Chapter 1: Awakening and the Threads of Heaven
A piercing headache, sharp as a needle driven through the temple, was the first herald of consciousness.
Bai Yichen groaned, the sound foreign in his own throat. His mind felt like a shattered mirror, two sets of memories reflecting in jagged fragments. One memory was of steel and glass, of glowing screens and the hum of servers, of complex code flowing like digital rivers. The other was of misty mountains, of sluggish Qi circulating through narrow meridians, of disdainful glances and whispered insults—"the placeholder Elder," "Patriarch's charity case."
The memories collided, fused, and settled.
He was no longer just the AI architect from a world of logic. He was also Bai Yichen, Elder of the Azure-Green Cloud Sect, master of the dilapidated Azure-Green Peak. And he was in deep, profound trouble.
He pushed himself up from the cold, jade meditation mat. The room around him was as bleak as his predecessor's reputation. Faded tapestries, a simple wooden desk gathering dust, a single window looking out onto a mist-shrouded, sparse mountain slope dotted with a few sorry-looking spirit herbs. The air was thin, the Qi noticeably weaker than it should be for a major peak of a 4-Star sect. It felt… abandoned.
A final, crucial memory slotted into place. An ultimatum. Delivered three days ago by his only friend in this world, Sect Master Yun Hai, in this very pavilion. The Patriarch's face had been etched with weary disappointment.
"Brother Bai… the council's patience is spent. Your last disciple transferred to the Gold-Sword Peak yesterday. You have no students. A Peak without disciples is not a Peak; it is a memorial. You have until the Quarterly Recruitment Assembly in five days. If you cannot secure at least a handful of disciples who then place within the top hundred of the Mid-Year Tournament in five months… you must step down. I will not be able to shield you any longer. For the sake of the sect… and for your own dignity."
The words had carried the weight of a tombstone. The old Bai Yichen had despaired, perhaps triggering the Qi deviation that allowed the new consciousness to take root.
But now, despair was replaced by a cold, analytical clarity. This was a system failure. A project on the brink of termination. And he was a master debugger.
As if awakening his thought, a profound shift occurred within him. It wasn't a voice, nor a screen. It was a deep, intuitive knowing, as if seven fundamental laws of this new universe had just been hard-coded into his soul.
First, his perception of the world changed. Looking at his own hand, he didn't just see skin. He saw the faint, flickering flow of Qi beneath it, sluggish and shallow. He saw the subtle, naturally occurring patterns in the grain of the wooden floor—patterns that now seemed clumsy, inefficient. He instinctively knew he could rewrite them. This was the Rune Scriber. The world was a blank canvas of unstable code, and he held the pen.
Second, the sparse Qi in the room suddenly felt… insufficient. He drew in a breath, and the energy rushed into him not like a trickle, but like a tidal wave drawn into an abyss. His previously cramped and narrow Dantian, the center of his cultivation, was gone. In its place was a void that felt infinitely deep and perpetually full—a serene, boundless ocean of power. The Infinity Core. A limitless power source.
A smile, thin and sharp, touched his lips. This changed everything. This wasn't magic; it was superior engineering. He stood up, his movements fluid, his body responding with a grace the old Elder had never possessed. He walked to the window, his gaze sweeping over his pathetic domain.
His eyes, the Deep Seeking Eye, activated without thought. He saw the latent spiritual veins in the mountain, buried and untapped. He saw the weak, fractured wood-element affinity in the struggling Spirit-Sap Pine outside his window. He saw the pathetic, low-grade Earth Spirit Root of the young laborer disciple who was currently hauling water up the path, his Qi dim as a guttering candle.
This disciple, maybe sixteen, was the only soul still assigned to this peak—a punishment detail. Yet, the boy's Qi, while weak, circulated with a stubborn, unbroken rhythm. There was a hidden tenacity there, invisible to the conventional "talent scouts" of this world.
Bai Yichen turned from the window. First, he needed to understand his primary tools. He raised his right hand, index finger extended. Concentrating not on some mystical chant, but on a clear intent—Light.
