A hush fell over the jade-carved palace as banners embroidered with ancient emblems fluttered in the wind, their ends frayed from centuries of ceremonial use. Light filtered through high, arched windows shaped like blooming lotus petals, casting golden streaks across the moss-streaked marble floor. The stillness was deceptive—underneath it pulsed a tension so thick it clung to the skin.
A domed ceiling, painted with a depiction of the Three Continents' founding, loomed above the gathered cultivators. They stood in silence, not because they were friends—but because the news they faced could shatter the world as they knew it.
From Qing Yuan Continent, Wu Tianchen stood still, his long silver hair tied neatly behind him. He didn't speak, but his gaze cut like a blade through the growing murmur. Beside him, Xiao Zhenhai shifted slightly, his dark green robes rustling faintly, embroidered with patterns that mimicked flowing rivers—calm on the surface, deadly in motion.
Opposite them, representatives from Zhen Wu stood like statues, backlit by the sun pouring through one of the eastward windows. Leng Yufeng's cold breath steamed in the air, despite the warmth of the hall. Mo Qingran adjusted the thin glove on his right hand, his fingers twitching like he was tracing battle formations in his mind. Shen Juexing, barely visible beneath his shadowed hood, stared not at the people—but at the cracks between the tiles, as if listening to secrets whispered from beneath the earth.
Then… silence shifted.
The great side doors groaned as they opened, and a wave of pressure swept across the hall like a rolling storm. Zhou Wansheng entered. His robes shimmered, lined with celestial runes that glowed dimly with restrained power. Even the dust particles in the air seemed to freeze. Behind him, several cloaked cultivators moved in unison, each footstep echoing with chilling precision.
And as they took their place, no one spoke. They didn't need to.
Something ancient stirred in the dark, and the world had begun to listen.
High above the clouds, soft gusts of wind whistled through the sails of a trio of flying boats. Their hulls glimmered with runic etchings, humming faintly as spiritual energy rippled beneath them. Feathers from passing cloudbirds drifted in the air, glowing blue under the morning sun.
Inside one of the boats, a quiet hum of energy filled the polished wooden cabin. Lei Hu sat cross-legged, his back straight but tense, a golden sheen dancing over his skin like the ripples of a disturbed pond. Sparks flickered at his fingertips, forming runes that dissolved before they completed their shape.
He clenched his fists, jaw tight, and roared—not loud, but raw. The sound bounced through the cabin, startling a flock of tiny skyfinches perched on the railing outside.
Mike leaned against a pillar, arms folded. The ship swayed gently beneath his boots, and outside, the sky blushed with pink and orange. "He's close," he muttered.
Ling Xue stood nearby, eyes glowing softly. "He unlocked the first stage." Her voice carried both wonder and pride.
Lei Hu staggered to his feet, chest heaving. "Lion Roar. That's stage one." Sweat beaded on his forehead. "Next is Immense Roar Wave... then Destructive Lion Roar."
Feng Jian let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Just the names sound like they can shatter mountains."
For weeks, their days blurred—training at dawn, cultivation during dusk. The nights were spent beneath a sky so wide it seemed to swallow their doubts whole. Occasionally, falling stars traced silver arcs across the darkness, and on those nights, not even Feng Jian cracked a joke.
Then, one morning, the wind shifted. A subtle pressure filled the air.
Feng Jian burst into Mike's cabin, panting. "We're here! We made it!"
Mike blinked once, then bolted upright.
From the deck, a view unfolded that none of them would forget: a mountain cloaked in clouds, atop which sat a fortress that shimmered with protective sigils. Vine-covered towers twisted toward the sky, and winding paths glowed faintly, as if moonlight lived within the stone itself.
Dozens of students gathered at the ship's edge, staring open-mouthed.
The mentors stood at the front, robes fluttering in the wind.
A stern-faced elder raised his voice. "This is the Inner Academy. From here on, nothing is handed to you. Expect blood. Expect betrayal. Survive."
The crowd bowed. "Yes, Mentor!"
At the gate, mist flowed like breath from an ancient beast. The massive doors creaked open with a groan that echoed through the valley below. Beyond them, shadows twisted behind flowering trees and tranquil ponds—a paradise with hidden teeth.
From a high balcony carved into an obsidian tower, Jian Wu leaned over the rail, a crooked smile on his face. So it begins…
Far from the festive halls and bright lanterns, in a forest thick with black pines and red-leafed ferns, something stirred. Fog hugged the roots like a lover's grip. And from its center stepped a figure cloaked in black, each footstep silent, each breath sending ripples through the spiritual air. His aura beat like a war drum. The mist fled his presence.
Back inside, the new students were ushered into a wide, high-ceilinged hall, its glass chandeliers swaying with gentle flickers of firelight. Floating lanterns moved lazily, casting long shadows that danced between carved marble pillars.
The mood was cheerful—but something was off. Like perfume hiding the scent of blood.
Mike's team had barely stepped in when they felt it—an undercurrent of hostility.
Seniors stood in loose clusters by a side wall. Their uniforms were sharp, their postures relaxed—but their eyes gleamed with amusement.
"Looks like we've got fresh meat," someone sneered.
Team A's leader stepped forward cautiously. "We're new here. You don't have to—"
"You think we care?" a tall youth barked, arms crossed.
Suddenly, the air shifted as heavy footsteps approached.
A girl emerged from the crowd. Slender, confident, her red sash tied carelessly around her waist. She strolled forward, arms loose, eyes blazing with intoxicated arrogance.
"We're the Drunkers Team," she said, grinning. "And we adore picking on weaklings."
Feng Jian's expression twisted. "What the hell did you just say?"
Mike stepped forward, his boots tapping softly on the marble. "Let me."
Feng Jian turned. "Mike—"
"I said I'll handle it." Mike's tone was calm, but something flickered behind his eyes.
Facing the seniors, he offered a faint bow. "I'm Mike. Fan Zhe—10 Star. I'd like to know why your welcome is so… aggressive."
The girl chuckled, her braid swaying with her steps. "So you're Mike. Jian Wu spoke of you."
She cracked her knuckles, lightning rings humming faintly around her fingers. "Let's see if you're worth the story."
As the tension thickened, the lanterns above seemed to dim. All noise faded.
Only their eyes remained locked—Mike's calm and focused; hers gleaming with wild intent.
The air pulsed. The duel had not begun, but already… the battle had.