Yanwei scoffed to himself, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. Tch. I sound like some lunatic muttering in the dark… whatever.
He leaned against a jagged rock, forcing his breath to even out. Then his eyes narrowed.
"In fact, I could just stay by Yun's side," he murmured, voice low, like he was talking to no one—or everyone. "It's still safer there. She's already seventy percent mine… maybe more. Especially after that little test. Her reaction just bumped it higher."
He paused.
"But still—she's human." His fingers twitched. "And humans are unpredictable."
"Sure, I could kill her if I destroy the soul fragment she gave me… but would that be faster than a blade slipping through my back?"
He chuckled bitterly, eyes cold. "I don't think so."
Yanwei wiped the blood from his lips, gaze locked on the faint smear left on his fingertips. Still warm. Still fresh. His breathing was shallow, but his movements were steady—too steady for someone on the brink.
Without even pausing to tend to his injuries, he rose to his feet. Pain surged through his body like knives dragging across flesh, but he didn't flinch. He endured it, jaw tight, eyes sharp.
With a flick of his fingers, the blood-soaked robes he wore began to shift. Threads unraveled, shimmered, and wove themselves anew—darker colors, unfamiliar patterns. No longer the attire of his sect. No longer anything traceable.
His face changed too—not through grand illusion, but through subtle, practiced distortion. A slight lengthening of the jawline. A cooler tint to his eyes. Just enough to be unrecognizable if seen from a crowd, just enough to vanish into the world like a ghost.
He didn't even blink.
Not once.
Any sane person would've treated their injuries first—especially after what Yanwei had just endured.
A brutal fight against a powerful beast that nearly shattered his bones. The backlash of the necklace's short-distance teleportation. The searing agony of technique imprinting—not just any technique, but one torn from a half-complete copy of a Supreme Book tied to the three "Supreme" Laws. Imprinting something like that wasn't just painful—it was like branding divine law into fragile flesh, far worse than ordinary soul-searching.
And then, the final toll: the backlash of altering someone's memory.
Each of these things alone could cripple a cultivator. But together? It was madness.
Yet Yanwei… he wasn't resting.
He was preparing.
Adjusting his appearance. Changing his robes. Creating a disguise instead of treating his wounds.
….
The sky above the secret realm shifted.
It began subtly—clouds thinning into silvery strands, light seeping in like dawn breaking across a dream. Then, without warning, a deafening crack echoed across the land. The very air rippled, and a brilliant rift tore through the firmament like a blade slicing open reality.
The secret realm was opening.
A tidal wave of spiritual energy surged outward, washing over the land in a radiant burst that reached every corner. Birds scattered. Trees trembled. Even the beasts lurking deep within stilled for a heartbeat.
And then—noise.
Cheers erupted from the outer fringes, where sects had stationed themselves in preparation. Dozens of cultivators raised their swords and voices alike, their robes billowing in the energy-charged wind. Flags bearing sect crests flared to life, catching light like fire, as disciples shouted and whooped, eyes gleaming with anticipation and triumph.
Some knelt in gratitude. Others simply laughed, giddy from the intensity of the realm's spiritual pressure. Elders gave brief nods of approval. Juniors grinned wide with the taste of opportunity fresh in their mouths.
For them, this was a moment worth celebrating.
The secret realm had not only opened—it had survived its chaos.
And those who emerged from it… would soon be seen.
Among the lively chaos outside the secret realm, where banners waved and disciples buzzed with excitement, two Rank 3 seniors sat cross-legged on raised stone seats, their presence commanding even amid the noise.
One of them burst into laughter, a deep, hearty sound that rumbled from his chest. "I'm going to win this bet!" he said, slapping his knee with delight. "No way those brats of yours made it farther than mine."
The other scoffed, raising a brow. "Stop joking. My disciples were the strongest this time. Your little troublemakers probably fainted halfway through."
They both chuckled, shaking their heads as if neither fully believed the other—and yet both were dead serious.
Without breaking stride, they raised their wine gourds and drank in perfect sync, the strong scent of aged spirit briefly overtaking even the realm's mystical fragrance.
Around them, juniors whispered, glanced nervously, and quietly hoped their names would be the ones those seniors boasted about next.
But not all shared in the laughter.
The third Rank 3 senior stood at the edge of the gathering, arms behind his back, gaze locked on the shimmering boundary of the secret realm. He hadn't spoken a single word since the gate began to stir, not even when the first figures emerged. His robes, darker than the others', fluttered softly in the mountain breeze—yet nothing else about him moved.
One after another, disciples began to pour out. Cheers erupted as sect members reunited. Injured or whole, battered or triumphant, more than a hundred returned. Faces were dirt-streaked and bloodied, but alive. Survivors.
Still, he didn't blink.
The realm's light dimmed slightly, its energy thinning with every passing second. Another minute went by.
No one else came out.
Two minutes. Then three.
The laughter faded. So did the cheers.
A quiet tension began to spread, creeping from the boundary of the gate to the edges of the crowd like fog rolling in before a storm.
And still, that silent Rank 3 senior said nothing—his brows furrowed just slightly as if calculating something only he understood.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Just when the silence began to suffocate the air itself—when eyes darted nervously and whispers started to form—
A soft hum pulsed from the boundary.
A figure stepped through.
She looked dazed, her steps unsteady like someone who had just woken from a dream she couldn't remember. Her clothes were torn at the hem, but there was no sign of injury. Linglong.
Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd.
But her eyes—those clear, brilliant eyes—were clouded, unfocused, as if the world around her didn't quite register yet. She blinked, slow and heavy, scanning the crowd without really seeing them.
It took half a minute before the light stirred again.
Another girl came out—Yun.
Her steps were too quiet. Her gaze didn't rise.
She looked like she had crawled out of a nightmare and was still living inside it.
Ash clung to her hair. Her face was pale—too pale—and her hands slightly trembled at her sides, clenched into fists. Not a scratch on her body, and yet her expression held the weight of someone who had barely survived.
She didn't say a word.
And still, not a single soul dared break the silence.
Not when they saw Yun's face.
Because even though she stood… she looked haunted.
Like something had died inside that realm—and maybe, not everything that came back was whole.
The moment Linglong and Yun emerged from the secret realm, the tension hanging in the air seemed to snap.
The Rank 3 elders from both Linglong and Yun's factions let out collective breaths of relief. It was subtle—just a soft exhale—but it was there. A quiet moment of reassurance, as if a weight had been lifted from their chests.
But the others…
The atmosphere shifted. Eyes flickered nervously from one another, and a few beads of sweat began to form on the brows of the surrounding disciples. This was unusual. Cultivators of their rank, especially those at Rank 3, had long since mastered control over their bodies. Temperature no longer affected them unless they were in a place of extreme heat or cold. Yet, here, at the threshold of the secret realm, the sweat that clung to their foreheads was not from any physical discomfort.
It was fear.
A few exchanged glances, faces taut with concern, unsure of what was to come next. None of them could shake the feeling that the secret realm had not just been a trial of physical strength but something deeper, something far more dangerous.
The air itself felt thick with unease.