He focused on the Qi from his Infinity Core, and willed it to structure itself at his fingertip. It wasn't about brute force; it was about information, about shaping energy with meaning. A single, intricate character, glowing with a soft, gold-white luminescence, spun into existence in the air before him. It hung there, defying gravity, humming with a gentle power. It wasn't a character from any earthly language. It was a concept made manifest. A rune for "Illumination."
With a flick of his finger, he sent it towards a dark corner of the room. The rune attached itself to the wall and flared, bathing the corner in perfect, shadowless light that was easy on the eyes. Not the harsh flare of a torch, but the steady glow of a modern LED. He could feel the minimal, continuous draw on his Qi—a drop from his infinite ocean.
Fascination overrode everything else. He spent the next hour in a state of rapt experimentation. He inscribed a rune for "Heat" on the surface of his tea cup, watching the water inside steam gently. He wrote a tiny, complex script for "Cleansing" on a dusty section of the floor, and watched as grime seemed to unravel and vanish. He drew a quick series of interlocking runes for "Barrier" in the doorway, creating a shimmering, transparent film that resisted his push. The complexity he could manage instinctively was staggering. He could layer them, link them with conditional triggers—this rune activates if that rune is touched.
This was power, but it was also art. A philosophy of creation and order. He was not just a cultivator; he was a scribe of reality's underlying principles.
Next, his gaze fell upon his own robes. The standard Azure-Green Elder Hanfu, once fine, was now faded and slightly frayed at the cuffs. A symbol of his stagnation. A thought bloomed, merging the intuition of the Fashionista with the power of the Rune Scriber. Appearance was not vanity here; it was communication. It was psychological warfare. It was a uniform that could inspire his own people and intimidate his enemies.
He focused on the fabric. Using his will and Qi, he didn't just sew or dye. He began to transmute at a molecular level, guided by an innate understanding of materials from his Modern Engineer knowledge. The coarse spiritual silk refined itself, becoming smoother, more lustrous, its weave tightening into a subtle, breathtaking pattern that resembled interlocking mountain peaks and waves—the essence of Azure-Green. The color deepened from a washed-out blue-green to a profound, shifting hue that was the deep green of a forest at twilight shot through with veins of serene azure, like a sky reflected in a still lake.
Then came the runes. With his mind's eye and flowing Qi, he began inscribing not on, but within the very threads of the robe. Tiny, infinitesimal scripts, each a masterpiece of miniaturization.
Along the hems and cuffs, he wove a "Self-Cleansing" array, ensuring not a speck of dust or stain would ever mar it.
Across the back and chest, he layered a "Qi-Gathering Vortex" array, a gentle, passive pull that would constantly draw ambient spiritual energy to nourish his body.
Along the meridians under the robe's sleeves, he placed a "Mental Clarity" sequence, to ward off confusion and spiritual interference.
At the collar, a subtle "Aura of Authority" rune cluster, designed to subconsciously incline weaker-willed observers towards respect and attention.
He worked with a quiet, intense joy. This was programming of the highest order. Each rune was a line of perfect code, each array a functioning program. The final touch was purely aesthetic, a nod to his past life: along the inner lining, he formed a repeating, tasteful pattern of interlocking 'B' and 'Y' characters in silver thread, visible only if one looked very closely.
When he was done, he willed the new robes onto his body. The old ones dissolved into motes of light, which were then absorbed and recycled by the new garment. He stood before a polished bronze mirror.
The transformation was startling. The man who looked back was not the disheveled, defeated Elder. He was a figure of profound, understated elegance. The Hanfu fit him perfectly, emphasizing a lean, poised stature he didn't know he had. The intricate patterns seemed to move when not looked at directly, and a soft, almost imperceptible glow emanated from the fabric, highlighting the sharp planes of his face and the calm, calculating depth in his eyes. He looked like a sovereign of an unseen, sophisticated realm.
