Yangshen's glare lingered on Haotian for a long, heavy moment. The hall was so silent that even the faint creak of the pillars settling could be heard. Finally, the Saint exhaled through his nose—a slow, resigned breath that carried more weight than words.
"…Fine," he said at last, voice low but firm. "You can stay."
Haotian's eyes lit up, but Yangshen's next words cut through his budding grin like a blade. "But from this moment forward, I will be personally supervising your progress. Every step, every technique, every breath of cultivation you take will answer to me. If I so much as sense you wasting a single day…" His tone darkened, "…I will drag you home myself, whether you kick, scream, or vanish into the mountains."
Haotian's smirk faltered just enough to show he'd gotten the message, but he didn't back down. "Fine. Just don't get in my way."
Yangshen's eyebrow twitched again. "You—!"
Before the Saint could launch into another lecture, Yuying stifled a laugh, breaking the tension. "Well, at least this will be entertaining."
Meiyun smiled faintly, eyes flicking between the two like she was watching a drama unfold. "Entertaining? I'd call it a public service. This hall hasn't had a proper show in years."
Lianhua, still pink-faced from earlier, shot them both a look. "You're not helping!"
The Sect Master, meanwhile, was doing his best to look invisible—shoulders stiff, eyes downcast—though sweat still dotted his brow. He had just been reminded, quite painfully, that the four Saints in the room could level his entire sect before he could even blink.
Yangshen finally turned away from Haotian with a muttered, "Unruly brat…" but there was a trace of reluctant amusement in his voice. The decision was made. Haotian would stay.
For now.
The next morning broke under a pale, crisp sky, the mountain air sharp enough to bite. By the time the sect's morning bells tolled, the outer training field was already a storm of dust and wind.
Saint Yangshen stood at the center, hands clasped behind his back, his presence alone bending the air. Every disciple in sight had frozen the moment he arrived—none daring to so much as adjust their stance without permission. The only ones standing anywhere near him were Lianhua, the six guards, Yueying, and Xiaoque, their eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before them.
Haotian was in the middle of it, drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged. A blazing spear of lightning and flame spun between his hands, every rotation crackling like a thunderstorm contained in his grip. Yangshen's voice cut through the field, each command like a hammer blow.
"Again. Faster. You call that control? Your wind is lagging by half a breath—compensate or you'll be dead before the next strike lands."
Haotian snarled under his breath but obeyed, thrusting forward. The air split with a sharp CRACK, a shockwave rippling through the training ground and scattering loose gravel.
"Again."
This time, the Saint didn't wait for Haotian to recover. A flick of his finger sent a thin blade of compressed spiritual force slicing toward Haotian's flank. The boy barely twisted aside in time, the edge grazing his shoulder and drawing a thin line of blood.
"Too slow. You hesitate, you die. Again!"
By now, the other sect disciples—dozens of them—were pale and unmoving, afraid that even breathing too loudly might draw Yangshen's attention. None dared train on their own. The sheer ferocity of the regimen was unlike anything they had seen; Yangshen's expectations ground against the sect's usual pace like steel against stone.
Haotian's aura flared, the golden light of the Eyes of the Universe flashing in his gaze as he adjusted mid-movement, spear sweeping in a perfect arc to parry another incoming strike. But Yangshen was relentless.
"You want to stay? Then prove you deserve to stand on this mountain."
The six guards exchanged uneasy glances, clearly itching to intervene but wise enough to stay silent. Lianhua's hands tightened in her sleeves, eyes darting between the two, her worry visible even through her composed facade. Yueying, meanwhile, tilted her head slightly, an amused smile ghosting her lips, and Xiaoque muttered under her breath, "If this is what he calls morning warm-ups, I'd hate to see what he does after lunch…"
Yangshen didn't let up. Every movement Haotian made, every breath he took, was weighed, measured, and crushed under the Saint's standard. By the end of the first hour, sweat and blood streaked his robes, the training field scarred from repeated bursts of elemental force.
And Yangshen's voice rang out, sharp and unyielding.
"Again."
Several days later, the crisp mountain air carried with it the sound of another brutal morning on the training field. Haotian's spear cut through the wind again and again, arcs of lightning and flame spilling off its edge as Saint Yangshen's sharp commands lashed him forward. His robes were drenched with sweat, his stance trembling from exhaustion, yet he didn't stop—not for a breath, not even when the ground under his feet quaked from each blow.
From the edge of the field, a ripple in the air signaled the return of three figures. Yuyin, Jinhai, and Meiyun descended from their journey, their auras settling like the quiet weight of a storm waiting to break. They stood for a moment, observing the scene in silence.
