The moon hung low over the Eastern Marshlands, cloaked in drifting mist. On a rocky plateau ringed by spirit stones, a dozen figures gathered in silence, cloaked in shadows and secrecy. This was not a court of nobles, but a war council of outcasts.Yunlei stood at the center, the Edict scroll wrapped in starlight on his back. Beside him, Yunxian’s armor bore the sigil of a cause not yet born—a Kirin surrounded by lotus petals, blazing like the dawn.To their left, Elder Su of the Skyless Monks bowed, his eyes blind but seeing more than most. “We have waited a century for a spark. The Edict is more than prophecy—it is purpose.”To their right, General Ma Teng of the Jade Rebels folded her arms. “If we move too soon, the Cloud Court will strike without hesitation. They’ve already tightened the borders across the Nine Peaks. Martial law.”“And the Flame Court has recalled its sentinels from the West,” growled Master Ren of the Stormforged Guild. “They know something’s coming.”“They alwa

The grand stairway leading up to the Imperial Sanctum had once symbolized unity. Hewn from golden stone veined with starlight essence, it had borne the footsteps of Sovereigns and sages for millennia. Today, it bore blood.Corpses littered the lower steps—Court enforcers in lacquered armor, rebels in mismatched gear, scattered like discarded offerings to a forgotten god. Smoke curled from fractured torches. The scent of scorched silk and cold steel hung thick.Yunxian stood at the base of the steps, wiping crimson from his sabers. His breathing was even, but his eyes were distant.“They keep coming,” he muttered. “Like ants guarding a corpse.”Yara emerged from the side passage, her cloak torn, one eye bruised. “That’s because the corpse still breathes. Barely.”From behind them, Yunlei ascended, his robes burned in places but his spirit unshaken. “Then we finish the job. Today, the Crimson Throne falls.”General Ma Teng and a dozen elite fighters from the Northern Reaches fanned out,

Dawn crept over the shattered skyline of the capital, spilling light across scorched rooftops and broken spires. Smoke still curled from distant fires, and the streets were quiet in a way that felt too fragile to last. But in the heart of the city—within the skeletal remains of the Ministry Hall—a gathering stirred with purpose.Yunlei stood beneath the open sky, facing a semicircle of figures seated in hastily erected chairs. This was no royal court. There were no banners, no gilded pillars, no whispered protocols. Only a circle of power formed by necessity, and the faint scent of ash.Yara stood behind him, arms folded, gaze sweeping the room. Beside her, Zhao Qixuan leaned on a crutch—his injuries bound but not healed. Yunxian paced slowly, hand resting on one of his sabers. Even now, he didn’t trust the silence.Representatives from the surviving sects and rebel factions sat before them: Mei of the Ash Sect, her gray robes soaked in morning dew; Master Liao of the Dawnblade Temple

The moon hung low and blood-bright as the group rode beneath the Whispering Pines, a haunted stretch of forest older than dynasties. Yunlei led the way, torchlight flickering against damp bark and stone-carved warding sigils barely visible beneath centuries of moss. This was the Bone Lantern Path—a forbidden route spoken of only in the whispers of exiled archivists and half-mad monks.“The air feels... thin,” Yara murmured.“It’s not the air,” Mei replied. “This path hasn’t seen living feet in decades. The forest remembers.”Zhao leaned heavily on his new staff, carved hastily from spiritwood. “Remind me again why we aren’t sending a detachment of warpriests instead?”“Because we’re not just looking for a fight,” Yunlei answered. “We’re looking for a key—something the Exiles want. And the last record of it led here.”They passed ancient trees warped with embedded bones—some human, others less identifiable. In the distance, ghostly lights shimmered like lost souls. The Bone Lanterns: d

The wind atop Mount Caelum howled like a grieving god. Frosted spires stretched toward the heavens, wrapped in centuries of ice and forgotten oaths. Beneath those frozen teeth lay the ruins of the Astral Chorus—a monastery built when the world was still raw and magic untempered.Yunlei stood at the foot of a broken staircase, his breath curling visibly in the air. Snow whipped around him, each flake a blade. His cloak, thick with seal-stitched layers, barely shielded him from the cold. Behind him, his team trudged through the whiteout—Yunxian with a shoulder wound from the Vault battle, Yara limping from a cracked shinbone, Zhao hollow-eyed but alive.“This place hates qi,” Mei muttered, her voice muffled through frostbitten lips. “It drinks it. I can’t feel my core.”“That’s the point,” Yunlei said. “The Astral Chorus trained monks in the art of spiritual silence. No illusions. No enhancement. Just raw truth.”Zhao pointed ahead. “There. The gate.”Twin statues of weeping monks flank