He felt the effects immediately. The air around him seemed fresher as the Qi-Gathering array hummed. His mind was preternaturally clear. The fabric felt like a second skin, whispering of resilience. This was his armor. This was his banner.
A hesitant knock sounded at the door of his pavilion, brittle in the mountain quiet.
"E-Elder Bai?" a young, nervous voice called out. "This disciple is here to remind you… the Sect Master has summoned all Elders to the Main Peak's Audience Pavilion. Immediately."
Bai Yichen took one last look in the mirror. The ghost of his old self was gone. In its place was the architect of a new destiny. He smoothed down his impossibly pristine sleeve, feeling the thrum of silent power in the threads.
"Enter," he said, his voice calm, carrying a new resonance.
The door creaked open. The young laborer disciple, dressed in rough hemp robes, stepped in, his head bowed. "Elder, we must hur—" He looked up.
His words died in his throat. His eyes widened, jaw going slack. He stared at Bai Yichen as if seeing a ghost, or perhaps a descending immortal. This was not the Elder he'd seen just yesterday, slumped in dejection. This was… someone else entirely. The disciple's gaze darted over the magnificent robes, the aura of quiet authority, the sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to see right through him. He stumbled back a step, almost tripping over the threshold.
Bai Yichen watched the reaction, filing it away. Fear? Awe? Good. Both were useful starting points. He offered no explanation for his transformation.
"Lead the way," Bai Yichen said, his tone neither kind nor harsh, simply definitive.
The disciple swallowed hard, gave a jerky nod, and scrambled to turn around, leading the path out of the decrepit pavilion. Bai Yichen followed, his new robes whispering silently against the floor. As he stepped out into the weak sunlight of his barren peak, his Deep Seeking Eye automatically mapped the spiritual desolation around him. His mind, however, was already racing ahead, calculating, planning.
The summons from the Sect Master was not a courtesy. It was the opening move of a game he now had the tools to win. He walked with a measured pace behind the flustered disciple, his expression a placid mask, while within, the runes of strategy and ambition were already being inscribed.
The path from the Azure-Green Peak to the main sect grounds was a winding stone trail, often overgrown at the edges where Bai Yichen had long ceased to maintain it. Today, as he followed the trembling laborer disciple—whose name, he recalled from the fragmented memories, was Xiao Li—the very air felt different. It crackled with unspoken tension.
Word, in a cultivation sect, traveled faster than any movement technique. By the time they descended to the connecting bridges and main thoroughfares, disciples were already stopping in their tracks. The morning drills in the practice courtyards stuttered. The low hum of conversation from the alchemy and artifact refining halls dipped, then rose into a frenzied whisper.
"Is that… Elder Bai?"
"What happened to him? He looks… different."
"Those robes! What grade spirit silk is that? It seems to drink the light!"
"A last-ditch effort to save face, no doubt. Dressing up a rotten log doesn't make it immortal timber."
"Shh! He's looking this way!"
Bai Yichen heard it all. The awe, the curiosity, the venom. The Deep Seeking Eye passively registered the Qi fluctuations around him—spikes of surprise, flares of envy, the cold, steady pulses of contempt from older inner disciples. He walked with his back straight, his gaze fixed ahead, neither hurrying nor dawdling. His new robes flowed around him with a life of their own, the subtle "Aura of Authority" runes doing their work. Younger, lower-ranking disciples instinctively moved aside, bowing their heads slightly before catching themselves and flushing with confusion.
Xiao Li, leading the way, seemed to be trying to melt into the ground. Every hissed comment from the crowd made his shoulders tense.
They were crossing the Sword Testing Plaza, a vast expanse of white jade often used for public announcements and impromptu sparring, when the first real obstacle manifested.
A group of five inner disciples, their robes bearing the distinctive gold-threaded mountain emblem of the Gold-Sword Peak, deliberately fanned out, blocking the direct path to the ascending stairs that led to the Main Peak's Audience Pavilion. They were led by a young man with sharp features and an arrogant tilt to his chin. Bai Yichen's memory supplied the name: Zhang Feng. A name that carried a particular sting.
