Inscribing the Heavens

The morning bronze bell of Canglan Academy tolled nine times, its heavy resonance rolling past the limestone parapets of Border Cloud City and echoing into the jagged valleys of the Blood Mist Mountains.

To the east, dawn cracked like fresh amber, spilling thin autumn chill across the academy’s central training courtyard.

Two hundred outer disciples were already drenched in sweat. Their wooden practice swords whistled in crisp, unison arcs, biting into the frosted air with sharp exhalations.

"Sink the hips! Ground the rear heel before the strike leaves the shoulder!"

Instructor Zhao strode between the rows, a blackened ironwood rod tucked beneath his muscular arm. His weathered face was set into an unyielding scowl.

"In three days, the Autumn Assessment begins," Zhao barked, his voice carrying the rasp of dry gravel. "Deacons from the provincial sect branches and elders from the city’s noble clans will sit upon the viewing pavilions. If you swing your blades like drunken farmers swinging hoes, you will not merely lose your academy allowance—your student tallies will be shattered, and you will be cast out of Border Cloud City to feed the mountain beasts. Form up! Again!"

"Hah!"

The roar of two hundred youths rose in unison, wooden blades shivering as faint wisps of white spiritual energy clung to the edges of the stronger students' strikes.

Except for one corner of the courtyard.

Past the perimeter of neatly laid flagstones, where the granite gave way to creeping wild mint and the languid trickle of a hillside brook, stood an ancient, crooked weeping willow.

Beneath its trailing green tendrils, sprawled atop a wide, sun-warmed slab of grey slate, lay a young man.

A frayed conical straw hat was tipped forward over his face, shielding his eyes from the rising sun. A slender green reed dangled loosely between his lips, bobbing up and down in rhythm with his slow, effortless breathing. While every youth within fifty paces strained their tendons until their veins bulged, he looked as though he were an idle fisherman waiting out an overcast afternoon.

Ten paces away, an outer disciple named Lin Wu stumbled on his third consecutive forward lunge. His wooden sword wobbled, his balance tilting outward as his Qi hitched in his chest.

From beneath the straw hat came a soft, half-hearted murmur.

"Your left shoulder is raised two inches too high. When your Qi surges toward the wrist without settling in the lower dantian, you aren't cutting an opponent. You're simply begging someone to break your collarbone."

Lin Wu froze. His knuckles turned white on his sword grip, his face flushing crimson before twisting into pure venom.

He spun on his heel, glaring at the figure on the stone. "Lu Chen! You dare open your useless mouth to correct me?"

The courtyard nearby fell quiet. Several disciples lowered their training swords, smirks breaking across their faces.

"Ignore him, Brother Lin," one disciple sneered. "Why waste your breath on the academy’s greatest joke?"

"Three years," another muttered with open contempt. "He has sat on that very stone for three full years. Every single testing ritual, the spiritual stones don't even register a ripple from his soul. Even an old farm ox would have developed a spark of elemental Qi by now."

"If it weren't for Master Gu's old debt of honor and the protection of that wild brute Kuang Yan, the academy's disciplinary hall would have tossed him onto the street two winters ago."

Whispers and mocking chuckles rippled across the yard.

Under the straw hat, Lu Chen did not stir. He didn't tense, didn't snap back, and didn't even shift his crossed legs. He merely reached up with one pale, slender hand, casually adjusting the brim of his hat so the morning breeze could reach his neck.

Nobody in Border Cloud City understood what lay behind his stillness.

Deep inside Lu Chen's sea of consciousness, an endless void of quiet mist stretched beyond perception. Suspended in the center of that boundless dark was a scroll of jade-white parchment, pristine and unblemished, unbound by cords and untouched by age.

The Wordless Heavenly Scripture.

For three years, the ordinary spirit-testing stones of Canglan Academy had remained cold and lifeless whenever Lu Chen touched them. The deacons thought his meridians were withered, his soul a hollow void.

They did not know that his soul was not empty—it was an ocean so bottomless that a mortal testing stone could not even measure the surface spray. His veins carried the suppressed, dormant embers of a lineage long erased from the imperial annals. Any thread of spiritual energy he gathered was pulled inward, silently feeding the ancient scripture as it slowly awakened from its epoch-long slumber.

To the world, he was an unawakened sluggard.

