The Xuantian Sect's palace rested atop Backridge City, its jade-tiled roofs shimmering softly under the late afternoon sun. A long, dark shadow spilled over the bustling streets below, like a dragon in quiet repose. Since Qin Ting's arrival days ago, the sect's towering gates had become a crucible of ambition and intrigue.
A relentless stream of visitors filled the outer courtyard—disciples from rival sects in embroidered silks that glowed with faint qi, heirs of noble clans flanked by retainers bearing crests of ancient lineage, and rogue cultivators with weathered faces etched by years of solitary struggle.
Each carried their pride and offerings—rare silk-bound scrolls or spirit stones radiating inner light—in a fervent bid for Qin Ting's elusive favor. The air thrummed with murmured boasts, the rustle of fine fabrics, and the soft clink of treasures, weaving a vivid tapestry of power, yearning, and desperation.
Inside the grand hall, Qin Ting presided over this chaos from a throne of polished black jade, its silver-veined surface catching the flickering torchlight. His presence was a silent storm, exuding unshakable power. His eyes, sharp as honed steel and unreadable as a storm-cloaked sea, scanned the procession with an enigmatic calm that unnerved even the boldest petitioners.
As the day's final guest—a florid merchant stammering promises of exclusive trade routes and bowing hastily—scurried out, a heavy stillness settled. Only the soft crackle of incense, curling upward from twin phoenix-shaped braziers flanking the throne, broke the silence. Their bronze wings glinted faintly in the dim light.
Nie You approached, his measured steps echoing on the gleaming stone floor. His voluminous black robes whispered with each movement, and his angular, stern face bore subtle creases of a man who had seen much but revealed little.
He knelt briefly, a curt gesture of habit, before rising to meet Qin Ting's piercing gaze. "Young Master," he said, his voice low and tinged with unease despite his composed demeanor, "it seems the other disciples have stumbled into trouble."
Qin Ting's brow arched slightly, a spark of intrigue flaring in his dark eyes. "Oh?" The syllable hung in the air, light yet heavy with unspoken intent. He leaned forward, fingers steepled, a faint, ambiguous smile tugging at his lips—an expression that could signal curiosity or the prelude to calamity. "Do tell…"
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Meanwhile, the sun sank low over Backridge City, casting amber and gold across the rooftops in a fleeting, warm glow. The city had pulsed with new life in recent months, its markets thriving on fresh trade routes. Whispers told of rare treasures unearthed from the wild Eastern Wilderness.
For the Xuantian Sect's young disciples, the city's vibrant energy was a siren's call they could no longer ignore. Confined within the sect's sprawling residence—a maze of jade corridors, echoing halls, and tranquil courtyards—their spirits chafed against the monotony of seclusion. Days of meditation and relentless blade drills had dulled their edges, their untamed qi simmering restlessly beneath their skin.
It started with a murmur—perhaps from Mei Lin, her sharp voice cutting the stifling silence, or Zhang Wei, his quiet brooding hiding a deep yearning for action. "Why not a stroll?" someone suggested, the words igniting like a spark in dry tinder.
No one claimed the idea, but it spread swiftly. Soon, a band of eight disciples slipped past the palace's imposing gates into the chaotic heart of Backridge City.
The marketplace unfolded before them, a vivid tapestry of color and disorder. Stalls sagged under heaps of spirit fruits, their glossy skins glistening with dew-like qi. Hawkers shouted over the clatter of spirit stones, peddling talismans pulsing with latent power.
The air carried a heady mix of scents—charred meats sizzling, crushed herbs sharp and pungent, the metallic tang of forging arrays. The crowd flowed like a living river, vibrant yet orderly, until the Xuantian disciples arrived.
Their midnight-blue robes, billowing as they moved, marked their storied lineage. The throng parted instinctively, merchants pausing mid-haggle, children tugging at their mothers' sleeves with wide-eyed curiosity.
Eyes followed their every step—some filled with awe, others narrowed with trepidation. A single misstep near these prodigies could unravel a family's fragile fortune. Their power was an unsheathed blade, its edge gleaming in the open air.
Whispers trailed them like shadows: "Xuantian Sect…" "Keep your distance…"
Xu Hao led the group, his broad frame a steady anchor amid his restless companions. At twenty-three, he bore the marks of past journeys—faint scars on his knuckles, a small nick above his brow—and the quiet authority of the Divine Wheel Realm. His warm smile softened his commanding presence as he guided them through the maze of stalls.
"That's a Jade Marrow Elixir," he said, nodding toward a vial of shimmering green liquid cradled by a merchant. "Good for strengthening bones, if you can stomach the bitterness."
"Over there—Whispering Wind Talismans. Lazy man's messenger service." Laughter rippled through the group, easing the tension in their shoulders. Their spirits lifted with the camaraderie.
Then a voice—high, bright, brimming with wonder—broke the crowd's rhythm. "What is that?!" Mei Lin, small and wiry, stood on her toes, amber eyes fixed on a modest stall tucked between a spice vendor and a cloth merchant.
The group turned, drawn by her outstretched finger. Beneath a frayed, patched canopy, a blood-red glow pulsed like a heartbeat. Its aura curled through the air—enigmatic, ancient, heavy with promise.
Xu Hao stepped closer, his breath catching as the shape sharpened. "Crimson Arc Vitality Herb," he murmured, his voice a reverent hush that seemed to still the world.
