Dawn cracked open like a blade of light, slicing through the silence of the valley.
The mountains—ancient, eternal—rose like sleeping titans beneath the heavens, their peaks shrouded in veils of drifting mist. Rivers glittered like threads of silver, carrying echoes of the divine wind.
Upon the highest cliff stood Tiān Lán, his azure robe rippling softly against the morning gust. The Guardian—that spectral construct of primordial energy—floated beside him in silent resonance, its form shifting between ethereal patterns of frost and starlight.
Below, the continent awakened.
From every direction, lights streaked across the sky—brilliant trails of qi as cultivators from countless sects converged upon this place, drawn by ambition, glory, and the promise of ascension.
It was the day of the Spirit Realm Sprint, a test of not only speed, but perception, insight, and control—the kind of trial that separated the truly awakened from the arrogant dreamers.
---
"Are you ready?" Yao Xiangyi's voice was soft yet steady beside him. Her robes fluttered like moonlit silk, and her eyes shimmered with a mixture of admiration and unease. "Once we step in, there will be no pause, no retreat. Only the Realm… and what it reveals."
Tiān Lán did not answer at first. His gaze stretched across the horizon—toward the crimson sun bleeding light over the endless peaks, toward the faint shimmer in the far air where the Spirit Gate hovered like a tear in reality.
Finally, he spoke, voice low, deliberate, and calm enough to still the wind itself.
> "Every observation I've made… every rival I've met… every breath of power I've refined—it all leads to this. The mountain does not ask if I am ready. It simply waits to be climbed."
A faint hum rippled through the world.
The Spirit Gate—that colossal arch of floating stone and engraved runes—responded to his voice. Its dormant glyphs flared to life, lines of divine light racing across its surface as though the mountains themselves acknowledged his arrival. The air quivered with ancient recognition.
---
Below the cliff, hundreds had already gathered.
Figures in ornate robes, armor gleaming with qi inscriptions, eyes sharpened with rivalry and pride. From lesser sects to mid-tier alliances, they all stood together under banners that fluttered like sparks in a storm.
Whispers traveled through the crowd like wildfire.
> "The Mountain Phantom… Tiān Lán…"
"He came alone, with just a single companion—how arrogant."
"No, not arrogance. Confidence. He destroyed the Frostveil Trials in silence."
"Still, this is the Spirit Realm Sprint. Numbers, formations, and fortune matter as much as skill."
A young master from the Azure Star Sect lifted his hand, a flicker of lightning dancing between his fingers. He smiled coldly.
"Then let's test the legend before it begins."
With a flick of his wrist, a streak of electric qi shot through the air—fast, vicious, perfectly aimed.
But Tiān Lán didn't move.
He merely exhaled.
The lightning vanished—its power dispersed into a thousand motes of harmless light. The wind carried it away as though it never existed.
The young master froze, unable to comprehend what had just occurred.
Yao Xiangyi's lips curved slightly. "They still don't understand. You don't fight the world, do you? You simply… move with it."
Tiān Lán's gaze didn't shift from the horizon.
> "The wise do not battle the storm. They become its silence."
---
Then, without warning—the heavens roared.
A colossal pulse of energy erupted from the Spirit Gate, sending ripples through every stone and leaf. The signal. The beginning.
The Spirit Realm Sprint had begun.
---
Tiān Lán moved.
The Guardian followed, its light unfolding like wings of celestial frost. The cliff beneath them cracked slightly—not from brute force, but from the precision of qi compression so fine it distorted matter.
Every step Tiān Lán took seemed to harmonize with the flow of nature itself. Air currents bent around him. Loose stones rearranged subtly to support his balance. He didn't run—he flowed.
Behind him, the cultivators surged like a flood—each releasing their full cultivation, elemental streams clashing and interweaving as they rushed toward the glowing threshold.
For others, the mountain path was chaos—earthquakes, sudden gales, traps concealed beneath qi distortions.
For Tiān Lán, it was music.
Every trap, every hidden surge of energy, he saw it before it happened. His senses unfolded like an endless field of calm. With each gesture, he guided the Guardian's tendrils to reshape minor elemental flows, stabilizing terrain for Yao Xiangyi's passage without ever breaking stride.
---
Midway through the ascent, the Ravine of Shattered Mirrors awaited—a region of fractured light and illusion where the very air bent perception. Rivals stumbled, falling prey to false paths and mirrored selves. Some struck at reflections, others fell into bottomless pits.
Tiān Lán's eyes flickered with frostlight.
He walked straight through.
Each reflection that rose to mimic him froze mid-motion, then bowed—acknowledging the higher will within his qi. The illusions themselves submitted, clearing the path.
Spectators from afar, using vision talismans, gasped.
> "Impossible… the Ravine recognizes him?"
"Even the Realm obeys his resonance…"
---
By midday, the sun burned high above the peaks. The second checkpoint loomed—a suspended bridge over a roaring void, lightning weaving through mist like serpents of divine rage.
Several cultivators ahead were already dueling midair, desperate to claim dominance.
Tiān Lán raised his hand. The Guardian expanded into a translucent field of ice and starlight, deflecting stray bursts while Yao Xiangyi crossed beside him. His steps were soundless. Each thunderclap bent around him, each strike lost its will before touching him.
Behind him, a trio of sect leaders tried to combine power—fire, lightning, and metal qi—forming a tri-elemental storm meant to engulf him completely.
But Tiān Lán merely turned his gaze.
The storm unraveled—its energy condensed into a gentle sphere of light that floated harmlessly to the ground.
He never countered. He redirected the world's rhythm.
The cultivators fell to their knees, trembling—not from fear, but from realization.
> "He's not resisting us… he's teaching us."
---
Finally, the summit.
The Stone Arch of Ascension, vast and radiant, floated before them. Each rune glowed with the authority of ancient gods. The winds howled, not in hostility, but in reverence.
Yao Xiangyi's breathing quickened. "This is it. Beyond this—no one knows what lies inside."
Tiān Lán's robe fluttered like a banner of frost. The Guardian pulsed once, aligning with the portal's heartbeat.
For a brief moment, his silhouette seemed to merge with the horizon—human and world becoming indistinguishable.
> "Power," he said quietly, "is not earned through conquest. It's realized through harmony. Let the Realm bear witness."
He stepped forward.
---
The world exploded in color.
Light enveloped everything—sky, ground, sound. The Spirit Realm unfolded before him like a living painting: islands floating among rivers of molten qi, waterfalls cascading upward, forests of crystal trees singing in the wind. The very laws of reality trembled in rhythm to its pulse.
Rival cultivators behind him gasped as their bodies were flung into separate paths, each chosen by their resonance. The Spirit Realm divided the unworthy from the ready.
Tiān Lán landed upon a shimmering plateau, qi rippling beneath his feet like water under moonlight. The Guardian floated beside him, its energy intertwining with the Realm's veins.
The Spirit Realm itself acknowledged him.
The first step had been taken—not as a challenger, but as one the Realm recognized as kin.
---
Far behind, amid the fractured sky, one figure watched through a soul mirror—an ancient elder, eyes narrowing.
> "That one… the Mountain Phantom… his existence distorts even fate's rhythm."
---
Tiān Lán lifted his gaze toward the horizon of floating peaks and cascading light.
> "Then let fate learn to dance."
The Guardian pulsed once, glowing brighter.
And together, they advanced—into a world that would soon remember the name Tiān Lán, not as a competitor…
but as the beginning of a legend.