Ye Qiu stood amid the market's clamor, his dark eyes narrowed, his chest tight with long-simmering frustration. He hadn't meant for his muttered words to carry—hadn't intended them to spark anything beyond a fleeting release of his pent-up anger.
But when he spoke, half to himself, about Qin Ting's insufferable arrogance, the crowd around him snapped to attention, as if his voice had struck a resonant chord.
A sharp tension cut through the market's din. From the throng stepped a young man cloaked in a brocade robe, its exquisite embroidery shimmering like liquid gold over his frame. His chiseled features and haughty posture radiated noble lineage.
Tilting his chin upward, he gazed at Ye Qiu as if inspecting a speck of dust on his pristine sleeve. "Who do you think you are?" he sneered, his voice smooth yet cutting, like a dagger wrapped in silk. "How dare you tarnish the name of Young Master Qin Ting with that impudent, insoleant tongue?"
Ye Qiu's aura pulsed faintly, the subtle thrum of a Divine Wheel cultivator coiling around him like a wary serpent. The noble youth caught it—his eyes flickered with recognition—but it did little to shake his towering confidence. Though he lingered at the Primordial Pill Realm, a step below Ye Qiu, he carried the unshakable pride of a scion from one of the Eastern Wilderness's most ancient bloodlines.
Four guards shadowed him, their gray armor etched with glowing runes, each a seasoned Divine Wheel Realm master moving with the lethal precision of a predator pack. Beneath the youth's ornate sleeves, Ye Qiu glimpsed a faint shimmer—a concealed power, perhaps talismans or artifacts, poised like hidden venom.
Ye Qiu met the sneer with a glare that could freeze rivers, his voice dropping to a chilling edge. "Am I wrong? Qin Ting is nothing but a pampered child, propped up by his father's gilded throne. Emperor Qin's shadow may stretch far, but strip that away, and what remains? An arrogant, reckless fool who's never earned a single thread of the glory he parades."
The young man's scoff cut through the rising murmurs of the crowd, sharp and incredulous. "Nonsense! Utter drivel from a worm too dim to behold the sun's radiance! Young Master Qin Ting is a True Disciple of the Xuantian Sect—its destined Holy Son!"
He stepped closer, his voice swelling with zeal. "He towers over the youth of the Eastern Wilderness like a dragon soaring through the Nine Heavens. At eighteen, he ascended to the Divine Spirit Realm—a feat no prodigy in history has rivaled. And you, a pitiful ant groveling in the filth, dare to slander his name?"
The words hit Ye Qiu like a hammer on brittle glass, shattering his composure. "Eighteen… and already in the Divine Spirit Realm?" he murmured, his voice a fragile thread nearly lost in the market's noise. "No… it can't be true… can it?" Disbelief flickered in his eyes, stirring a tempest of doubt and astonishment within him.
He'd been gone too long—months in seclusion, wandering shadowed groves and scaling wind-scoured peaks. There, amid whispering pines and the deep pulse of untamed qi, he'd sought to refine his cultivation, to forge his spirit into something unbreakable.
The world's news had faded into a distant hum, its rumors no longer reaching him. Yet now, he learned that Qin Ting's name had blazed across the Eastern Wilderness during his absence. Reaching the Divine Spirit Realm at such a young age was a legendary feat, setting every tongue alight with awe—every tongue, it seemed, but his own.
The crowd seized his stunned silence, their laughter erupting like a vicious squall. Faces twisted with mirth, fingers pointed, voices tangled in mockery.
"Where'd this backwater runt stumble in from? Doesn't even know Young Master Qin Ting's in the Divine Spirit Realm!"
"Hah! Bet he crawled out of some dank mountain crevice, still reeking of moss and mud!"
"No, no—he's just a dullard with rocks rattling in his skull! Hahaha!"
The jeers pierced Ye Qiu's ears, each a barbed thorn sinking into his pride. Shame burned in his chest, mingling with fury that trembled through his clenched fists. He swept a venomous glare across the rabble—merchants haggling, cultivators posturing, gawkers hungry for sport—all blurring into a gallery of contemptuous grins.
Without a word, he turned sharply, his tattered cloak snapping behind him as he shoved through the crowd and stormed off. The laughter followed, swelling into a deafening roar as his silhouette faded down the dusty street. It gnawed at him, a ravenous beast fanning the embers of his resentment.
But it wasn't the brocade-robed youth or the faceless mob he loathed most. No, the true target of his seething ire burned brighter, inescapable.
'Qin Ting!' he raged inwardly, the name a jagged splinter in his mind. 'Always you! Time and again, it's your wretched shadow that drags me into this cesspit of shame! If I don't carve out retribution, I swear I'm no longer a man!'
The vow surged through him, a wildfire threatening to consume his restraint, when a soft voice—gentle as a breeze through bamboo—cut through the tumult. "These trials are but fleeting shadows, Ye Qiu," Elder Ling said, his tone unyielding yet kind, a lifeline pulling him back. "Every great soul has trudged through fire. Temper your heart, my apprentice."
