The sect was a cauldron of whispers.
Everywhere Chen Wu walked, conversations died midsentence. Yet as soon as his back turned, the murmurs rose again like a tide.
"Zhao Feng crawled on the ground like a dog."
"Kowtowed! Begged! The mighty inner disciple, reduced to a worm…"
"I heard Chen Wu didn't even use a proper technique. He just stood there, and Zhao Feng collapsed. That's not martial skill—that's demonic pressure!"
Each retelling grew sharper, crueler.
By the time the story reached the younger disciples, Zhao Feng was said to have pissed himself in terror.
Some even swore that Chen Wu's eyes had glowed with blood-red light, the gaze of a devil returning from the abyss.
Among the elders, reactions were not uniform.
Elder Han—stern, straight-backed, always clinging to the sect's orthodox dignity—slammed his teacup so hard the rim cracked.
"Absurd. A cripple cannot transform overnight. There must be trickery. If this… Chen Wu dares to flaunt himself, he must be crushed before his arrogance poisons the younger generation."
At his side, Elder Wu, whose eyes often glittered with schemes, chuckled softly.
"Arrogance? Or hidden talent? Our sect has been mocked by rivals for nurturing trash. Now, suddenly, that very trash breaks free of his chains. Is that not… an opportunity?"
Their words clashed like swords behind silken smiles.
Meanwhile, rival factions within the sect stirred.
Disciples who once mocked Chen Wu now whispered among themselves, faces pale.
"What if he comes for us next?"
"I threw his food into the dirt last month… will he remember?"
Others—ever opportunistic—saw a rising tide and scrambled to ride it.
"Did you hear? Chen Wu is ruthless but loyal to those who stand by him."
"If we ally with him early, he may protect us when the storms come."
The air itself seemed heavy with shifting loyalties.
And Zhao Feng?
He dared not step outside his quarters. Rumors claimed he had locked himself away, refusing food, seething in humiliation.
Some whispered he was plotting revenge.
Others mocked that he wept at night, drowning in shame.
By now, every word, every retelling, only deepened Chen Wu's shadow and buried Zhao Feng's reputation.
Even beyond the sect walls, traveling merchants and wandering cultivators began to whisper:
"The 'trash' of Azure Heaven Sect is no trash at all. Mark my words—this Chen Wu will not remain obscure."
And so, the wildfire spread.
The Sect Master—aloof, detached, rarely stirred by common gossip—finally received three separate reports within a single day.
His brows, sharp as drawn blades, furrowed.
"Chen Wu…" he murmured.
"Very well. If the boy truly crawls from the gutter to defy heaven, I will see him with my own eyes."
The sect trembled in anticipation.
The stage was no longer a clearing. No longer whispers.
The next clash would be before the highest seats of power.
And Mo Tianxie, wearing the skin of Chen Wu, welcomed it with the quiet, predatory smile of a villain who knew this was only the beginning.
*******
The towering gates of the Inner Sect's Judgment Hall creaked open, their ancient bronze rings groaning as disciples filed in like a tide. Murmurs echoed through the cavernous chamber, the sound rising to a storm of whispers.
At the center of the polished jade floor knelt Zhao Feng, head lowered, face still marred with bruises from Chen Wu's earlier beating. Around him, elders of varying ranks sat upon raised seats, their robes marked with different sigils denoting faction and authority.
And at the very heart of it all—
Chen Wu walked in with his usual calm, hands clasped behind his back, his posture straight despite every hostile eye fixed on him.
To the disciples, he was still "trash Chen Wu."
To himself, he was Mo Tianxie — the Demonic Sky Tyrant.
He allowed the corner of his lips to curl ever so slightly. Let them bark. A tyrant fears no judgement.
The Accusation
"Chen Wu!"
Elder Han, Zhao Feng's patron, slammed his staff against the floor, the sound like a thunderclap. His long beard quivered as his eyes blazed with fury.
"You dare cripple your fellow disciple, humiliating him before witnesses, spitting on the harmony of this sect? Explain yourself!"