Yangshen barked another order. Haotian staggered, but caught himself—his gaze flicking not to his weapon, not to his opponent, but to Lianhua. She stood at the sidelines, fists hidden in her sleeves, her eyes locked on him with a worry she couldn't mask.
Yuyin's lips curved in a knowing smile. These two…
She walked forward, her steps carrying the weight of centuries, and stopped beside Yangshen. "That's enough," she said, her voice calm but edged.
Yangshen didn't even turn his head. "Not yet. He's still—"
Her eyes shifted to him, and whatever words he had left caught in his throat. It wasn't just a look; it was a spear of silent authority that even a Saint couldn't ignore. Then her voice slid into his mind, cool and unyielding.
Stop interfering. Let him find his own way. He still has time.
Yangshen's jaw tightened.
How many people in this world, at Core Transformation, can spar with a Saint? You've seen it yourself. And— her mental tone sharpened, —can't you see how worried Lianhua is?
That made him pause. His eyes flicked toward the young woman standing off to the side, and sure enough, her worry was etched into every line of her face. He grumbled under his breath, something about "softness breeding weakness," but finally exhaled a low sigh.
"Fine."
Stepping forward, his voice cut across the field. "Stop."
Haotian froze mid-strike, lowering his spear. His shoulders slumped in relief as Yangshen approached.
"That's enough. Go and rest," the Saint said, his tone like stone. Then, after a pause: "We have matters to attend to. The next time I see you, I expect improvement—real improvement—not the pathetic display I saw earlier."
Haotian blinked. "...What?"
But Yangshen didn't answer. In a sweep of motion, he turned, and the four Ancestors—Yangshen, Yuying, Jinhai, and Meiyun—rose into the sky. Their figures blurred into streaks of light before vanishing over the horizon.
Haotian stared after them for a long moment, his mind sluggish from fatigue. What… just happened?
Then his knees gave way. He hit the ground with a heavy thud—three straight days and nights of unbroken training finally catching up to him.
Lianhua rushed forward, sliding an arm around his shoulders to keep him upright. "At least they left," she said softly, a small smile breaking her worried expression. "Let's get you cleaned up."
Haotian managed a tired grin. "Thanks… Lianhua."
Lianhua's steps were slow but steady as she guided Haotian back to his quarters. He leaned slightly against her shoulder, the weight of exhaustion dragging at every muscle in his body. Inside, the lamplight was warm, the air faintly scented with sandalwood. She eased him down onto the edge of the bed, her hands careful but firm as she helped him remove his outer robe. Beneath, his tunic clung to him, damp with sweat and streaked with dust from the training ground.
She fetched a cloth from the washbasin, wrung it out, and began wiping the sweat from his brow. Her movements were gentle, but her eyes stayed on his face, scanning for signs of deeper strain. "You've been pushing yourself too hard," she murmured, brushing stray strands of hair from his forehead.
He gave a faint, tired smile. "You've been watching the whole time?"
"Every moment," she said quietly, dipping the cloth again. "And every moment I wanted to drag you away from him."
Haotian chuckled softly, though the sound was weak. "You'd have to fight a Saint for that."
"Then I would," she replied without hesitation. Their eyes met, and the air between them shifted—quiet, heavy, and warm. Her hand lingered near his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his skin. He leaned forward almost without thinking, their faces closing the distance inch by inch.
A knock shattered the moment.
Lianhua froze, her lips just a breath away from his. She exhaled sharply through her nose and went to the door, yanking it open.
A group of guards stood there, stiff-backed and awkwardly avoiding her glare. The one in front held up a bundle of jade bottles. "From the Alchemy Hall, Miss—healing pills for the young master."
She snatched one bottle from his hands. "Fine."
The door slammed before they could respond.
She returned to Haotian, her eyes still simmering with irritation. "Where were we?" she muttered, settling beside him again. Their faces drew closer once more, the rest of the world fading—
Another knock.
Her head dropped forward for a moment in sheer disbelief before she stood up and ripped the door open again. The same guards, this time holding a lacquered tray piled with dishes. "Dinner for the young master."
She took the tray, her face unreadable, and closed the door with a solid thud. Setting it on the table without so much as lifting the lid, she came back to Haotian.
He had already uncorked the bottle and was shaking a pill into his hand when she reached over and plucked it from his fingers.
"Hey—"
But before he could finish, she popped the pill into her mouth. Then she leaned in, quick and sudden, her lips pressing to his. His eyes widened as she tilted her head, and with a subtle push of her tongue, she passed the pill into his mouth.
He swallowed automatically, still caught in the closeness of her breath. She broke the kiss just as quickly as it had begun, her cheeks flushed, her gaze darting anywhere but his.
"Eat. Then rest," she said, her voice tighter than she meant it to be.
