The first light of dawn bled across the horizon, thin streaks of pale gold unfurling over Tiān Lán's mountain plateau. The jagged cliffs caught the sunlight like shards of an ancient blade, and the ground itself still bore scars of the medicine disaster—the gouged earth, the scorched stone, the frozen veins of qi that had crystallized into pale-blue frost. The air was heavy, thick with residual energy. It did not drift idly as morning mist; it pulsed, alive, as if the very mountain carried a heartbeat of its own.
Beside that heartbeat hovered the Guardian of Synthesis, its translucent form shimmering like a being half-born from dream and storm. Threads of light spiraled outward, intertwining with the faint aura of the Primordial Artifact clutched within Tiān Lán's grasp. The plateau was no longer a quiet refuge. It had become a beacon.
And beacons attracted moths.
Far below, in the northern valleys, shadows stirred. Young masters from minor sects, rogue cultivators seeking fame, scouts from distant factions—all had heard the whispers carried on the night wind. That a lone cultivator at Nascent Soul Peak had survived a cataclysm that should have reduced him to ash. That he had called forth a Guardian, a being of impossible origin. That his mountain now throbbed with energy fierce enough to ripple across the continent.
Many dismissed the tales as exaggeration. Others burned with envy or ambition. And so, at dawn, the first dared to climb.
Five figures emerged along the eastern ridge, their crimson robes catching the rising light. Disciples of the Crimson Lotus Sect—famed for their fire qi, their tempers as sharp as their flames. They moved in calculated synchrony, their formation already set: four forming the base, channeling energy, while the leader stood at the front, eyes sharp, movements deliberate.
He raised his hand, voice low but resolute. "We observe first. Strike only if the truth warrants it."
His words carried bravado, but beneath them, a tremor of unease. Even from a distance, Tiān Lán's aura pressed against their bones.
On the plateau's center, Tiān Lán stood still, robes stirring faintly in the morning wind. His eyes lifted, calm yet cutting, as if piercing through their bodies to the marrow within. He did not move his arms, nor summon overt power. Instead, with a slow exhale, his Nascent Soul Peak qi stretched outward—an invisible tide, heavy and irresistible.
The challengers stiffened. Their formation wavered, forced into micro-adjustments. Knees bent deeper, shoulders shifted unconsciously. It was as if the very air had turned thick, like wading through unseen waters.
Yao Xiangyi, standing at Tiān Lán's side, her hand on the hilt of her sword, felt it too—though softened, for the Guardian shielded her from the brunt. Her eyes flicked toward the struggling disciples and a whisper escaped her lips. "Even a single breath of his qi… they feel like they're collapsing."
Tiān Lán's lips curved faintly, the smile neither mocking nor warm, but assured. "Observation will suffice. Let them measure the chasm for themselves."
The Crimson Lotus disciples advanced, cautious but determined. Their palms flickered with flame, bursts of elemental fire cutting sharp arcs through the cold morning air. Each attack was measured, probing, meant to provoke a reaction.
Tiān Lán gave them one.
But his movements were not the hurried deflections of one cornered. They were serene, effortless. A subtle flick of his wrist bent flame into wind. A tilt of his body redirected qi flows, dispersing them into harmless ripples against the plateau's scarred surface. A quiet breath released threads of frost that wove into the air, cooling the flames before they could swell.
Each gesture was art, not battle. Every movement precise, efficient, devastating in its subtlety.
One disciple, younger than the rest, let eagerness outrun discipline. With a cry, he surged forward, both hands blazing, fire qi condensed into a single spear of molten light. The strike split the air, fast, lethal. For a heartbeat, it seemed the mountain itself would ignite.
Tiān Lán did not so much as blink.
The Guardian stirred. A spectral hand unfolded, vast yet delicate, intercepting the strike as one might catch a drifting ember. Flame shattered into harmless sparks, scattering against the sky. The disciple staggered back, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. His knees trembled as he realized: he had not even touched Tiān Lán. The gulf between them was unbridgeable.