Zhang Feng had been his disciple. Not just any disciple, but the most talented one the old Bai Yichen had ever attracted—a mid-grade Metal Spirit Root. The old Elder had poured dwindling resources into him, treated him like a son. A year ago, after a particularly poor showing in an inter-peak competition, Zhang Feng had publicly denounced Bai's "archaic and ineffective" teaching methods, knelt before the Gold-Sword Peak Elder, and transferred. His defection had been the final, mortal blow to the Azure-Green Peak's reputation.
"Well, well," Zhang Feng drawled, his voice loud enough to carry across the now-silent plaza. Dozens of disciples from various peaks stopped to watch, sensing drama. "If it isn't my former master. I almost didn't recognize you. Have you been visiting the tailors of the mortal capital to prepare for your retirement?"
His companions snickered. One, a burly youth, added, "Maybe he hopes pretty clothes will attract new disciples. Like flowers attract bees."
Xiao Li froze, panic in his eyes. "Elder, we can go around the long way…"
Bai Yichen placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, stopping him. His touch was calm, his Qi steady as a deep lake. "The main path is for Elders and their charges," he said, his voice not rising, yet carrying an unnatural clarity that silenced the remaining murmurs. "We will not deviate."
He walked forward, stopping a few paces from Zhang Feng. He looked at his former disciple, not with anger, but with a piercing, analytical focus. The Deep Seeking Eye activated. He saw Zhang Feng's cultivation—late-stage Qi Condensation, Layer 7. His Qi was sharp but brittle, over-refined in a way that spoke of forced advancement with pills, leaving minute cracks in his foundation. He saw the arrogant fire in his heart, and the hidden, festering seed of shame he carried for his own betrayal.
"Zhang Feng," Bai Yichen said, and the name held no warmth, no reproach. It was simply an identifier. "You block an Elder's path. This is a violation of Sect Rule 14, Clause 3. Stand aside."
The formal, rule-book citation threw Zhang Feng off balance for a second. Then his sneer returned. "Rules? You speak of rules? What have rules done for your peak, Elder? It's empty! You are a walking rule of failure!" He puffed out his chest. "I've advanced three layers since joining the Gold-Sword Peak. What have your 'methods' ever accomplished?"
Bai Yichen sighed inwardly. This was tediously predictable. A child boasting about a taller sandcastle. But it was a necessary lesson. Not just for Zhang Feng, but for every watching eye.
"You speak of methods," Bai Yichen mused, his gaze drifting to the spirit-leather bracer on Zhang Feng's right arm, a trophy from a recent beast hunt. "You left because you deemed the 'Tranquil Waves Azure Method' I taught you to be weak. Too passive, you said."
"It is weak!" Zhang Feng spat. "All defense and flow, no killing intent! The Gold-Sword's 'Mountain-Splitting Sword Art' has true power!"
"The Tranquil Waves Method," Bai Yichen continued as if he hadn't heard, "is not about absence of power. It is about the accumulation and precise release of force. You lacked the patience to understand its depth. You saw the still water, not the crushing weight of the deep ocean tide."
He raised his right hand. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Was the disgraced Elder actually going to fight? Zhang Feng's hand flew to his sword hilt, his Qi flaring.
Bai Yichen did not attack. Instead, his index finger began to move through the air. Where it passed, a line of pure, shimmering golden light remained, hanging in the space between them. It was not Qi slashing; it was Qi writing. A rune.
It was not one of the simple, functional runes he had practiced in his pavilion. This was more complex, an elegant, interlocking character that seemed to pulse with a rhythmic, wave-like motion. The very sight of it made the disciples' eyes water, their minds struggling to comprehend its shape. It was the conceptual rune for "Stillness" merged with "Amplification."
"The first form of the Tranquil Waves," Bai Yichen said, his voice now a resonant drone that matched the rune's pulse. "Silent Waves. You could never grasp it."
He flicked his wrist. The glowing rune did not shoot forward. It simply existed in the space, and the world around it reacted.
