The journey back stretched across four long days. The mountains spat rain and wind against them, as if the peaks themselves resented their passage. Trails turned to mud, stones shifted underfoot, and more than once even the Firedrake's heavy claws skidded dangerously on the slick ground. Nights brought creeping mist and a chill that no fire fully dispelled. They bore it in silence for the most part, though silence among the Black Dragons was never truly empty.
Lu Mao often sat apart from the flames, his hood pulled low, the steady rasp of whetstone against dagger filling the night. His sharp eyes never rested, always drawn toward the dark edges of camp where mist thickened like waiting predators. Yan Mei disappeared and reappeared like a wraith, sometimes slipping into the night for hours only to return with a rabbit dangling from her hand or berries clutched in a pouch. Bao Fu, restless as ever, filled their pauses with endless stories—half history, half ridiculous invention. He spoke of legendary thieves who stole from the gods themselves, of warriors who laughed in the face of death and won brides by gambling with emperors. Chen Yuan occasionally cut in, his blunt words slicing the stories down to bones.
On the third day, they came across the wreckage of a merchant caravan. Wagons lay overturned, the ground strewn with broken crates and crushed wheels. Wolves lay scattered dead, their fur blackened, jaws stiff, eyes rolled back white. A faint shimmer poisoned the air itself. Lu Mao crouched, his dagger tip brushing the earth. His voice was as calm as it was sharp. "Poison qi. Fresh."
Bao Fu's eyes widened. "Well, that explains the smell… but look at all this loot just lying around—"
"Not our fight," Lu Mao cut him off, standing. "Unless you want to end with your face purple and your lungs rotting."
Bao Fu muttered, disappointed, but no one argued further. They left the wreckage behind, though Yan Mei lingered a moment longer, her gaze fixed on the treeline. She felt it—eyes watching. When she turned, the feeling vanished, but her hand hovered near the dagger at her belt all the way down the trail.
By the fourth day, jagged peaks softened into rolling hills, and at last the broad stone roads of civilization stretched before them. Wagons rolled past, banners of sects and clans snapping in the wind. Soldiers marched, merchants haggled, pilgrims bowed at roadside shrines. And then the spires of Azure City rose ahead, towering over all else. Grand, vast, dangerous.
They had come here before, as mere registrants in the Mission Hall, dismissed by stronger sects, overlooked by all. Now they returned heavier—with secrets, with prizes, with the weight of what they carried.
Azure City throbbed with life. Caravans poured through the gates, beggars rattled bowls, hawkers shouted about roasted meats and spirit herbs. Incense rose from temples where gods and demons alike received prayers. The heart of the city loomed in the distance, the Mission Hall standing like a fortress of jade and obsidian.
The Black Dragons moved as one through the crowd, though each wore their thoughts differently. Bao Fu's eyes glittered with greed and curiosity, darting to taverns he remembered, to gambling dens where he swore he was owed money. Yan Mei drifted half in shadow even in broad daylight, her eyes scanning alleys, watching every face with suspicion. Chen Yuan walked straight as a blade, his expression carved from stone, daring anyone to stand in his way. Lu Mao's hand flipped a coin in rhythm, the metallic chime lost in the street's roar but soothing to him. And Li Xian… Li Xian carried the pill box like it weighed as much as a mountain. His back was tall, his steps steady, but inside he thought of Elder Hua's warning before he had even heard it, of storms waiting behind recognition.
They entered the Mission Hall.
Chaos filled the place as always. Disciples bickered with clerks over credits, mercenaries boasted of kills louder than the scribes could write, sect banners clashed in subtle rivalries. The air hummed with competition, with ambition, with the desperate hunger of cultivators clawing their way upward.
Li Xian set the sealed pill box on the counter. The clerk barely looked at it, exhaustion dragging down her features. But then a shadow fell across the desk.
"Well, well," came a drawl.
A tall man stepped forward, red-and-black robes flashing, his chest marked with the insignia of a hawk in flight. Supervisor Yan of the Red Hawk Guild. His smirk carried the weight of arrogance, the sort sharpened by years of unchecked pride. His eyes swept over the Black Dragons, lingering only long enough to dismiss.
"So, the strays crawl back," he said. "Don't tell me you think you've brought something worth reporting?"
