It had been three years, and at last the Iron Fist Dao returned.
There were murmurs across the six sects of the Spring Serene—some in praise, others in hushed anticipation—but all were looking forward to his arrival.
Most had never seen his face. For those few who had, they recalled only his eyes: sharp, penetrating, as though they looked past flesh and bone into the soul itself. His gaze was not cruel, nor warm—it was simply unavoidable.
He always wore gloves. Not ordinary gloves, but thick, iron-threaded coverings that reached up his wrists. They were so heavy that even cultivators whispered in speculation: What is he hiding? Why does he protect his hands so fiercely?
On the day of his return, the Hall of Accession was overflowing. Usually reserved for strategy during the Chaos of Ruin, it now bustled with disciples, elders, and sect leaders from all six Serenes. Incense smoke curled in the air, silk banners swayed in unseen currents, and the entire floor trembled faintly as footsteps gathered in unison.
Then—the gong rang.
The Gong was no mere instrument. It had only two purposes: to announce the arrival of someone of great importance, or to herald a matter of critical weight.
"Iron Fist Dao is here!" the gong ringer's voice boomed.
The grand doors swung open.
A man stepped forward. His frame was broad, his shoulders squared like a fortress. He carried himself with the discipline of a general and the restraint of a monk. His stride was measured, deliberate, as if every stone beneath his boots belonged to a battlefield. His hair, dark as midnight, was bound neatly at the crown of his head, and though his face bore no smile, his presence radiated the quiet steel of one who had endured storms unbroken.
His gloves gleamed faintly under the hall's torches. His eyes, deep-set and unwavering, seemed to strip away illusion. His aura pressed down on the hall like the weight of an army—yet it was not suffocating. It was protective, commanding respect without demand.
He reached the dais of the Supreme Leaders. Without hesitation, he dropped to one knee, folding his hands in the formal greeting.
"Greetings, Supreme Leader Zhang. Supreme Leader Huang. I am back." His tone was steady, not boastful. It was not pride, but duty.
The two Supreme Leaders exchanged a glance. Pride flickered in their eyes, though it was Huang whose smile came first.
"Welcome back," Huang said warmly. "We heard the ghouls were persistent. The Ashen Claw would not let you go. Those…" he paused, shaking his head with a sigh, "…those abominations never know defeat. Yet you endured. Anyway, I am glad you returned."
The hall seemed to exhale in relief.
And yet, through all of it, not a single smile crossed the Iron Fist Dao's lips. Not a tooth was ever shown. Whether this was his nature, or merely the mask some heroes wore to shield the weight of their burdens, no one could tell. No one dared to care.
As celebration swelled, the Serene of Harmonies lifted their instruments. Strings sang, flutes sighed, and drums throbbed with rhythm, filling the air with a melody that honored the hero's return. The other Serenes clapped in unison, joy lifting their voices as the hall sparkled with qi-infused music.
Only a few days later, Iron Fist Dao was summoned again—this time to the private chamber of Supreme Leader Huang.
He bowed deeply as he entered, folding his hands once more. "Yes, Supreme Leader Huang."
"Here."
Huang's eyes glowed faintly as he released a wave of spiritual energy. A scroll drifted through the air into Iron Fist Dao's palm. He opened it, frowning at the painted portrait of a young girl.
"Who is she?"
"She is someone special," Huang replied. "I have heard she is to be accepted into the Serene of Harmonies."
Iron Fist Dao looked up. "She was selected? That is a good thing, is it not?"
"It is. But I want her to enter the Serene of Truce. Our Serene."
The words sounded awkward, even forced. Iron Fist Dao blinked. "What is her ability?"
"The six testers we sent reported that she played the Longing Dance flawlessly."
His eyes widened slightly. "Flawlessly? That is impossible. The Longing Dance has not been mastered in over two centuries."
"Exactly." Huang leaned forward, voice grave. "And yet she played it without a single flaw."
Iron Fist Dao shook his head. "Supreme Leader Huang… don't you think you are overreacting? Each Serene is responsible for their disciples. We have many new disciples incoming already—"
Huang's gaze sharpened. "This is why you fall short. You see rules, I see balance. This is not only for us—it is for the good of all six Serenes. You must take her under your wing. Not as a disciple, but as a sworn younger sister. Protect her."
Though surprised, Iron Fist Dao did not question further. He bowed, tucked the scroll into his sleeve, and left without looking back.
There were things he had to figure out. And this young girl—this mystery—was not yet his priority.
Far away from the Four Heavens lay a realm uncharted by mortals or cultivators.
It was not lofty like the Spring Serene, nor radiant like the Celestial of Glory. It was not buried in corruption like the Heaven of Chaos, nor scarred like the Broken Heaven.
It was a place between reality and dream, where the world seemed painted in colors that did not belong to any season. Trees bore blossoms of spring beside leaves of autumn. Frost glazed their roots, while golden sun poured endlessly above. Birds with silver feathers flew without casting shadows, and rivers of glass flowed without sound.
Here, the concept of time unraveled. Autumn, Winter, Spring, and Summer ceased to exist. All seasons blurred into one eternal, impossible beauty.
And yet, it was so rare that few had ever set foot here. The number of its inhabitants could be counted on one's hand.
Upon a smooth jade boulder sat an old man, hair as white as fallen snow, his aura older still. His presence was vast—older than mountain roots, steadier than rivers. He had lived sixty thousand years, and his every breath seemed to whisper of ages past. His hair flowed freely in the shifting winds, and though he sat in stillness, the air itself bowed to him.
From the distance, the patter of small feet rushed closer. A young girl, no more than twelve, bounded toward him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes alight with both innocence and defiance.
"Master!" she cried, tugging at his sleeve. "You promised me I'd be allowed into Broken Heaven. Why won't you grant it?"
The old man's lips curled faintly—not in anger, but in weariness. "Should you not be preparing for your sister's coming of age instead?"
The girl—Xinyue—pouted, crossing her arms. "They can take care of themselves. Why should I care about them?"
His gaze turned sharp, a silent scolding. Xinyue's head lowered at once.
"Our world has been hidden for so long," she whispered rebelliously. "Isn't it time to become known? The Spring Serene is—"
"Xinyue." His voice cut through hers, deep and steady. "Things are not always as beautiful as they appear."
"But…" she began, only to falter.
"You will understand when the time is right. For now, you are still young. Your mastery is incomplete. Focus on your cultivation—it will serve you in ways you cannot yet see."
She scoffed, kicking a pebble across the glassy river. "You and your sayings. Always the same."
A small silence stretched between them, the old man watching her with pity.
At last she muttered, "Fine. Fine. At least there's a Dragon Festival coming up in Broken Heaven. If my sisters and I could attend, I'd…" She trailed off, a flicker of longing in her eyes.
The old man's heart softened. He reached out, brushing her hair gently from her forehead.
"Xinyue," he said softly, "your sisters cannot go with you. But I will send you. And when you arrive, make sure you enjoy it. Truly enjoy it. That is my wish."
Her lips trembled in another pout, but her eyes sparkled. She did not understand his pity. Not yet.
For there were things—things that heroes, and things that the young, simply could not understand.