The air between him and Zhang Feng thickened, compressing. With a sound like a deep, distant gong, an invisible force—immense, heavy, and utterly silent in its origin—slammed into Zhang Feng. It wasn't a blunt impact. It was a pressurized wave, hitting every inch of his body at once.
Zhang Feng's defensive Qi shattered like glass. His sword, half-drawn, was slammed back into its scabbard. He was lifted off his feet and hurled backwards ten paces, landing in a rolling, graceless heap on the hard jade. His four companions were knocked sprawling by the peripheral force, their robes whipped around them.
The plaza was dead silent. The only sound was Zhang Feng's ragged, wheezing gasp as he tried to push himself up, his face pale with shock and humiliation.
Bai Yichen walked forward, his steps unhurried. He stopped beside his former disciple, who flinched. The Elder looked down at him, his expression unreadable. "You speak of my methods failing you," he said, his tone almost conversational. "But it was your perception that failed. You saw a pond and called it an ocean. For your disrespect, for blocking an Elder's path, and for the disgrace you brought upon your former master's hall… there must be a consequence."
He raised his hand again. This time, his fingers moved with blinding speed, weaving not in the air, but directly over Zhang Feng's dantian area. He wasn't touching him, but from his fingertips, streams of intricate, silvery light descended, sinking into Zhang Feng's robes and flesh. The disciples watched, mesmerized and horrified, as a complex, circular seal formed over Zhang Feng's lower abdomen. It glowed with a cold, metallic light before fading from view, though a faint silver tracery remained on the skin, visible to all.
Zhang Feng screamed—not in pain, but in terror. He could feel it. A cage around his core. His Qi, which had been swirling in agitation, was suddenly muted, forced down, flowing at barely a quarter of its usual volume and speed.
"A sealing array of my own design," Bai Yichen announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the plaza. "For one month, your cultivation will progress at a snail's pace. A month to reflect on the nature of true strength, which is not merely in the sharpness of the blade, but in the depth of the river that forges it. The seal will unravel on its own. Consider it a lesson you failed to learn on my peak."
He then turned his gaze to the four other Gold-Sword disciples, who were scrambling to their knees. "Carry him to your Elder. Explain his transgression. If any of you, or anyone from your peak, troubles me or mine again," his eyes glinted with a cold light, "the next seal will not be so temporary, nor so gentle."
He didn't wait for a response. He glanced at Xiao Li, whose face was a mask of stunned awe. "Lead on."
This time, the path cleared before them like magic. Disciples pressed themselves against the railings and walls, their eyes wide, all mockery evaporated, replaced by fear, burning curiosity, and a dawning, unsettling respect. The tale would spread through the sect before the meeting even began: The washed-up Elder Bai was washed-up no more. He had wielded a forgotten technique with terrifying, effortless mastery and possessed a mysterious, sealing art that chilled the blood.
The rest of the journey was made in a bubble of profound silence. They ascended the thousand stairs to the Main Peak, passed through the towering gates inscribed with the sect's history, and entered the vast courtyard before the Audience Pavilion. Here, Elders and their head disciples mingled, their conversations a low, political hum that died the moment Bai Yichen stepped onto the engraved stone tiles.
Dozens of eyes turned to him—Elders in magnificent robes, proud core disciples. He saw the blatant scorn in the gaze of Elder Zhao of the Gold-Sword Peak, whose face was like thunder. He saw the cold calculation in the eyes of Elder Mei of the Alchemy Peak. He saw the open surprise from Elder Guo of the Beast-Taming Peak, a man who had once, long ago, shared a drink with the old Bai Yichen.
And he saw, from a few, a flicker of something else. A hesitant nod from Elder Wen of the Library Pavilion, whom Bai had once helped restore a damaged ancient scroll. A brief, almost imperceptible look of relief from the steward of the Mission Hall, whom the old Bai had never bullied despite his weakness. Not all respect was lost; it had merely been buried under the avalanche of his failure.