To the scripture, the clumsy martial arts practiced across this courtyard were nothing more than crude drawings scrawled in the dirt by children.

"Enough chatter!"

A cold, arrogant voice cut through the courtyard like a draw of tempered steel.

The disciples stiffened, hastily stepping aside.

Walking along the covered gallery came a young man in pristine, sky-blue silk robes embroidered with silver cloud borders. At his waist hung an ornate scabbard wrapped in ray skin, adorned with a tassel of green jade. He walked with measured, haughty strides, his head held high and his chin angled with the natural superiority of a predator among sheep.

Murong Feng.

Seventeen years old, eldest scion of the Murong Clan—one of the three ruling merchant families of Border Cloud City—and the undisputed number-one prodigy of the outer academy. Just last month, he had broken through to the Fourth Stage of the Qi Condensation Realm, manifesting faint frost vapors along his blade.

Instructor Zhao immediately bowed his head with deference. "Young Master Murong."

Murong Feng didn't even spare Zhao a glance. His narrow, haughty eyes locked directly onto the slate stone under the willow tree.

"Every time I walk into the martial grounds, the air smells of rotten weeds," Murong Feng said smoothly, coming to a halt five paces from the brook. "Instructor Zhao, why is this parasite’s name still on the roster for the Autumn Assessment?"

Instructor Zhao hesitated, lowering his voice. "Young Master Murong, the registry was authorized by Eastern Pavilion Master Gu three years ago. Without Master Gu's personal seal, the Disciplinary Hall cannot formally strike his name."

"Master Gu has been in closed-door seclusion for half a year," Murong Feng replied, a disdainful sneer playing on his lips. "And when he emerges, he will not care about a stray dog he pitied years ago. Canglan Academy has only thirty quota tokens for the provincial martial tournament this year. Giving even a single testing tally to someone who cannot produce a wisp of Qi is an insult to the Murong Clan, who donates thirty thousand silver taels to this courtyard every spring."

Murong Feng stepped forward, his leather boots crunching sharply against the gravel.

"Lu Chen. Remove your tally yourself, pack your rags, and leave Canglan Academy before sunset. If you force my hand during the trials three days from now, wooden swords will not be used. Accidents on the ring are common, and broken meridians do not mend easily."

Silence fell over the grounds. Many disciples looked on with schadenfreude, eager to watch the academy's famous sluggard finally get crushed beneath the boot of a real clan scion.

Under the straw hat, Lu Chen let out a slow, quiet breath.

"Young Master Murong," Lu Chen said, his tone dry and unhurried. "The morning is cool and the wind is pleasant. If you have nothing better to do than bark across a brook, why not go practice your clan's Frost-Biting Sword? Yesterday on the third platform, when you linked the seventh stance to the eighth, your footwork dragged by half an inch. If your clan elders saw that, they might ask for their thirty thousand silver taels back."

The entire courtyard sucked in a collective breath.

Murong Feng’s face darkened instantly to the color of iron. His hand dropped onto the hilt of his sword, and a crisp, metallic clink rang out as three inches of cold steel cleared the scabbard, radiating a biting mist of white frost.

"You insolent dog," Murong Feng whispered, his killing intent flashing bare. "You dare speak of my clan's legacy?"

Before he could take another step, the earth beneath their feet gave a sudden, violent shudder.

THUD.

A heavy tremor rolled through the granite pavers. A flock of mountain sparrows burst into frantic flight from the academy pines.

THUD. THUD.

The rhythm was heavy, deliberate, and bone-rattling, like an ancient war drum approaching from the mountain pass. The temperature in the courtyard seemed to drop as a towering shadow fell across the outer stone gate.

"Who..." Lin Wu stammered, clutching his wooden blade.

The double doors of the courtyard groaned as a colossal figure stepped through.

It was a young man, barely eighteen, standing nearly eight feet tall. His torso was wrapped in coarse beast hides, exposing shoulders as thick and corded as ancient tree trunks. His skin was bronze, scarred in a dozen places by claws and tusks, and across his back rested an enormous, crude slab of unrefined black iron, bound by thick hemp ropes.

Slung over his left shoulder was the colossal, bloodied corpse of a Tier-One Iron-Armored Rhinoceros—a beast known in the Blood Mist Mountains for hides thick enough to turn iron arrows and horns capable of shattering city gates. Its head hung limp, fresh crimson blood dripping steadily onto the courtyard stones with every thudding step.