The younger disciples gasped at his blunt charge. A few already began whispering: So it's true… trash Chen Wu actually crippled Zhao Feng?
Chen Wu's gaze swept over them lazily, like a predator studying lambs.
"My explanation?" His voice was quiet, but it carried to every corner of the hall.
"He challenged me. He swore an oath of his own free will. He lost. I merely accepted his surrender."
Elder Han's face darkened.
"Twisting words! You exploited his oath and struck him down viciously! Such cruelty cannot be tolerated!"
Chen Wu chuckled. It was a low, mocking sound.
"If mercy is cruelty, then perhaps the sect should reward me for being too kind. I could have killed him, Elder Han. Would you prefer that outcome?"
The hall erupted into murmurs.
Factional Chaos
Another elder, Elder Li, surged to his feet. He was a sharp-eyed man with a hawk-like gaze. Unlike Han, he had long resented Zhao Feng's arrogance.
"Enough, Han! Your disciple was arrogant, reckless, and weak. He lost a fair duel, witnessed by many. What crime is there in victory?"
The disciples stirred again. Two elders, clashing? Over Chen Wu?
Elder Han sneered.
"Li, you defend this trash because you want to spite me. Don't think I don't see your schemes."
Elder Li barked a laugh.
"Schemes? Ha! I simply hate hypocrites who cry 'bully' when their favored lapdog is bitten. If Zhao Feng cannot endure humiliation, he has no right to call himself a cultivator."
The air grew heavy with tension as sides formed—disciples whispering which elder they supported, factions glaring daggers across the hall. What had begun as Chen Wu's trial now looked like it might fracture the sect entirely.
And through it all, Chen Wu stood silently, watching the chaos he had seeded bloom like poison flowers. Good. Let them fight each other. The Demonic Sky Tyrant thrives in disorder.
Finally, he stepped forward, his voice slicing through the uproar.
"Elders. Disciples. Are we cultivators, or are we squabbling hens?"
The hall stilled.
Chen Wu's eyes glinted like obsidian.
"Zhao Feng swore before heaven and earth to kneel as my dog if defeated. His words, not mine. If vows can be discarded so easily, then tell me—" his gaze raked the crowd like a blade, "—what worth is an oath sworn under heaven? Should we all laugh at the heavens and piss on our word?"
A visible shiver ran through the hall. Even disciples who hated him had no retort. He had turned the accusation into an attack on the very foundation of cultivator honor.
Elder Han's jaw clenched until veins bulged at his temple.
"You insolent wretch—!"
A deep voice cut through the air, silencing everything.
"That is enough."
The Sect Master, draped in flowing silver robes, descended from the high seat like a mountain collapsing. His aura weighed upon the hall, pressing weaker disciples to their knees. Even Chen Wu felt the pressure, though he concealed it with practiced calm.
"Han. Li. You shame yourselves, bickering like children before disciples."
His gaze flicked to Chen Wu.
"And you… trash disciple or not, you have indeed forced this sect to face a dilemma."
The Sect Master's eyes were unreadable pools.
"Therefore, there will be no more quarreling. The truth shall be tested. Three days from now, in the Trial of Heaven's Oath, Chen Wu will face judgment. If his actions were within honor, he shall rise. If not…" His words turned cold. "He will be cast out and crippled."
Gasps tore through the chamber. The Trial of Heaven's Oath was no small affair—it would not only test his deeds, but also his destiny.
Elder Han smiled viciously.
Elder Li's brows furrowed with worry.
And Chen Wu?
His lips curled into a smirk.
A trial by heaven itself? How nostalgic. Very well. Let the heavens come. The Demonic Sky Tyrant bows to none.
The Sect Master slammed his hand down, sealing the decree.
"The trial is set. All may witness. This hall is adjourned."
The crowd erupted once more, excitement and fear crackling in the air like wildfire.
As Chen Wu turned to leave, hundreds of eyes followed him—some filled with hatred, others with awe, and more with suspicion.
Whispers spread like venom:
Trash no more. Demon in disguise. Who is Chen Wu, really?
And somewhere among the crowd, Zhang Rulan's gaze lingered the longest.