Ignoring them all, Bai Yichen walked straight toward the grand, open doors of the pavilion. Inside, under a vaulted ceiling painted with stars and constellations, two rows of high-backed chairs of polished Phoenix-Eye Wood were arranged. His chair, as the master of the weakest peak, was the last on the left row, closest to the door, a position of low status.
He moved through the crowd of gathered seniors and elites, the whispers now hushed but urgent in his wake. He reached his designated seat.
And with a whisper of his sublime robes, he sat down. He did not slump. He did not hide. He sat with the poised stillness of a mountain peak, his hands resting calmly on the armrests, his gaze fixed forward on the empty, elevated throne of the Sect Master. The message was silent, but deafening:
I am still here.
A heavy silence, thick enough to choke on, settled around Bai Yichen's seat. The other Elders, arrayed in their splendor, did not stare openly—that would be beneath their dignity—but their attention was a physical weight. The sidelong glances, the slight tilts of heads, the whispered conversations that died as soon as they began. He could feel their spiritual senses brushing against him, probing, testing. His new robes, however, seemed to drink in this prying energy. The micro-runic arrays woven into the fabric subtly diffused and dispersed the probes, giving back only an impression of deep, placid water with no discernible bottom.
He ignored them all. Let them look. Let them wonder.
His gaze swept the grand pavilion. Morning light streamed through high windows, illuminating motes of dust that danced above the heads of the sect's elite. The air was rich with the scent of sandalwood and the faint, metallic tang of spiritual pressure. His position at the end of the row was a statement in itself—the lowest, the least. A place for a ghost waiting to be exorcised.
A familiar, hollow feeling gnawed at him, a ghost of the old Bai's anxiety. He willed it away. Anxiety was a useless program, a drain on resources. Instead, he focused on the sensory input. The hushed voice of Elder Mei discussing spirit herb quotas with her head disciple. The low, rumbling complaint from Elder Guo about a rampaging Iron-Hide Bear. The sharp, icy silence emanating from Elder Zhao, whose face was still a thundercloud after the news from the plaza undoubtedly reached him via spiritual message.
His Infinity Core hummed with boundless energy, but his stomach, a mundane organ, gave a faint, treasonous rumble. He hadn't eaten since his transmigration. The old world's cravings surfaced—not for spiritual rice or beast meat, but for something… familiar. A flavor of home.
A faint, cunning smile touched his lips. Why not?
Under the cover of his wide, flowing sleeve, he extended a finger. With his Deep Seeking Eye, he located a small, forgotten dried winterberry that had rolled into a crevice of his chair leg, left over from some past gathering. A mundane thing, devoid of spiritual energy.
He closed his hand around it, his Qi flowing with the intent of the Rune Scriber and the transformative principle of the Modern Engineer. He wasn't just picturing food; he was deconstructing the berry's essence and rebuilding it with a new code, imprinted with concepts of "Nourishment," "Flavor," and a hint of "Vitality Boost." The principles of heat, chemical change, and molecular gastronomy from his past life were not robotic formulas, but philosophies of transformation he now understood instinctively.
In his palm, the berry dissolved into a swirl of shimmering dust. It reconstituted, growing, morphing. The scent of toasted grain, seared meat, and faint, earthy spices bloomed under his sleeve, contained by a tiny barrier rune. A moment later, he withdrew his hand. In it was something that made his heart ache with nostalgia: a perfect, warm, steamed bun-like construct, but split and holding layers of finely-textured, savory filling that resembled the most exquisite gourmet burger. The 'bun' was soft yet resilient, the 'patty' seasoned to perfection, and there was even a hint of something like cheese and a tangy sauce.
He took a small, deliberate bite. The flavors exploded on his tongue—unmistakably familiar, yet cleansed and elevated by the subtle infusion of vital Qi. A gentle warmth spread through his body, a minor but noticeable boost to his blood circulation and mental alertness. It was a comfort food, coded into existence.
