The thunder that had torn the heavens above Black Dragon Mountain had passed, but its echo lingered. For hours, the skies had screamed with crimson light as if the world itself resisted what had just been born. Now, silence hung heavy over the sect—uneasy, electric, reverent.
Even the fire drakes lay low in their pens, their usually blazing crimson scales dimmed to a smoldering ember hue. The mountain's beasts hid deep within their burrows, trembling as the qi of heaven itself receded like a tide of molten gold.
Only one truth filled the whispers of every cultivator in the Southern Territories:
"The Black Dragon Sect has birthed another monster."
From the crumbling training courtyard to the silent watchtowers, disciples murmured the name Lu Mao as though invoking a storm. His tribulation had been something out of legend—red lightning falling for ten breaths, thunder that carried the power of War Blood.
The last man known to survive such a phenomenon within Black Dragon Faction was Shen Mu himself, the dread master of the Black Dragon.
Now, his disciple had done the same.
Inside the heart of the sect, where smoke still curled from shattered stone, the aftermath of Lu Mao's awakening was on full display. The once-polished marble tiles were cracked and scorched. Spiritual energy clung to the air, distorting the light itself.
Yan Mei stood beside Li Xian, her gaze locked on the ruins of the cultivation chamber. The faint outline of a dragon burned into the floor still pulsed with golden-black veins, refusing to fade.
Li Xian exhaled softly, arms crossed. "He's alive," she muttered. "That's the important part."
Yan Mei's eyes glimmered with something deeper—both pride and concern. "Alive, yes. But that storm wasn't normal, Xian. Even I felt my core shake."
"That's because the heavens did too."
The voice rolled through the courtyard like quiet thunder. Both women turned as Shen Mu stepped through the scorched entryway, his black robes trailing smoke.
The master of the Black Dragon faction had emerged from seclusion.
His long hair framed a face carved by time and rage; his eyes, two abyssal wells of power, burned faintly red beneath the fading daylight. The air bowed around him, spiritual pressure crushing, yet calm as a deep sea.
"Master," Li Xian and Yan Mei said in unison, bowing low.
Shen Mu didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on the figure kneeling amid the ruin—Lu Mao, still faintly glowing with golden-black veins, breathing in slow, rhythmic waves.
"Rise," Shen Mu commanded.
Lu Mao obeyed. The floor cracked faintly beneath his feet as he stood. His aura pulsed outward—wild, controlled, yet tinged with an undertone of defiance.
The old master circled him slowly. "So," he said, voice low, "it's true. You've torn through the heavens and lived."
Lu Mao's gaze met his master's evenly. "It was time."
A faint, sardonic smile flickered across Shen Mu's lips. "Every ambitious fool thinks that before lightning strikes."
"And yet," Lu Mao replied calmly, "the fool still stands."
Silence.
Then, Shen Mu laughed—low and hoarse, but genuine. "Hah… bold words."
The laughter faded, and with it, his expression darkened. "But remember this—power never comes quietly. And yours will not go unnoticed. There are forces in this sect, and beyond it, that will see your rise as a threat. The higher you climb, the sharper the knives."
Lu Mao's eyes didn't waver. "Danger or not, I'll take Black Dragon to the top."
The words struck Shen Mu like a blade. For a heartbeat, the great master froze. His eyes softened, distant—haunted.
In the flickering light, he saw another figure overlaid upon Lu Mao's form: a young man with the same defiant eyes, standing before him years ago, saying those same words.
"Danger or not, Father, I'll take Black Dragon to the top."
His son.
The son who had once stood where Lu Mao now stood. The son whose corpse he had carried through the rain after the politics of the higher sects crushed their rising power—when Black Dragon had almost soared too high.
Shen Mu's hand trembled for the briefest moment before he clenched it into a fist. He looked at Lu Mao again, and the illusion broke—but not the ache.
He spoke softly, his voice low enough for only Lu Mao to hear. "Then do it, boy. But don't repeat our mistakes. The heavens don't forgive ambition—they feed on it."
Lu Mao bowed deeply. "Then I'll feed the heavens themselves."
For the first time in years, Shen Mu smiled—not the grin of a warrior, but the quiet smile of a man who'd glimpsed a ghost of hope.
Days passed, but the storm Lu Mao's breakthrough had caused did not settle.
Rumors spread like wildfire. The Jade Owl Syndicate and Red Hawk factions, humiliated and bleeding, had gone silent—but silence from enemies was never peace. Across the southern lands, sects whispered of alliances and assassins.
