The sun hung high above the Dao Sect courtyard, casting long shadows across polished stone and glistening ponds. The atmosphere vibrated with anticipation, as dozens of disciples gathered, eyes sharp and bodies tense. Today was the Martial Assessment — a test of combat skill, agility, and tactical acumen. For Lin Dong, it was not merely a trial; it was a stage to measure how far he had risen from the weak boy who once stumbled through Yan City. Master Ling Xuan’s gaze swept across the courtyard. “Today, you will spar not with beasts, but with equals,” he announced. “The trials you’ve completed have shown mastery of the Seal and the elements. Now, we will see how you apply them in combat.” Disciples stepped forward, their stances radiating energy. Some wielded swords with lightning speed, others channeled elemental forces through their fists. Every motion shimmered with cultivated energy, precise and fluid. Lin Dong’s chest pulsed with the golden light of the Spirit Seal, his hands g

The morning sun cut through the mist that hung over the Dao Sect like a veil of silver. Lin Dong stood atop a ridge, gazing down at the sprawling forests and jagged cliffs that stretched beyond the mountains. The Dao Sect lay behind him, silent and majestic, its towers glinting in the light. Ahead, the world awaited — untamed, wild, and dangerous. Li Yan walked beside him, her eyes scanning the horizon. “Beyond these mountains,” she said softly, “lies the Wilderlands. Beasts, bandits, and rogue cultivators roam freely. Even someone of your skill must remain vigilant.” Lin Dong tightened his grip on the jade blade, golden light of the Spirit Seal pulsing faintly against his chest. “I’ve grown stronger,” he said quietly. “The Seal, the trials… they’ve prepared me. But I know the path ahead will be harder. I have to keep rising… or I won’t survive.” The first stretch of the Wilderlands was deceptive. Lush greenery covered the hills, the sound of distant waterfalls and birdsong masking

The Wilderlands stretched endlessly before Lin Dong — a scarred expanse of wild growth, desolation, and mist. The air was thick with ancient energy, heavy enough to make the lungs ache. He had been walking for hours, following the faint pull of the Spirit Talisman, the heirloom his father had left him. Its faint glow led him onward through cracked stone and whispering grass until the land itself seemed to bleed into shadow. Before him loomed the Bloodwood Grove — a forest not touched by time, but fed by it. The trees rose like titans, their bark deep crimson as if they had drunk centuries of blood. The canopy hung low and oppressive, veiling the stars. A faint red mist coiled between the roots, luminous and alive. Every breath Lin Dong drew carried a taste of iron, decay, and something older — something divine that had gone wrong. He paused at the treeline. Even the wind seemed to hesitate there. “So this is where it begins…” he murmured. For days now, he had been chasing whisper

The morning sun crept slowly across the Wilderlands, its pale gold light struggling to pierce the lingering haze left behind by the Bloodwood Grove. The world seemed momentarily still, but beneath that quiet, everything was shifting. At the heart of Yancheng Mountain — a vast city carved into living stone — the sect’s ancient observatory began to hum. A web of floating crystals circled the room like stars orbiting an unseen sun, each one glowing faintly as ripples of power echoed through the air. A group of elders stood in silence, their robes flowing like mist, their eyes turned toward the central mirror — a pool of liquid light that shimmered with distant visions. The reflection twisted, then sharpened. The image of a boy — bloodied, kneeling amid the ruins of a crimson forest — flickered across the surface. “That’s him,” murmured Elder Zhou, the keeper of divination. “The one the prophecy spoke of. The Spirit Talisman has chosen.” A younger woman, robed in silver and bound wi

The skies above Yancheng darkened long before the storm reached them. Heavy clouds rolled over the mountain peaks like a tide of shadow, their undersides flickering with threads of lightning. The wind howled through the temple spires, carrying the scent of rain — and something heavier. Something unnatural. Inside the Hall of Seers, torches flickered violently, though no draft touched them. The air was electric with tension. A cluster of elders sat in meditation, their qi coiling through the air like threads of silver. At the center stood Elder Zhou, staff pressed against the ground as he glared into the central scrying pool. The image rippling on the water’s surface was chaos itself — a flash of the Bloodwood Grove, shattered and scorched by light, then a vision of a young man’s silhouette, talisman blazing gold against the night. “It’s confirmed,” Zhou said, his voice a deep, thunderous calm. “The Talisman’s bearer has awakened. The Grove’s corruption was purged, but not destroyed