He saw Xiao Li, the laborer disciple, standing rigidly against the wall with the other attendants, trying to be invisible. The boy's eyes were wide, darting between the intimidating Elders and his own transformed master. Bai Yichen caught his gaze. With a barely perceptible motion, he tore the remaining portion in half and flicked his wrist.
The half-bun, wrapped in a wisp of Qi, sailed through the air in a gentle arc, landing softly in Xiao Li's trembling hands. The boy stared at it as if it were a live spirit beast.
"Eat," Bai Yichen's voice, though quiet, carried directly to the boy's ear. "You skipped breakfast to fetch me. This will help."
A stunned murmur broke out among the nearby attendants and lower-tier disciples standing in the wings. Food? In the Audience Pavilion? It was a profound breach of decorum, an act of casual disregard that bordered on insult to the assembly.
Elder Zhao's voice cut through the murmur, sharp as a honed blade. "Elder Bai! This is the Hall of Patriarchal Decree, not a mountain tavern! Have you lost all sense of propriety along with your disciples?"
Bai Yichen didn't even turn his head. He watched Xiao Li. The boy, under the combined pressure of his Elder's command and the stares of the entire room, took a terrified bite. His eyes blew wide. Not just from the shocking, delicious flavor, but from the palpable surge of warm, clean energy that flowed into his starved meridians. His pale complexion gained a hint of color. He looked at Bai Yichen with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock, then deep, fearful reverence. He quickly stuffed the rest into his mouth, bowing his head so low his forehead nearly touched his knees.
"Propriety," Bai Yichen finally said, his voice calm as he turned his gaze slowly towards Elder Zhao, "is not in the abstention from nourishment, but in ensuring the weak among us do not falter. Or do the rules of the Gold-Sword Peak preach indifference to the collapse of a junior from spiritual fatigue?" He let the question hang. The implication was clear: your disciple blocked my path and was sealed; mine was fed.
Before Elder Zhao could fire back a retort, a powerful, serene presence washed over the pavilion, silencing all.
Patriarch Yun Hai entered from a rear chamber.
He was a man who looked to be in his robust forties, with hair streaked with silver at the temples and a long beard that spoke of wisdom. His robes were simple compared to the others, a deep azure with no ostentatious patterns, yet the fabric seemed to contain swirling galaxies within its depths. His eyes, the color of a calm sea, swept the room. They passed over Bai Yichen, paused for a fraction of a second longer than on anyone else, and a flicker of something profound—relief, curiosity, hope—passed through them before being veiled by patriarchal solemnity.
He took his seat upon the high throne. "Esteemed Elders," his voice was mellifluous yet firm, filling the space without effort. "We convene. The matters are threefold: the allocation of resources from the recent Southern Vein discovery, the upcoming Quarterly Recruitment Assembly, and… the status of our sect's peaks."
The first two items were discussed with a tense civility. Allocations were always a battle, and Bai Yichen listened, learning the factions and grudges. The Azure-Green Peak, predictably, was not mentioned for any share of the new spiritual stones. It was as if it did not exist.
Then came the third matter. Patriarch Yun Hai's gaze grew heavier. "The strength of a sect lies in the strength of its pillars. Each peak is a pillar. A pillar that bears no weight… threatens the integrity of the whole structure." His eyes rested, with deliberate gravity, on Bai Yichen. "Elder Bai. The Azure-Green Peak stands empty. The ultimatum stands. Five days hence, at the Recruitment Assembly. Do you have anything to say before this council?"
All eyes turned to him. This was the moment. The moment for pleading, for excuses, for a final, pathetic display.
Elder Zhao did not wait for him to speak. He rose, his movement sharp with barely contained triumph. "Patriarch, esteemed colleagues. This farce has gone on long enough. The so-called 'display' on the Sword Testing Plaza this morning was nothing but a desperate trick! Using some obscure sealing art on a junior disciple proves nothing about one's ability to lead a peak, to teach, to nurture the future of our sect! The Azure-Green Peak is a barren scar on our mountain. Its spiritual veins are dormant, its buildings are ruins, its legacy is one of failure. To wait five more days is an insult to the talented youths who will arrive, hoping to join a true 4-Star sect! I move that Elder Bai's status be revoked immediately, and the peak's resources be redistributed among the productive pillars of our sect!"