"Crimson Arc Vitality Herb?" Zhang Wei's voice cracked, his usual stoicism giving way to excitement. A thrill raced through the group like wildfire.
Mei Lin's braids swayed as she craned for a better view. Chen Yu, the youngest, pushed forward, his sullen demeanor replaced by awe. The herb was a legend made real, its jagged ruby leaves glinting with otherworldly vitality.
Tales claimed it grew only in blood-soaked soil—forgotten battlefields, graves of fallen cultivators—its roots drinking their sacrifice. For those striving toward the Divine Wheel Realm, it was a holy grail: qi fortified, blood enriched, meridians aligned with celestial rhythm. Even for Xu Hao, whose Divine Wheel spun steadily, its power to refine his foundation was a rare boon. To the Primordial Pill disciples behind him, it was a shimmering path to ascension.
'Seven hundred spirit stones,' Xu Hao thought, steadying his racing pulse as he gauged its worth. 'Maybe eight. It's worth far more in the sect vaults.'
He turned to the stall owner, a wiry man with a sun-carved face
System: a face weathered by worry, keeping his tone even. "How much for the Crimson Arc Vitality Herb?"
The man's eyes flicked to the Xuantian robes, dread shadowing his features. 'They could demand it for free,' he thought, his throat tightening. He'd dealt with rogue cultivators before—wanderers trading scraps—but these were no ordinary strays. Their presence pressed against him, a silent threat cloaked in midnight silk.
He licked his dry lips, fumbling for a price, when Xu Hao spoke again. "We won't fleece you," he said, his voice clear and steady above the market's hum. "Seven hundred spirit stones. Fair?"
Relief flooded the man's face, his shoulders sagging as if unburdened. Seven hundred was a windfall—he'd braced for five hundred, enough to sustain him for months. "More than enough, honorable one! More than enough!" he exclaimed, nodding eagerly, his patched cap slipping atop his thinning hair.
Xu Hao nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Seven hundred was generous, but the herb's rarity transcended price—hoarded by sect elders or traded for blood in the Wilderness's black markets. Finding it here, in Backridge's dusty sprawl, was a stroke of fortune he couldn't let slip. The Xuantian Sect's wealth flowed endlessly; why haggle when all could gain?
He reached for his pouch, the spirit stones clinking softly, when a voice—lazy, insolent, sharp as a drawn blade—cut through the air. "Hold on. I'll take that Crimson Arc Vitality Herb. Eight hundred spirit stones."
The crowd gasped, a collective breath stilling the market's pulse. Heads turned, eyes wide with shock and morbid thrill. Who dared challenge the Xuantian Sect? Silence fell, brittle as glass, as a second group emerged from the throng. Their auras rolled forth like a gathering storm—deep, resonant, each figure a honed weapon of qi and intent.
Ash-gray robes trimmed with gold marked them as Yuanshi Gate Sect disciples, a faction rising in the Eastern Wilderness. Not yet Xuantian's equal, but bold enough to bare their fangs. The speaker stepped forward, his gait languid, his smirk a crescent of defiance.
Song Tong—Xu Hao knew him instantly. A prodigy whose blade matched his temper, his name a growing shadow across the region. His dark hair hung loose, framing eyes glinting with challenge. His presence thrummed with the promise of violence.
The stall owner's gaze darted between the groups, joy curdling into panic. 'Caught between titans,' he thought, his hands trembling.
Xu Hao's smile vanished, his voice glacial. "Do the Yuanshi Gate teach no manners? First come, first served—surely even you grasp that courtesy."
Song Tong's smirk widened, his tone dripping mockery, sharp as venom-laced honey. "Ha! Commerce bows to the deepest pockets, not your charming traditions. Eight hundred. Deal."
Xu Hao ignored him, his stare pinning the stall owner. "Make the trade. Now."
Sweat beaded on the man's brow, his fingers hovering hesitantly toward the herb. He wanted to obey—Xuantian's shadow loomed largest here—but Song Tong's voice slithered in, low and venomous. "Think carefully, old man. Who are you selling that herb to?"
The stall owner froze, his hand shaking like a leaf in a tempest. A rogue cultivator who'd risked death to harvest these herbs from a ruin reeking of blood and sorrow, he was nothing now, pinned between powers he couldn't defy. 'I should've stayed hidden,' he thought, dread tightening his chest.
Xu Hao's temper flared, a spark in his resolute gaze. "Song Tong, you've got nerve, strutting before the Xuantian Sect."
Song Tong's smirk faded, his face hardening. "Others may cower before your sect's name, Xu Hao, but the Yuanshi Gate kneels to no one—not even you."
The air crackled with unspoken violence. Mei Lin's fingers twitched toward her sword, Zhang Wei's stance widened, and the crowd edged back, sensing the storm about to break.
The stall owner's nerve shattered; with a choked gasp, he shoved the herbs into his storage pouch and bolted, his ragged cloak flapping as he vanished into the throng.
Xu Hao didn't stop him. His gaze locked onto Song Tong, the market fading—chatter, colors, scents—all swallowed by the cold fury coiling in his chest. 'This isn't about the herb anymore,' he thought, his hand resting on his sword hilt, fingers brushing the worn leather grip. 'It's a challenge.'
His voice dropped to a whisper, sharp as a blade's edge. "It seems you want to settle this the hard way."