Mist lay heavy across the Valley of Convergence, rolling in waves that swallowed stones, trees, and pathways alike. From above, the valley looked like a vast cauldron, its ridges jagged, as though carved by the hands of titans. Ancient runes glimmered faintly on broken obelisks scattered along the slopes, remnants of a battlefield whose history most disciples only half-understood.
Into this place came processions of light, banners, and human voices.
At the northern ridge, young men and women in dark crimson robes marched in ordered lines, their every step releasing the faint metallic scent of blood qi. A scarlet hawk soared above them, its wings glowing faintly with inscriptions. These were the Crimson Serpent Sect, infamous for molding ferocity into elegance.
From the east came a quieter arrival. Disciples clad in pale green robes, their steps measured, almost meditative, as though every breath aligned with the flow of heaven and earth. Bamboo staffs tapped gently against the soil, carrying faint echoes of rain and rivers. The banner they bore fluttered with the character for stream. They were the Emerald Flow Pavilion, known less for brutality and more for precision, their arts like rivers that eroded stone through patience.
The south ridge stirred next. Waves of laughter, clamor, and the sharp clash of steel echoed even before the sect arrived. Burly figures in blackened armor carried twin sabers across their backs, their expressions unruly yet brimming with pride. Smoke trailed faintly from charms tied to their belts, giving the air around them a faint acrid taste. This was the Iron Fang Brotherhood, a sect as chaotic as it was feared.
And from the western ridge came silence. Disciples clad in moon-white robes stepped as one, their faces veiled, their formation flawless. Not a word passed between them, yet their presence pressed faintly against the mist, bending it into sharp lines. Behind them walked a single figure carrying a bell wrought of silver, silent yet oppressive. They were the Silent Bell Monastery, whose methods were rumored to punish thought itself.
The valley stirred with tension as these forces gathered, each wary of the other, yet bound by the unspoken law of the Convergence: this place was neutral ground, and bloodshed here would rouse the wrath of ancient formations.
Among them, unnoticed and unremarkable, walked a lone figure.
Tianyu's robes were plain, patched at the sleeves. His posture was that of a weary traveler. Mud clung to his sandals, and his hair, though tied back, was carelessly so. To every glance, he was no more than a vagrant, perhaps a mortal desperate enough to follow cultivators in hopes of scraps. No sect spared him more than a fleeting look.
Yet his steps made no sound. The mist bent around his form, flowing like a river split by stone. He neither hurried nor slowed, moving as though the valley's breath itself adjusted to his presence.
Disciples gossiped as they gathered near the obelisks, their voices rising above the quiet tension.
"Look at him. Some beggar dares enter the Valley?"
"Hah! Perhaps he hopes to scavenge after the sects depart."
"No, see how calm he is? A little too calm for a mortal."
"Calm? He reeks of weakness. If he had a shred of cultivation, I'd sense it."
Their laughter echoed. No one realized the shadows at their feet stretched faintly toward Tianyu, curling, recoiling, as if the valley itself acknowledged his existence.
Tianyu paused at the edge of a broken stone altar. His gaze swept across the banners, the robes, the discipline and arrogance written in every movement. His lips curved, not in amusement, nor contempt—merely in recognition.
"Threads, tangled yet bright," he murmured softly, his voice too low for any ear but the mist itself. "Every loom needs a weaver."
The air shifted faintly, unnoticed by all but the valley's oldest stones.
The mist shifted as if parting in acknowledgment. Figures began to appear from the gray veil: groups of cultivators clad in distinct robes, each sect carrying the weight of its history in the way they walked, the way their disciples stood in formation, the way their elders surveyed the valley.
The first to arrive in full force were the Azure Blade Sect—their robes trimmed in silver-blue, blades strapped to their backs. Their presence was sharp, like unsheathed steel. Every disciple stood tall, heads high, radiating pride. At the front strode Elder Han Jiansu, his eyes narrow as slits, voice as cutting as the weapon he represented.
Behind them, the Crimson Flame Pavilion entered, the mist curling away as if repelled by their burning aura. Their crimson and gold robes seemed to shimmer faintly, the heat of their cultivation spilling into the cool valley air. Madam Lian Huo, a woman draped in fire-patterned silk, led them, her lips painted the color of blood, every word she uttered carrying both allure and threat.
From the other side of the valley, a quieter force emerged—the Silent Moon Sect. Their disciples moved in perfect harmony, silent, their black-and-white robes unadorned. Their leader, Daoist Shen Qing, bore a calm face, yet his eyes held the cold detachment of the moon itself, untouched and unyielding.
The atmosphere thickened as the three sects took their positions, circling the clearing like predators approaching prey.
Hidden among wandering cultivators and nameless stragglers, Tianyu remained seated at the edge of the gathering, leaning lazily against a moss-covered stone. To them, he was just a beggar who somehow wandered into a dangerous place. His clothes were patched, his hair untamed, his posture too relaxed for someone in the presence of sect elites. None spared him more than a passing glance.
And Tianyu preferred it that way.
Elder Han Jiansu's voice cut through the mist.
"So. The rumors were true. The valley has opened again. Hmph… and naturally, the scavengers have come crawling out of their holes."
Madam Lian Huo's laughter followed like a spark against dry wood.
"Scavengers, Elder Han? Or rivals? Be careful with your words. Fire consumes steel as easily as it sharpens it."
The disciples of the two sects immediately mirrored their leaders' hostility—Azure Blade disciples placing hands on their hilts, Crimson Flame disciples letting small embers dance across their fingers.
Daoist Shen Qing raised his hand. His disciples froze mid-breath, returning instantly to stillness.