Before he could reply, she stood abruptly and left, her ears a deep crimson as she disappeared through the door.
Haotian sat there for a long moment after the door clicked shut, staring at the space she'd just vacated. The faint taste of the pill—and of her—still lingered on his tongue. He tilted his head back, exhaling a slow breath.
"…So that's one way to administer medicine," he muttered under his breath, lips quirking despite himself.
The pounding in his chest wasn't entirely from the training anymore. His body felt heavy, yes, but a strange lightness threaded through his chest—like the exhaustion had been wrapped in something softer. He wasn't sure whether it was the pill working, or just her.
He leaned back on his palms, letting the lamplight wash over him. The soreness in his arms and shoulders no longer felt like punishment; it was a reminder of how far he'd pushed and how far he still could go. Even the sting in his palms from gripping the training weapons too long… somehow felt worth it, because she had been watching the whole time.
Still, the memory of her glare at the guards made him smirk. "I should probably thank those interruptions… or curse them. Three more seconds and—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "No. She'd probably hit me for thinking about it."
His gaze drifted to the table where the food tray sat untouched, steam curling lazily from the dishes. For a moment, he imagined her returning, scolding him for not eating, and the warmth in his chest deepened.
"…This world may have Saints, demons, and cultivators who can tear mountains apart," he murmured to himself, closing his eyes. "But I think she might be the most dangerous of all."
A quiet chuckle escaped him, and with the faint scent of sandalwood still in the air, Haotian finally let himself relax for the first time in days. The bond between them had shifted, he could feel it—subtle, but there. And if the universe was kind enough to let him keep it, maybe the next time they leaned in…
There wouldn't be any guards at the door.
Two days later, the summons came. Haotian found himself standing before the towering doors of the main hall, their lacquered wood polished to a mirror sheen. Inside, the air was heavy with incense and the low hum of spiritual energy—an atmosphere that always seemed to weigh twice as much when every seat on the elder dais was filled.
He stepped forward in measured strides until he stood on the polished jade floor at the center. Stopping a respectful distance away, he cupped his hands and bowed deeply.
"Disciple Haotian greets the Sect Master, and pays respects to the honored elders."
The Sect Master, a man whose presence usually carried quiet steel, exhaled a long, weary breath that seemed to drag years into his face. "So… the Saints have truly departed?" His tone was more resignation than question.
"Yes," Haotian replied simply, straightening from his bow.
The Sect Master's gaze lingered on him for a long moment, his eyes sharp despite the fatigue. "Then tell me, Haotian… what do you intend to do in this sect from now on?" His voice was steady, but the underlying meaning was plain—Your strength has already outgrown our teachings. Why stay?
Murmurs rippled faintly among the elders. Haotian stood still, unshaken, though inwardly he hadn't given the matter much thought until now. Training? Combat? That path was already etched into his life whether he pursued it here or not. But what stirred him—what drew him into hours of focus without the grind of discipline—was something else entirely.
"I wish to devote myself to alchemy, formations, and rune crafting," Haotian said at last, his voice calm but certain. "To create new pills, to refine stronger formations, to inscribe runes no one has seen before. That is my passion. More than training… more than battle."
A few elders exchanged startled looks. The Sect Master's brows lifted ever so slightly, the faintest spark of curiosity cutting through his earlier weariness. "Hmm… interesting."
The main hall of the Burning Sun Sect was shrouded in the slow, molten glow of sunset filtering through its tall, bronze-latticed windows. Incense smoke curled upward in thin, lazy threads, mingling with the deeper scent of old sandalwood that had seeped into the chamber over decades.
Haotian stood at the center of the stone floor, his back straight but his expression calm, as the sect's high elders sat arrayed on either side like silent mountains. The Sect Master—robes of crimson and gold draped over broad shoulders—leaned slightly forward on the high seat, his silver-flecked eyes weighing every word.
"…Pills, formations, and runes," Haotian had said without hesitation, his tone neither boastful nor humble, but like one laying a single perfect tile into an endless mosaic. "Combat is… necessary. But creation—creation is my path."
A faint stir moved among the elders, their gazes shifting between one another. Some frowned, others nodded in slow consideration.
The Sect Master exhaled through his nose, the sound quiet yet carrying the weight of years. "You would walk the road of the artisan… in a sect forged in fire and battle." His words were not dismissive, but they hung in the air like an unspoken challenge. "Do you understand, Haotian, that in the Burning Sun Sect, few have reached true prominence by turning their hands away from the sword?"
Haotian met his gaze without flinching. "I understand, Sect Master. But a sword is nothing without the edge it carries… and the wielder is nothing without the breath in his body. Pills can grant that breath. Formations can sharpen the edge. Runes can make both endure. This… is how I wish to serve."
