Ten-year-old Lethean moved through the dilapidated slave courtyard like a ghost, his small form a blur of motion against the fading light. His fists and feet struck the straw dummy with a rhythm born of desperation—each blow echoing the frustration simmering deep within his veins.
HAAH!!
A final, furious kick sent the dummy's head flying, straw scattering like forgotten dreams. Lethean bent over, chest heaving, sweat tracing paths through the dust on his skin. His knuckles were raw and bleeding, the skin split from relentless impact. His servant robes clung to him, soaked through with effort.
He did not rest long. Pushing through the pain, he rose on trembling legs and resumed—jab, sweep, pivot, strike. Each movement was precise, honed from three years of mastering mortal martial arts. It was the only power he could claim in a world that called him trash.
Soft footsteps approached from behind. He didn't need to turn—he knew it was her. A hand caught his wrist gently just as he prepared to throw another punch. Caiyi turned his bruised fist over in her palm, her eyes clouded with a mother's sorrow.
"You don't need to be so hard on yourself, Le'er," she whispered, her voice tender yet firm. She drew him into her arms, ignoring the sweat and dirt, and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
"Mother," he breathed, the word both comfort and confession.
"Come. Food is ready."
He nodded, allowing her to lead him by the hand back toward their small, weathered home. But as they walked, a cold dread began to coil in Lethean's stomach. His eyes lingered on Caiyi—the gentle slope of her shoulders, the silver strands beginning to thread through her dark hair. A sudden, inexplicable fear seized him. Why do I feel like something terrible is coming?
He clutched her hand tighter.
---
At that very moment, the gates of Floating Cloud City shuddered under a presence they were never meant to bear.
The patriarchs of the four major powers stood assembled—Qi Lantian of the Qi Clan, Fen Jeuchen of the Fen Clan, Hua Piao of the Sword Spirit Sect, and Huayen of the Beast Flame Sect. Behind them, their most trusted elders stood rigid, faces pale beneath the gathering gloom.
The citizens watched from a distance, murmuring in confusion and fear. Never had all four rulers gathered like this—not even during the great beast tide ten years prior.
Then they felt it—a pressure that stole the air from their lungs and weighted their very souls. From the horizon, three figures approached. With every step, the oppressive might intensified, pressing the patriarchs first to their knees, then nearly flat against the stone.
"QI LANTIAN OF THE QI CLAN—"
"FEN JEUCHEN OF THE FEN CLAN—"
"HUA PIAO OF THE SWORD SPIRIT SECT—"
"HUAYEN OF THE BEAST FLAME SECT—"
"GREET THE PRACTITIONERS FROM THE DIVINE MARTIAL CONTINENT!"
Their voices boomed across the city, shaking windows and stilling hearts. Divine Martial Continent. The name spread through the crowd in awed whispers.
The three visitors drew closer. At their head stood a young man draped in cyan robes, his face a mask of arrogance as if the very ground were unworthy of his steps. Beside him walked a woman—cold, beautiful, and radiating authority. And behind them, an elder in simple green robes whose aura alone threatened to crush the spirit of every cultivator present.
The arrogant young man smirked. "Rise, ants."
The patriarchs climbed slowly to their feet, backs still bent in deference, eyes lowered.
"What are your names, vermin?" he asked, though he'd heard them clearly moments before.
Through clenched jaws, they repeated themselves.
The young man waved a dismissive hand. "You may call me Your Maje—"
"Enough," the woman cut in, her voice like winter ice. "We are not here for games."
Immediately, the man fell silent, his arrogance cowed by her authority.
Fen Jeuchen swallowed hard and spoke, "How may this lowly one address you, Goddess?"
"Luo Chan," she said coolly, "of the Flowing Water Sect."
A wave of palpable fear swept through the patriarchs. The Flowing Water Sect—a name known even here. A power that could erase Floating Cloud City with a single command.
"Why has the Flowing Water Sect graced our humble city?" Qi Lantian dared to ask, his voice trembling.
Luo Chan's gaze sharpened. "Is it your place to ask?"
"N-no! Forgive my impertinence!"
She observed him a moment before relenting. "We seek something. Someone. You will provide answers—or you will provide corpses."
Fen Jeuchen seized the moment. "Esteemed envoys, you must be weary from your journey. Please, allow this humble one to offer the hospitality of the Fen Clan. We can speak there."
The other patriarchs shot him envious glances—a chance to host envoys from the Divine Martial Continent was an opportunity beyond measure.
Luo Chan gave a slight nod. "Lead the way."
As the group began to move toward the inner city, none noticed the sky above them—how the sun had been choked out by slow, swirling clouds the color of bruised flesh. None felt the shift in the wind, now carrying the scent of ozone and impending ruin.
But far away, in a small slave courtyard, a boy with silver hair and storm-blue eyes felt it. And deep in his soul, the Supreme Beast Body stirred—not in hunger, but in warning.