed loops until they spun like miniature whirlwinds inside him. The pressure in his limbs lightened, his senses sharpened, and his pulse seemed to sync with the quiet rhythm of the wind outside.
By the time the first light of dawn spilled through the paper windows, his eyes snapped open, the green glow fading into his irises. Minor success… not bad for one night.
Rising from his mat, he stepped outside into the cool morning air. Drawing a slow breath, he began to test the technique. His feet tapped lightly on the flagstones, body blurring into swift afterimages. Each movement pulled a ripple of wind in his wake. He struck, palms slicing forward—whoosh—thin blades of compressed air whipped across the courtyard, cutting the morning mist apart. With a twist of his wrist, a swirling vortex formed briefly around his arm before dissipating.
For a moment, he almost lost himself in the rhythm, but voices in the distance broke his focus. Other disciples were arriving at the martial hall for morning drills.
Haotian exhaled, letting the wind die around him. He couldn't reveal too much—not yet. He still intended to master the other elemental cultivation methods he'd gathered, but the days were slipping by.
The Tournament of the Rising Dragons loomed ahead, its shadow stretching over every hall in the sect. The moment that would decide status, resources, and the next generation's place in the Burning Sun Sect… was coming fast.
The days that followed felt like the entire sect had been wound tight as a bowstring. Everywhere Haotian walked, the air buzzed with preparation. The Tournament of the Rising Dragons wasn't just another event—it was the proving ground for every Inner Court disciple with ambitions beyond their station.
The main training grounds were overflowing, with sparring rings claimed from dawn until the moon rose. Weapon forges burned through the night, the metallic clang of hammers echoing across the mountain. Alchemists scurried between halls, arms full of qi-recovery pills and elixirs to boost combat stamina. Even the usually aloof elders were seen lingering at the edges of training platforms, quietly observing potential talent.
Haotian's name was on more lips than he cared for. For some, he was a curiosity—a new face whose rise was meteoric, whose skills in the Outer Court had already drawn whispers. For others, he was a problem. Veterans who had spent years climbing the ladder eyed him like a usurper who might steal their hard-earned position.
It didn't help that the sect master's decree about his contribution points had spread like wildfire. Some called it favoritism. Others called it justice. But one thing was certain—everyone now knew he had the ear of the sect master.
That kind of attention in the Inner Court was both shield and blade.
Rival factions began to circle. The Azure Fang Alliance—a clique of Inner Court elites—were already plotting to humiliate him in the tournament. Meanwhile, younger disciples looked to him as someone who might topple the old hierarchy. Even elders began quietly inquiring about whether he would represent their halls.
On the martial platform, he felt the stares sharpen. He was no longer just Haotian the newcomer—he was Haotian, the potential rising dragon that could upset the balance. Every sparring match he entered became a spectacle, with challengers pushing harder, faster, desperate to see where he might break.
For Haotian, it was a political spotlight he hadn't asked for—but one he now had to navigate with precision. The tournament was no longer just about strength. It was about perception, alliances, and making the right enemies at the right time.
And with each passing day, the banners for the Rising Dragons Tournament unfurled higher along the sect's mountain walls, the roar of anticipation growing louder. The first clash was only days away.