Ye Qiu's breath caught, then eased, the storm within subsiding to a smoldering ember. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the faint warmth of the ring housing Elder Ling's spirit, and exhaled slowly. The old master was right. He'd let his emotions spiral, leaving him raw.
Yet why did Qin Ting's name unravel him so completely? It was as if an invisible thread bound them, tugging at his calm with every mention, flooding him with a hostility he couldn't grasp—a rival etched into his fate.
"Master," he said quietly, his voice steadier as he addressed the ring, "forgive me. My heart's still too brittle."
Within the artifact, Elder Ling's spectral form flickered, his lined face softening with pride. The boy's resolve endured, sharpened by self-awareness. So long as Ye Qiu could face his flaws, there was no cause for concern. The path ahead would forge him anew.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Far above Backridge City's dusty streets, beyond petty grudges and market taunts, Qin Ting stood atop the Auric Celestial Skyspire. The vessel gleamed like a fragment of the heavens, its gold-and-jade hull gliding through clouds with silent grace.
On the bridge, Qin Ting stood at the center, hands clasped behind his back, his presence a quiet tempest of majesty. His deep purple robes, adorned with golden threads, caught the light in fleeting glints. His sharp features, framed by dark hair swept into a flawless bun, exuded an otherworldly aura—regal, untouchable, like a celestial deity surveying a mortal realm.
At his side stood Nie You, a wiry man with hawkish eyes and a bow that spoke of unwavering loyalty. Beside him was Zhou Pingyue, her demeanor cool and composed, a blade ever poised to strike. Both awaited his command, their silence a testament to his authority.
Nie You stepped forward, his voice low and deferential. "Young Master, the sect has dispatched a greeting party to meet us. They await your arrival. What are your orders?"
Qin Ting's gaze drifted to the viewport, where Backridge City sprawled like a tapestry—red-tiled roofs and winding streets cradled by the mist-veiled peaks of the Lian Yun Range.
He inclined his head slightly, his tone smooth yet commanding. "Good. They're swift—I have little patience for delays. Bring us down."
The Xuantian Sect, a titan among the Eastern Wilderness's holy lands, held deep roots in the region's history, its influence vast. Backridge City bore its mark in a grand estate—a palace of white stone and gilded towers, both a stronghold and a symbol of power. Within its walls thrived hundreds of the sect's elite, governed by a stationed elder whose decrees were law.
Nie You gestured ahead as the Skyspire descended, his voice steady. "Young Master, that's our garrison below. It's yours to command."
Qin Ting's eyes settled on the palace, its silhouette dominating the city like a crown. Its grounds pulsed with protective wards, faint qi tendrils weaving through the air—a testament to the sect's grip. He nodded once, a flicker of approval in his impassive gaze.
The Skyspire landed flawlessly before the palace gates. Only after Qin Ting and his entourage stepped onto the earth, flanked by the towering Death Guards, did the vessel ascend, vanishing into the heavens like a departing deity.
A crowd had gathered, their murmurs swelling with anticipation. At their forefront stood an old man in flowing black robes, his silver hair tied back, his weathered face calm yet resonant with power, like a quiet thunder. A Divine Spirit Realm master, his presence was undeniable.
As Qin Ting descended the ramp, the Death Guards' synchronized steps parting the air, the elder advanced and clasped his hands in greeting. "Nephew Qin, your arrival honors Backridge City beyond measure. I am Liu Feng, the stationed elder here. It's my humble privilege to welcome you."
So this was Elder Liu, the grizzled steward of the sect's foothold in this corner of the world. Qin Ting regarded him briefly, his thoughts shifting beneath a cool exterior. "Elder Liu," he replied, his voice even, offering a slight nod.
The Skyspire's arrival had set the city ablaze with whispers: Qin Ting, True Disciple of the Xuantian Sect and son of Emperor Qin, had come. His name drew awe and envy alike. To young male cultivators, he was a legend, a summit beyond reach. To female practitioners, his striking visage, noble lineage, and prodigious talents wove him into a figure of mythic reverence—a radiant moon in their aspirations.
His renown in the Eastern Wilderness was a mountain too vast to climb, a truth that had left Ye Qiu bleeding beneath the market's scorn earlier.
Under Elder Liu's meticulous care, Qin Ting and his retinue settled into the palace with efficiency. As a True Disciple, Qin Ting claimed the highest chamber—a sanctum atop the tallest spire, its balcony offering a sweeping view of Backridge City and the rugged silhouette of the Lian Yun Range.
Elder Liu's attentiveness was no mere courtesy. Stationed in Backridge City, he held apparent authority, yet his post was a subtle exile—a punishment born of the sect's politics. Qin Ting's arrival was a rare opportunity to reshape his destiny.
He was no ordinary disciple; he was the banner of the Qin Family, a titan whose influence spanned continents. Whispers from allies within the sect had reached Elder Liu: this was a chance to reclaim power lost to factional strife.
Resolve burned in the elder's eyes, steady as tempered steel. He would not let this moment slip away.