In his right hand, wrapped carefully in damp lotus leaves, were three pale-red mountain grasses shimmering with faint medicinal dew.

"K-Kuang Yan..." someone choked out in terror.

The disciples scrambled backward, tripping over one another to clear a path. Even Instructor Zhao’s scarred face paled slightly, his hand instinctively drifting to his waist.

Kuang Yan didn't look at any of them. His eyes were small, fierce, and clouded with the primal savagery of someone who had spent months fighting mountain tigers with his bare hands.

He marched straight through the courtyard, ignoring Murong Feng completely, and stopped directly in front of the slate stone beneath the willow tree.

BOOM!

With a careless flick of his arm, Kuang Yan hurled the two-ton beast carcass to the dirt. Dust and pebbles sprayed in all directions.

Then, the terrifying giant fell to one knee, lowering his head.

His rough, rumbling voice sounded like grinding stones, stripped of all ferocity, leaving behind only raw, unshakeable devotion:

"Brother. I found them. Three stalks of Blood-Nourishing Dragon Grass. High on the black cliffs."

He held the lotus leaves out with both hands, steady and careful, as if offering a treasure to an emperor.

The straw hat tilted back.

Lu Chen sat up. His face was revealed to the morning sun—clean features, pale skin, and a pair of pitch-black eyes that looked like deep, ancient wells. There was neither arrogance nor fear in those eyes; only a profound, bottomless calm.

He glanced at the blood dripping down Kuang Yan’s forearm, noticing a ragged gash across his sworn brother's collarbone.

Lu Chen’s relaxed expression faded slightly. A subtle coolness settled into his gaze.

"I told you three days ago," Lu Chen murmured, reaching out to take the herbs. "You didn't need to risk the Black Hawk precipice. My condition cannot be cured by third-grade mortal herbs."

"It warms the chest," Kuang Yan grunted obstinately, keeping his head down. "You coughed when the first frost arrived. If it warms you even for an hour, I’ll tear down the entire cliff."

A faint, helpless smile returned to Lu Chen's lips. He reached out and slapped Kuang Yan’s massive shoulder. "Stand up. You reek of beast blood."

Kuang Yan rose like an unshakeable iron tower, turning slightly to position his massive frame between Lu Chen and the rest of the courtyard.

Behind them, Murong Feng stood frozen. His knuckles were white against his scabbard, his pride stung raw. He was the young master of the Murong Clan, yet these two backwater outcasts had treated him as though he were nothing more than a stray dog barking at the roadside.

"Kuang Yan," Murong Feng spat, his voice trembling with suppressed fury. "You have brute force, but you are still just an uncivilized savage. Carrying a dead beast into the academy grounds violates three disciplinary codes. And you think you can shield this cripple forever?"

Kuang Yan’s hand casually drifted toward the black iron slab lashed to his back. The veins along his neck flared like angry vipers.

"Yan," Lu Chen said softly.

A single word, but Kuang Yan froze immediately, his murderous aura retreating back into his flesh.

Lu Chen swung his legs off the slate stone and stood. He was slender compared to Kuang Yan, wearing a faded scholar's robe with fraying cuffs, but as he stepped onto the grass, he stretched his shoulders with an easy, fluid grace.

He looked across the brook at Murong Feng.

"Young Master Murong," Lu Chen said, his voice carrying clearly through the silent courtyard. "You wish to strip my name from the Autumn Assessment?"

"That is correct," Murong Feng sneered, regaining his footing. "The testing platform belongs to cultivators. Trash without spirit roots has no place there."

Lu Chen smiled faintly.

He reached upward, casually snapping a slender, supple branch from the weeping willow above his head. With two fingers, he stripped away the pale green leaves, leaving only a smooth, flexible wooden switch about three feet long.

He flicked the willow branch lightly through the morning air. It produced a crisp, whistling hiss that sounded eerily like a drawn sword.

Within Lu Chen's sea of consciousness, the jade-white Wordless Scripture turned its first page with a silent, blinding flash of gold.

"Three days from now," Lu Chen said, twirling the green branch between his fingertips, his dark eyes meeting Murong Feng’s furious glare. "I will be standing on that platform. If the Murong Clan wants my tally..."

A trace of cold starlight flickered deep within his pupils.

"...come up and take it."