Still without haste, Tiān Lán moved. Three steps carried him across the stone. He knelt briefly, pressing a single finger against the earth. A pulse of energy rippled outward, not a violent explosion but a perfectly controlled tremor. The ground shivered; the five challengers were lifted clean off their feet, hovering a breathless moment before landing awkwardly on their heels.
Non-lethal. But humiliating.
Yao Xiangyi's eyes widened. Her voice was a sharp whisper. "They thought numbers could smother him… but he hasn't even unsheathed his full strength."
Tiān Lán's expression remained calm, but inside, his thoughts churned. He did not seek cruelty. Each confrontation was more than defense—it was training. Testing how the Guardian's power harmonized with his, refining the artifact's integration, measuring the continent's pulse as challengers arrived. Every strike forced him to adapt, to deepen his mastery, to push his Nascent Soul Peak cultivation toward edges unseen.
The Crimson Lotus disciples, shaken but desperate, regrouped. Their leader barked an order, and together they unleashed a coordinated assault: fire, earth, and wind erupting in a chaotic wave meant to bury him beneath sheer volume.
The plateau thundered with their effort.
Tiān Lán exhaled once.
The Guardian pulsed, threads of light weaving into a barrier of swirling elements. Flames curved, winds twisted, stones shattered into harmless dust. The cacophony roared, echoing off cliffs, but when the haze lifted, Tiān Lán still stood. His robes were unstirred. His gaze was steady.
The disciples froze. The leader swallowed hard, then dropped to one knee, bowing deeply. His voice trembled despite his effort to sound composed. "We… underestimated you. Truly… extraordinary."
Tiān Lán's gaze swept across them like a blade of frost. His words carried calm authority, each syllable deliberate. "This was but a fraction. Do not mistake patience for weakness. Growth lies in knowing your limits. Test yourselves, but do not waste what you cannot comprehend."
The five bowed again, retreating down the ridge in shaken silence.
Already, more shadows stirred. Scouts watched from distant peaks, cloaks fluttering. Rogue warriors crept closer, measuring the terrain. Faction disciples lingered at the edge of the valley, eyes burning with ambition.
By midday, the plateau had become a stage. Waves of challengers arrived, some reckless, some cautious. Tiān Lán met each one as he had the Crimson Lotus—precise, unshakable, never cruel, yet always undeniable. Some collapsed under pressure without him lifting a hand. Others tested him with strange techniques, only to find themselves undone by a flicker of frost or a whisper of lightning.
To the watchers, it was as if they faced not a man but the mountain itself. Unmoving, unyielding, eternal.
Yao Xiangyi stood near, her hand never leaving her sword, though she had yet to draw it. Her eyes followed him, pride swelling alongside a trace of unease. "He's not just defending," she thought. "He's sharpening himself. Every strike, every deflection… he's preparing for something greater. And still, none here can see the true depth of his power."
As the sun dipped low, painting the western cliffs in molten crimson, Tiān Lán paused. He inhaled, drawing in the qi of the plateau, the Guardian pulsing in resonance. His gaze stretched beyond the mountain, to the valleys, to the distant sect halls where rumors now spread like wildfire.
"They will see me as a storm," he murmured. His voice was quiet, yet the Guardian seemed to hum in answer. "But a storm is only the beginning. I will show them a force they cannot comprehend until it stands before them."
The Guardian hovered closer, its form shimmering like starlight in twilight. "The trials have begun. Every ripple you make now becomes a tide. And tides… shape the continent."
Tiān Lán's eyes glimmered, hard with determination. "Let them come. Each challenger, each sect, each ambitious fool. They will sharpen me. And when I step into Spirit Realm… they will already kneel."
Night fell. The plateau dimmed, lit only by stars scattered like jewels across the heavens. Yet even in darkness, Tiān Lán's aura radiated outward, subtle but undeniable. Not merely a warning. Not merely a beacon.
A promise.
That the continent was witnessing the rise of something beyond comprehension.