Silence deepened. Even the rustle of robes had gone still. Then, an elder to the left—a man with a beard like white fire—spoke in a tone like cracking embers.
"If your ambition is true, boy, you will need more than book knowledge and idle tinkering. These arts demand lifetimes. Each one alone could consume your years."
"I have lifetimes' worth of patience," Haotian replied. And though his voice was even, there was an undercurrent—an unshakable certainty that made even the oldest elder's eyes narrow in faint interest.
The Sect Master leaned back, fingers drumming once against the armrest. "Very well. You will be given access to the sect's secondary archive of alchemy, formation, and rune scripts. But understand this—what you find there is the foundation, not the summit. If you wish to prove your worth in this… you will need to create something that stands on its own merit. Something that forces even a battle-hardened sect like ours to take notice."
The sunset light shifted, glancing off the polished floor. Haotian bowed deeply. "I will."
The Sect Master's hand swept downward in dismissal, though his eyes held a faint glimmer of curiosity he did not show to the rest. "Then go. And do not waste the opportunity."
Haotian turned, his steps measured, leaving the great hall as the elders resumed their low, murmured discussion. Outside, the air was cooler, touched with the crisp bite of evening. The first lanterns of the outer courtyard flickered to life, their flames dancing against the darkening sky.
He breathed out slowly. In that single exchange, his course within the sect had shifted. The sword path would always remain, but the path of creation—the deep, intricate weaving of energy, material, and intent—was now set before him like an endless horizon.
And he intended to walk it to the very end.
Haotian stepped from the great hall into the dimming courtyard, the echo of the Sect Master's words still resonating in his chest. Lantern light shimmered over the stone path ahead, guiding him toward the eastern wing where the alchemy halls stood.
The air there was warmer, tinged with the rich scent of dried herbs and faint mineral dust. As he approached the carved redwood doors of the main alchemy hall, a figure in deep green robes awaited him—an elder whose eyes were bright yet softened by age.
"Haotian," the man greeted with a voice that carried the calm of a still pond. "I am Elder Yao, custodian of the sect's alchemy wing. The Sect Master has spoken to me of your… unusual request."
Haotian bowed. "It is an honor to meet you, Elder Yao."
With a small smile, Elder Yao turned, motioning for him to follow. "Come. The secondary archives are not large, but they hold more than enough to begin shaping a serious foundation. If your intent is genuine, the texts here will answer. But you must learn to ask the right questions."
They passed rows of bronze-lidded cauldrons and long tables scattered with grinding stones, pestles, and bundles of herbs wrapped in twine. The faint hiss of simmering brews lingered in the background, accompanied by the whisper of pages turning from distant study alcoves.
At the end of a narrow corridor, Elder Yao pushed open a heavy lacquered door. Within lay the Secondary Archives—tiered shelves rising nearly to the ceiling, each stacked with scrolls, bound manuscripts, and wooden cases marked with faded seals. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and medicinal powder.
"This is your starting ground," Elder Yao said, gesturing to the room. "Respect the texts, record what you learn, and return everything in order. You may come each morning after sunrise." His gaze sharpened slightly. "The Sect Master believes you may one day craft something unique. I hope you prove him right."
Haotian inclined his head. "I will, Elder."
And this time, he had a plan.
Every morning, as the first light spilled across the mountains, he would come to these archives. The early hours would be for study—absorbing the fundamentals of alchemy, refining pill formulas, and noting the intricacies of medicinal resonance.
At midday, he would set the scrolls aside and meet with Lianhua, who often awaited him near the sect's lotus bridge. After sharing a simple meal or brief conversation, the afternoons would rotate between alchemy refining, formation arrays, and rune crafting—building each skill in turn until all three began to weave together naturally.
Evenings were for dinner with Lianhua and the small team they often trained alongside. Conversation flowed easily, laughter breaking through the day's discipline. And when the last meal was done, Haotian returned to his cultivation chambers, where he would sit through the long hours of the night, cycling his qi beneath the quiet hum of the sect's wards.
The routine became the rhythm of his days, steady and unyielding.
And Lianhua—far from being angered by his new focus—seemed to only grow closer to him. Their bond deepened in the quiet spaces between obligations: a walk along the moonlit garden paths with their hands loosely entwined, shared pauses beneath the plum blossoms, or simply sitting side by side on the outer balcony as they watched the constellations rise.
Some nights, when the training fields were still and the world below seemed asleep, they would lean together, Lianhua's head resting lightly against his shoulder, speaking little and letting the stars say what words could not.
In time, their closeness became known even beyond the alchemy wing. Passing disciples whispered with envy, some admiring, others curious. But Haotian paid them no mind.
For him, it was simple—he was building his path, and she had chosen to walk it beside him.