The dawn came slowly, as if even the heavens hesitated after the chaos of the Heaven's Oath. Mist clung to the edges of the trees surrounding the Azure Heaven Sect grounds, twisting the familiar paths into ghostly corridors. The night's whispers had not ended—they had multiplied.
Chen Wu walked among the dew-soaked training grounds. Every step was measured. Every glance was precise. No disciple dared meet his eyes for more than a heartbeat. Even Zhao Feng, still pale and trembling from the previous night's humiliation, kept his head bowed, muttering prayers under his breath.
So this is how fear spreads, Mo Tianxie's voice echoed in his mind. Simple. Efficient. And intoxicating.
He watched the minor disciples train. Some stumbled under the weight of morning drills, others sparred clumsily with wooden swords. Yet each movement was observed by him, cataloged, analyzed. The weak, the cautious, the ambitious—all were pieces on his invisible board.
A group of junior disciples, previously ignored or bullied, whispered among themselves near the eastern pavilion. Chen Wu's gaze landed on them, and they froze.
"Do you want something?" he asked softly, voice calm but cutting, like steel through silk.
The smallest one, a girl with braided hair and sharp eyes, swallowed nervously. "N… no, Young Master Chen," she stammered. Her friends averted their gazes, but their hands clenched instinctively, eager yet terrified.
Chen Wu's lips curved into a thin smile. "Step closer," he said. Just two steps, and the girl obeyed. His eyes studied her, measuring courage, loyalty, and greed. "Tell me… what is your name?"
"Liang Mei," she whispered.
He nodded slowly. "You and your friends will assist me in training today. Nothing dangerous. But failure will have consequences."
Their eyes widened. They wanted to argue, to flee—but the aura emanating from him was suffocating. And yet, there was something magnetic, almost intoxicating, about it. They could not refuse.
"Good," Chen Wu said, turning his attention back to the training grounds. Small pawns. Tiny threads. But threads can pull a web together.
By mid-morning, the sect was alive with tension. Rumors of the previous night had spread faster than fire in dry grass. Even the outer gates were buzzing as newcomers and peripheral disciples whispered to one another, faces pale, voices hushed:
"He survived the Heaven's Oath…"
"He judged Zhao Feng without elders' approval…"
"They say he moves like a storm, even without cultivation…"
Chen Wu heard none of it directly. He did not need to. Whispers always traveled faster than his steps. His silence, his gaze, his mere presence—they carried a weight heavier than words.
From a corner of the training grounds, Zhao Feng limped along, nursing his jaw and ego alike. Every whisper reached him like a blade. Disciples avoided him, sneering behind their hands. One even muttered:
"Serves him right… maybe now we'll see who's really in charge."
Zhao Feng's hands shook. I am still strong… still an elder's protégé… I cannot be humiliated like this… not again!
But every corner of the sect mocked him silently, and even the elders whispered behind closed doors, debating whether to rein him or suppress Chen Wu. Chaos had a taste, and it was intoxicating.
By mid-morning, Chen Wu's movements became deliberate strategy. He intervened in a minor dispute among disciples sparring near the northern training hall.
"Stop," he said calmly, voice slicing the clamor like a blade. Two youths froze mid-strike, swords inches from each other's throats.
He stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately. "Both of you are equal in skill, yet you bicker like children. Tell me… why should either of you rise above the other?"
They stumbled over their words, fear flashing in their eyes. Chen Wu did not shout. He did not strike. He simply stood there, aura suffocating, eyes locked on theirs. And yet, the pressure was unbearable. Each heartbeat echoed like a gong of judgment.
"You will spar again," he continued, "until one of you admits fault without hesitation. And remember…" His gaze swept the surrounding students, who had gathered silently. "Every eye here sees your weakness. Your shame will become their amusement if you fail."
The boys nodded frantically, and the room was silent except for the soft hiss of their panicked breaths. By the end of the session, both had collapsed, sweating, gasping, and obediently admitting mistakes. The crowd whispered among themselves, their fear mingling with awe.
The seeds of control grow silently, Mo Tianxie thought. No sword needed. Just the scent of power.
Meanwhile, the elders gathered in the high hall, murmuring furiously. The events of the previous night had left them divided.
"The boy… the trash disciple… he cannot be allowed to continue like this!" Elder Han's voice thundered. "He humiliated Zhao Feng and, worse… the Heaven's Oath has given him strength the sect cannot measure!"
"Careful," Elder Rong interrupted. "Punish him too soon, and the rumor will spiral. Already the younger disciples whisper of him as some kind of… immortal prodigy. They say he walks through the sect untouched, yet they fear him."