His words were met with a rumble of agreement from several Elders, particularly those from peaks that stood to gain territory.
Bai Yichen waited for the noise to subside. He did not stand. He simply looked up at Patriarch Yun Hai, then slowly turned his head to regard Elder Zhao.
"Elder Zhao is, as always, passionate about the distribution of resources," Bai Yichen began, his voice devoid of heat. "He speaks of barren scars and dormant veins. Tell me, Elder Zhao, when was the last time you set foot on the Azure-Green Peak? A year ago? Two?"
Zhao scoffed. "Why would I visit a cemetery?"
"Precisely," Bai Yichen said, a sharp glint in his eye. "You judge a land you have not seen. You call a vein dormant that you have not felt. You speak of legacy, yet you covet the earth that holds it. This is not the passion of a steward, but the hunger of a vulture circling a body that still breathes."
A gasp went through the room. The directness, the poetic venom of the insult was breathtaking.
Elder Zhao's face purpled. "How dare you! Your incompetence is legendary! You have driven every disciple away with your useless methods!"
"The methods you so eagerly accepted when you convinced my former disciple, Zhang Feng, to abandon his oath and join your peak?" Bai Yichen fired back, his tone never rising. "Tell me, how is young Zhang Feng' 'Mountain-Splitting Sword Art' progressing? Has he learned to split a mountain yet? Or does he still struggle to split a boulder without his foundation trembling?"
The reference to the sealing was obvious. Elder Zhao's Qi flared, a palpable, crushing pressure that rolled towards Bai Yichen. "You sealed my disciple's cultivation! A vicious, underhanded attack!"
"I disciplined a disciple who blocked and insulted an Elder on a main thoroughfare," Bai Yichen corrected, unmoved by the pressure. It broke against the subtle arrays of his robes like a wave against a cliff. "An act any Elder here would be within their rights to perform. Or does the Gold-Sword Peak now teach its disciples that rank and respect are optional? If so, the problem is not with my peak, but with yours."
He had turned the tables. The issue was no longer his failure, but Zhao's lack of discipline and his own disciple's transgression. The eyes of the other Elders shifted, calculations whirring behind their masks. This was not the broken man they expected.
"Enough."
Patriarch Yun Hai's word was a soft command, but it stilled the burgeoning storm. He looked at Elder Zhao. "Your disciple's behavior, if as described, was out of line. The discipline, while severe, is a matter between Elder Bai and the disciple." He then looked at Bai Yichen, and in his eyes, Bai saw the faintest trace of a warning, and a question. What are you doing, old friend?
"The ultimatum was given before this council," the Patriarch continued, his voice final. "It will be honored. The Recruitment Assembly in five days will be the proving ground. Not for words, not for tricks, but for results. The matter is closed." He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. "Let it be known that any interference with any Elder's lawful recruitment efforts before the Assembly will be dealt with harshly."
It was a clear shield, thrown at the last moment. Bai Yichen gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod of thanks to his friend.
The assembly was dismissed on a note of electric tension. Elders rose, their conversations hushed and urgent as they filed out. Many looked at Bai Yichen with new eyes—no longer just scorn, but with wariness, curiosity, and in some, like the thoughtful Elder Wen from the Library, a spark of genuine interest.
As Bai Yichen stood to leave, Patriarch Yun Hai's voice echoed softly in his ear alone, a feat of refined Qi manipulation. "Walk with me, Brother Bai."
Bai Yichen did not react outwardly. He simply followed the Patriarch through a side entrance, leaving behind the murmuring hall and the weight of a hundred speculative stares. The game was in motion. The first brushstrokes of his new design were on the canvas, and for the first time, the wolves were looking not at a corpse, but at a mountain that had just announced it was a volcano.