Bao Fu flushed red at once. "Strays? I'll show you stray when I—"
Li Xian's hand pressed firmly on his shoulder before the words finished. Bao Fu swallowed his fury with visible difficulty.
Supervisor Yan tapped the pill box lazily with a knuckle. "Whatever this is, I'll deliver it. Wouldn't want nobodies fumbling something beyond their comprehension."
Lu Mao's hood shadowed his eyes, his voice a knife of calm steel. "We'll accompany you."
The Red Hawk's smirk faltered, only a flicker, before he chuckled darkly. "As you wish. Come, then. Let's waste Elder Hua's time together."
The clerk, uncertain, hesitated but surrendered the box. And so they walked, Supervisor Yan leading, the Black Dragons close behind. Through corridors humming with whispers, past clerks who paused at the faint golden glow bleeding through the seal.
The head clerk inspected the box, his eyes widening as the runes shimmered beneath his fingers. He wasted no time in sending them further, deeper into the Hall. Until at last, the Black Dragons stood before Elder Hua himself.
The elder sat cross-legged in a chamber dimly lit by jade lamps. His beard flowed white, his robe plain yet carrying an authority greater than gilded crowns. When his hand swept over the box, runes leapt into light, flaring like falling stars. And then the pill's aura spilled free. Blue flame coiled with golden sparks, flooding the chamber with light. The very air vibrated.
Supervisor Yan's smirk shattered. "This… that can't be right…"
Elder Hua's voice rumbled, slow and deep, carrying weight that bent even pride. "This is no forgery. A pill of Tier Three quality. Refined by the original formulations of the Amber Viper Clan. Few here have ever seen its like."
Silence smothered the chamber. Yan Mei's lips curved faintly, almost invisible in the dim. Bao Fu's jaw hung open, the words dying in his throat. Even Chen Yuan's mask cracked for a heartbeat. Lu Mao's coin, for once, lay still in his palm.
Elder Hua lifted a scroll, his brush gliding with deliberate grace. His strokes glowed faintly, each character etched into the record of history. "The Black Dragon team has completed a mission beyond expectation. The Hall rewards you with one hundred and fifty thousand credits, and three thousand glimmer crystals. Present this at the treasury." His gaze sharpened, piercing each of them in turn. "But remember—fame draws storms. Do not mistake fortune for safety."
Supervisor Yan bowed stiffly, the motion strangled by pride he could not swallow. "A Tier One faction earning a Tier Three reward… preposterous."
Elder Hua's gaze chilled, colder than winter mountains. "And yet it stands before you. Ensure their reward is processed without delay."
There was no further protest.
The following days wove their names into the fabric of Azure City. At first it was only whispers among clerks, disbelieving murmurs carried in corners. Then taverns picked up the tale, tongues loosened by ale, the story embellished but never doubted once Elder Hua's seal appeared on the posting boards.
"The Black Dragons? Tier Three?" scoffed one Iron Fang disciple in disbelief.
"The record bears Elder Hua's seal," another murmured, his voice laced with awe.
Doubt turned to gossip, gossip to envy. Their name spread faster than coin in a gambler's den. And with recognition came attention.
The Red Hawk Guild simmered with resentment, their supremacy among Tier One factions now shadowed. Other sects—the Moonfire Syndicate, the Iron Fang Sect—watched with sharp eyes, some calculating, some hungry. A few merchants even approached Li Xian on the streets, bowing deeper than before, their voices oiled with flattery as they offered goods and contracts they would never have offered a week earlier.
But with new weight came unease. Bao Fu strutted through the streets, chin high, drunk on the glory of whispered names. Yan Mei moved warier than before, her steps softer, her eyes sharper, as if every alley held knives drawn against them. Chen Yuan dismissed the talk aloud but checked his blade's edge three times a day. Lu Mao flipped his coin more often, though his gaze wandered to every rooftop and shadow with suspicion.
Li Xian felt it most of all. Each glance from a passerby carried weight. Each whisper pressed heavier. He remembered Elder Hua's words. Fame draws storms.
The Black Dragons' coffers were heavy. Their names were heavier still. And as they walked Azure City, they could already feel it—the stir of winds in the distance, the storm that recognition always brought.
Their prize was not only crystals and credits. It was a place in the eyes of others.
And recognition, as Elder Hua had warned, was a storm waiting to break.