The echoes of thunder still rolled across the valley, long after Tiān Lán's storm-core had flared, leaving the cliffside iced and glimmering like fractured crystal. Disciples and elders slowly gathered their scattered courage, as though the mountain itself had tested their nerve. Whispers ricocheted through the sect like wind through chimes:
> "He… he passed into Nascent Soul? Here… now?"
"Even the elders… couldn't have predicted this!"
The crowd was a sea of awe, uncertainty, and fear disguised as curiosity. Those who had once mocked the Duke's "useless son" now averted their eyes, cheeks flushed with a mix of shame and disbelief. A few tried to mask their shock with stiff laughter; most could not look away.
Liú Qìnghai clenched his fists, knuckles whitening, storm qi coiling faintly around his limbs. His pride had been shattered in an instant. "Every strike… every movement… he's… perfect," a junior disciple whispered near him, voice trembling.
Liú's jaw tightened. "This isn't talent," he muttered under his breath, teeth grinding. "This… is something else entirely."
From the upper terraces, younger disciples huddled together, whispering nervously. Even the elders, those whose eyes had seen decades of cultivation prodigies, shook their heads in quiet disbelief.
> "He's awakened… something ancient. I can feel it. This child… he is different."
---
Tiān Lán stood atop a small rise, isolated from the crowd, calm and measured. His storm-blue eyes scanned the gathering below, noting every flicker of expression, every subtle shift in stance. Inside, his mind replayed the battle like a carefully edited scene. He cataloged the reactions, the tactical missteps, the suppressed potential of every rival, every ally.
Not bad… but not enough to satisfy me, he thought.
The instincts of Yè Tíanshuāng—cold, precise, and ruthless—guided his evaluation. Every weakness, every pattern, every unspoken fear was noted. The sect, the disciples, the hidden politics—all were pieces of a game he now understood.
Lingxiāo's voice stirred faintly in his mind.
> "Master, the currents shift. Soon, everything will move to your favor. But patience… patience is the key."
He exhaled softly, letting the faint frost of residual storm-qi drift away like morning mist. Calm, serene, unshaken—the image of a god walking among mortals.
---
High above, on jagged ridges cloaked in mist, a shadow moved silently. Eyes like glinting steel followed the scene below. Unlike the sect's disciples, this figure exuded measured patience, an almost predatory calm.
A storm is coming, the figure whispered to themselves, voice barely audible above the wind. And this one… he may be the spark.
Fingers brushed against an object concealed beneath a cloak—a token, a charm, a tool. Time had been long, patience eternal. But Tiān Lán's breakthrough had accelerated everything. The plan, long in waiting, now moved forward.
A faint smile curved the figure's lips. Cold, calculating, and full of promise.
---
Back within the sect, murmurs of awe and tension continued to ripple outward. Some disciples, hearts pounding, approached Tiān Lán with cautious curiosity, tentative gestures of alliance. Others, pride bruised and ego wounded, retreated into the shadows, silently vowing revenge or a path to surpass him.
Every gaze, every whisper, every subtle movement carried weight now. Tiān Lán's presence had altered the balance of power within Frostveil Sect—and, by extension, Wújí Tiānyuán itself. A single morning had shifted the tides.
He returned to the training hall, footsteps quiet against stone. The faint shimmer of frost clung to his aura, lingering like a ghost of the storm he had unleashed. Outside, disciples debated, elders murmured in hushed tones, and far beyond, the shadowy figure continued to watch.
Inside, Tiān Lán allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible smile. He had risen, yes—but this was merely the beginning. The storm had awakened, but the tempest to come… that was something the world had yet to see.
> Soon… very soon… the real storm begins.