Zhao Ming ran.
His breath tore through his chest like broken glass, qi circulating erratically as blood dripped down his temple. The Ascendant Grounds stretched endlessly around him—ancient stone paths, jagged cliffs, and warped vegetation twisted by dense spiritual pressure. He should never have been able to enter this place unnoticed.
And yet, here he was.
Behind him, Zhao family disciples closed in like hounds.
"Don't let him escape!"
"He's injured—surround him!"
Zhao Ming turned sharply, sword flashing. His strike was precise, almost mechanical. One disciple collapsed, another stumbled back clutching his arm. Zhao Ming did not stay to finish them. He could not afford to.
I don't want to fight, he thought bitterly. I never did.
He vaulted over a broken ridge, slid down loose gravel—and froze.
Ahead of him, impossibly so, stood a bar.
Wooden. Old. Lanterns swaying gently despite the absence of wind. A crooked sign hung above the door, its characters half-faded, half-renewed, as if time itself could not decide whether to erode it.
Music drifted out. Laughter.
Zhao Ming did not question it.
He pushed the door open and stumbled inside.
Warmth hit him first.
Then noise.
The bar was packed—mercenaries of every kind. Scarred men and women in mismatched armor, weapons leaned casually against tables. The air smelled of alcohol, smoke, and blood that had long since dried.
Conversation died the moment Zhao Ming entered.
A few gazes sharpened.
Then the door burst open again.
Zhao family disciples stormed in.
"You—out of the way! Zhao Ming is ours!"
Silence.
Then a low chuckle.
A mercenary stood, cracking his neck. "You've got nerve, kid."
Another followed. Then another.
The Zhao disciples barely had time to draw their weapons.
The bar erupted.
It was not a fight—it was a cleansing.
When it ended, Zhao family disciples lay scattered across the floor, groaning or unconscious. Not a single mercenary had fallen.
Zhao Ming stood frozen, chest heaving.
Behind the counter, the bartender watched calmly.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hair streaked with silver, eyes sharp and alive like stormclouds on the verge of breaking. Lightning flickered faintly around his fingers as he wiped a glass with deliberate slowness.
Zhao Ming's blood ran cold.
"…Lei Sheng," he whispered.
The Thunder Rider.
Ranked eighth among the strongest cultivators of this era.
Lei Sheng raised an eyebrow. "You recognize me."
"I would have to be blind not to," Zhao Ming said hoarsely.
Lei Sheng set the glass down. "Sit."
Zhao Ming obeyed.
"For now," Lei Sheng continued, "you're under my roof. That means no one kills you here."
"Why?" Zhao Ming asked.
Lei Sheng's smile was faint, almost weary. "Because I can't leave."
He gestured around.
"This bar walks the Ascendant Grounds. Appears where it pleases. And I"—his fingers sparked—"am cursed to tend it forever."
Zhao Ming stared.
"…Then this place is a sanctuary."
"For mercenaries, yes. For you?" Lei Sheng studied him. "Depends how much trouble follows."
Zhao Ming laughed weakly. Then, unexpectedly, spoke.
He spoke of Elder Zhao.
Of his parents.
Of expectations.
Of blood and chains disguised as duty.
Lei Sheng listened without interruption.
When Zhao Ming finished, the Thunder Rider poured two drinks.
"You're being hunted because you ran," Lei Sheng said. "And because you survived."
Zhao Ming closed his eyes. "…I just wanted to paint."
The bar grew quiet.
Then—
Too quiet.
No footsteps.
No breathing.
No qi fluctuations.
Lei Sheng's expression hardened.
He stood.
Outside, bodies littered the ground.
Mercenaries.
Zhao disciples.
All unconscious.
At the center of it all stood a lone figure.
A woman in a long cloak.
An owl mask, white and expressionless.
Her gaze locked onto Zhao Ming.
Bloodlust poured from her like a tide.
Zhao Ming's knees nearly buckled.
Lei Sheng swore softly.
"Inside. Now."
He dragged Zhao Ming back as the Owl approached, her voice drifting ahead of her—soft, amused, cruel.
"So you ran here, little prey," she said. "How thoughtful. You saved me time."
The door slammed shut.
Thunder crackled.
And the sanctuary trembled.