A pause. The room was thick with tension.
"Untouched? He broke the Heaven's Oath!" Elder Han slammed his fist onto the table. "The sect must show dominance! Remove him before he poisons more minds!"
"Or…" Elder Rong leaned forward, eyes narrowed, "we use him. Let him gather the fearful and the loyal alike. Watch carefully. Then… decide."
The room was silent for a moment, the sound of papers and distant birds the only relief. Decision could wait. Observation was the safer play.
Back among the grounds, Chen Wu's senses remained attuned to subtle shifts. Every whisper, every glance, every nervous twitch in posture—all were data. He noted who avoided eye contact, who gawked in awe, who lingered too long.
By noon, Zhang Rulan appeared near the pavilion, whispering urgently to a small group of disciples. Her eyes flitted to Chen Wu, wide with nervous excitement. The whispers were spreading—embellished, mythologized, dramatic.
"They say he stopped Zhao Feng with a glance…" one disciple whispered.
"…and he can strike without a single cultivation move!" another added.
"…even the elders fear him now."
The words flew like sparks, igniting imaginations across the sect. Even distant disciples who had not witnessed the confrontation began avoiding Chen Wu. Curiosity and fear mixed, and gossip became legend before it even reached the highest hall.
Chen Wu observed from the northern terrace, eyes narrowed. Perfect. Let the rumors build. Let fear breed respect. Let them whisper my name until even the elders hesitate to command me.
Hidden among the shadows near the outer walls, two figures watched him carefully. One was tall, slender, face obscured by a hood; the other, shorter but equally tense, whispered urgently.
"Do you see him?" the shorter one asked. "The so-called Chen Wu… no, Mo Tianxie. That is him. He survived the Heaven's Oath. He walks… untouched."
"Yes," the taller one said, voice low. "But observe carefully. He's dangerous… calculating. One wrong move, and the sect will regret not eliminating him."
They retreated slowly, remaining unseen. Their departure was a ripple in the far edges of the sect, a harbinger of more eyes now watching.
By afternoon, Chen Wu had made his first deliberate public display of power. During a sparring session, a group of rival disciples mocked a smaller junior. Chen Wu's presence alone silenced them. Then, with one movement, he intercepted the bullying—not with brute force, but with a controlled, decisive maneuver that humiliated the offenders publicly. Their own arrogance became a spectacle for all gathered, reinforcing the narrative of Chen Wu as untouchable.
The junior disciples whispered behind their hands. The rivals trembled, retreating with bruised egos. The sect's ground vibrated not with the clash of swords, but with the invisible force of fear and awe.
This is how control is taken, Mo Tianxie thought. Not by killing. Not by power alone. By shaping perception. By letting fear grow into obedience.
As evening fell, Zhang Rulan returned to a quiet pavilion, scribbling in a small notebook. Her gaze occasionally flicked toward Chen Wu, the way someone might watch a storm, knowing it could consume everything—or everything could bend to it.
The whispers she had started now spread beyond the training grounds. By word of mouth, exaggeration, and selective truth, Chen Wu's legend grew. Some said he was invincible. Others claimed he could bend the Heaven's Oath itself. The boundaries between reality and myth blurred.
Even Zhao Feng, alone in his quarters, heard snatches of conversation:
"…he stared at Zhao Feng… and he collapsed…"
"…no cultivation, yet he dominates the training grounds…"
"…he's… something else. Something beyond."
Zhao Feng trembled, unable to reconcile the boy he once controlled with the storm now sweeping the sect.
Night fell, but the sect remained restless. Chen Wu walked the terraces again, overlooking the entire grounds. Lanterns cast long shadows, and the air was thick with whispered tension.
Allies… identified. Rivals… observed. Threats… circled. Mo Tianxie's mind cataloged each movement. Each glance. Each word. Every reaction was a clue.
And then, from the outer shadows, a flicker of movement. A figure lingered at the tree line, watching. Not a junior, not a disciple. Someone deliberate. Someone patient.
Chen Wu's gaze snapped to it. Interesting… The predatory instinct flickered, sharp and keen. Whoever it was, they would not remain hidden for long.
A smile touched his lips, cold, thin, and razor-edged.
Let them come. Every eye now knows my name. Every whisper now carries fear. Let the pieces assemble. The game is only beginning.
The night wind carried that promise across the sect, curling into every corridor, every training ground, every whispering mouth. The ripples of power spread far and wide, touching even those too far to see.
And in the shadows, unseen, the first threads of the next storm began to weave.