And at dawn on the fourth day, a messenger from the Golden Sparrow Thieves Guild arrived at Black Dragon Mountain.
The man wore silver robes, his face pale from the mountain's pressure, and carried a scroll sealed with crimson wax. "By decree of High Lady Yan," he announced, voice trembling, "Lu Mao of the Black Dragon faction is summoned to the Heavenly Hall. Immediately."
Yan Mei took the letter. Her expression didn't change, but her eyes flickered for a moment—something almost unreadable.
When Lu Mao read the scroll, his lips curved faintly. "It seems I've become popular."
Li Xian frowned. "The Guild doesn't summon people to congratulate them. Be cautious."
"I always am," Lu Mao said with that calm, razor-edged smile of his.
The Heavenly Hall rose above the world like a shrine of the gods—its walls carved from golden jade, ancient symbols pulsing faintly beneath the sunlight.
Lu Mao entered flanked by Yan Mei and Li Xian. The hall's air was thick with power, spiritual formations swirling like invisible storms.
And upon the jade throne sat High Lady Yan, her presence radiant, her beauty both serene and terrifying. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than silk yet carried the force of command.
"Lu Mao of the Black Dragon," she said, her tone level. "You've shaken the heavens themselves. Do you know what that means?"
Lu Mao bowed slightly. "That the heavens shook back."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the elders. The Lady's lips twitched faintly—part amusement, part warning. "Courage without caution is suicide. But then again, your master never lacked either."
Her gaze flicked toward the far end of the hall. "Isn't that right, Shen Mu?"
From the shadows, Shen Mu stepped forward. He had been there all along, waiting silently. The hall tensed immediately. His aura didn't roar—but it didn't need to. It whispered of dragons coiled beneath the earth.
"Always watching," Lady Yan murmured. "You never change."
"Nor do you," Shen Mu replied, voice calm but edged. "Still trying to leash storms that won't bow."
Their gazes locked. The tension between them wasn't merely political—it was old. The kind of weight that carried scars unseen.
And in the corner of the hall, Yan Mei stood silent, her eyes fixed upon the floor. The Lady's gaze brushed her daughter for the briefest moment—just long enough for a shared flicker of recognition. Mother and daughter, bound by blood but divided by ambition.
No one else in the hall knew. No one dared suspect.
But Shen Mu did. His eyes lingered on Yan Mei for an instant longer than they should have.
So, he thought, even blood runs like poison in this sect.
Lady Yan turned her attention back to Lu Mao. "Your actions have disturbed the balance. Jade Owl's elders demand your execution. The Red Hawks demand reparations. And the other factions…" She waved her hand dismissively. "They wait to see who bleeds first."
Lu Mao's tone was steady. "Then I'll show them blood."
A slow, dangerous smile ghosted across Shen Mu's lips.
Lady Yan leaned forward. "Such arrogance," she said softly. "Very well, then. You wish to prove yourself? Prove it with purpose."
She gestured, and a guard stepped forward, presenting a sealed box. "A relic is to be escorted to the southern borders of Xianwei. You'll lead the convoy. It's said the Jade Owl remnants stir there. Consider it a test of both loyalty and survival."
Lu Mao took the box, feeling the faint hum of spiritual energy from within. "Understood."
The Lady studied him for a moment longer, her eyes unreadable. "Do not fail me, Lu Mao. I've buried too many with that same look in their eyes."
As they left the hall, Yan Mei and Li xian walked beside him in silence.
Finally, Yan mei said quietly, "The Lady was… lenient."
"Because she wants to see what kind of beast I become," Lu Mao replied. "And maybe because she doesn't want to lose you."
Yan Mei's steps faltered just slightly. "What?"
Lu Mao's eyes flicked toward her, unreadable. "You hide it well. But I see the resemblance when she looks at you. The same eyes. The same calm when surrounded by snakes."
Yan Mei's smile was small and unreadable; Li Xian's eyes flickered with quiet curiosity. "Then bury it deep, Lu Mao," Yan Mei said softly, voice steady as a blade. "Some truths aren't meant to be spoken—some are worth killing to keep."
He nodded. "Then I'll guard it."
From behind, Shen Mu's low voice rumbled. "Secrets keep the world turning. But they also burn when they leak."
The four of them walked into the setting sun, their silhouettes merging with the mountain's crimson glow.
That night, deep within Black Dragon Mountain, the colossal golden-black vein at the center of Lu Mao's inner world pulsed once more.
Twenty new vaults shimmered faintly into existence around it, waiting—hungering—for what came next.
The storm might have passed, but the crimson awakening had only just begun to ripple across the realm.