"Pointless bickering," he said in a voice that was calm, yet cut deeper than any shout. "The valley is open. That means opportunity. Argue too long, and others will seize what should be yours."
For a moment, silence rippled across the sects.
Tianyu smirked, unseen.
Three dogs at one bowl. And none of them realize the bowl doesn't belong to them.
As tension thickened, whispers passed among the disciples.
"Do you think the Moon Orchid will really appear here?" one Azure Blade disciple muttered.
"It's not just the Orchid," another from Crimson Flame hissed back. "They say treasures left behind by primordial cultivators lie beneath the mist."
A Silent Moon disciple leaned toward his comrade, eyes sharp. "And they say… something darker stirs. Something that even sects dare not name."
Their hushed tones carried just far enough for Tianyu to hear. His lips curved. Ah. At least someone senses it.
He tilted his head back, eyes following the mist as it coiled above them. In that twisting fog, faint vibrations pulsed—subtle to others, obvious to him. Threads of the void, familiar yet buried, stirred faintly within the valley's depths.
The stillness did not last long.
"You dare step here, Madam Lian, with your petty fire tricks?" Elder Han's voice sharpened. "The Azure Blade Sect has claim over this valley. Centuries ago, it was our ancestor who mapped these lands."
"Your ancestor mapped nothing but his own grave," Madam Lian countered, her words dripping like molten metal. "The flames of Crimson Pavilion shall burn this mist clean, leaving no trace of your so-called claim."
Sparks flickered across the clearing. Azure disciples shifted into stance, steel half-drawn, while Crimson disciples answered with hands glowing like coals.
Daoist Shen Qing exhaled slowly, his voice calm yet edged with steel.
"If you wish to waste strength fighting one another, do so. My disciples will gladly step over your corpses to claim the valley's secrets."
That provocation was enough. Disciples clashed—steel ringing against flame, shadows darting in precise silence.
From his mossy stone, Tianyu watched the chaos unfold with idle interest. His eyes tracked every movement, every swing of a sword, every burst of flame. To the sect disciples, the fight was a clash of wills, a display of dominance.
To him, it was… childish.
"Steel too eager, fire too proud, moon too rigid," he muttered, his voice low, carrying only to himself. "All barking, no bite."
Still, his fingers tapped lightly against the stone. Each tap nudged the void, weaving barely perceptible threads through the mist. And suddenly, certain strikes missed their marks by a hair's breadth, certain flames flared too quickly and fizzled, certain disciples stumbled where the ground had been steady.
No one noticed. Not the disciples, not the elders. To them, it was merely the chaos of battle. But Tianyu's smirk widened.
Even caged in mortal flesh, I can still pull strings they will never see.
The courtyard of the trial grounds had turned into a theater of thinly veiled hostility. Murmurs carried like the hiss of snakes as disciples from different sects drew invisible lines between one another.
Tianyu stood at the far edge, arms loosely folded, his gaze drifting lazily as if none of this mattered. But every detail filtered into his mind—the shifting postures, the calculated pauses, the sharpness in tone that revealed intent sharper than any blade.
The First Spark
"Your sect hides behind words too often," one disciple from Iron Vein Sect spat, his voice edged with contempt. He jabbed his spear into the earth. "Let us see if your reputation is more than empty thunder."
The young woman from Azure Mist Pavilion arched an eyebrow, her sleeves fluttering with the faint ripple of spiritual energy. "Thunder splits mountains. Would you like to test whether your bones are sturdier than stone?"
Their glares collided, and the courtyard thickened with tension.
A few disciples chuckled darkly. Others stepped back, eager to see blood without dirtying their own hands.
Tianyu's lips curved, almost invisible. Predictable. Give mortals an audience, and they become actors in a play they don't even control.
Before the clash could ignite, Tianyu's calm voice slipped into the air.
"Interesting," he said softly, just enough for those nearest to hear. "If Azure Mist and Iron Vein tear into each other now, the elders will have reason to disqualify both. And who benefits, I wonder?"
Heads turned toward him. Some with irritation, others with reluctant curiosity.
"What are you implying, stranger?" a disciple demanded.
Tianyu shrugged lightly, feigning disinterest. "I imply nothing. I merely count. Every sect already watches for weakness. Spill blood here, and you gift them your throat."
The words struck deeper than a sword. Several disciples faltered, exchanging uneasy looks. Pride bristled against reason.
The Iron Vein youth sneered. "And who are you to lecture us? You're no cultivator. You smell like soil and dust."
Tianyu's eyes flicked to him, sharp for a heartbeat before softening again. "Perhaps. But even soil buries the dead, doesn't it?"
The courtyard grew still. A few chuckles broke out, but they carried unease.
The argument didn't die—it shifted. Suspicion now sought new targets.
From the back, a tall disciple of Scarlet Fang Sect spoke, voice sly.
"He's not wrong. Let Iron Vein and Azure Mist fight. We'll sweep up what remains."
Azure Mist bristled. "Typical of vultures."
"And yet," Scarlet Fang smirked, "vultures survive where lions die."
The exchange escalated into a storm of barbed words, alliances forming and fracturing in minutes.
Tianyu watched, silent now, his role complete. He hadn't stopped the fire—he'd redirected it, letting their distrust feed on itself while he remained overlooked.
From the corner, one quiet disciple, cloaked in plain robes, studied Tianyu with more interest than hostility. His eyes narrowed, voice low enough only Tianyu caught it.
"You speak like one who has seen far more than dirt and sweat. Who are you, really?"
Tianyu met his gaze, unblinking. "No one worth remembering."
But in his chest, the cosmic void stirred faintly, amused at the irony.