Inscribing the Heavens

Chapter 2: The Edge of a Dry Branch

The whistling shiver of the willow branch cut clean through the courtyard’s heavy silence.

Murong Feng stared at the slender green switch in Lu Chen’s hand. Disbelief warred with fury across his face before settling into an icy sneer. At eighteen years of age, he was the proud heir of the Murong Clan, possessed of sharp, aristocratic good looks and high-born prestige. To be challenged by an unawakened youth with a tree branch felt like a deliberate slap across his noble face.

"A tree branch?" Murong Feng’s voice dripped with ridicule. "You plan to defend your tally with a dead reed from a mud ditch?"

"Not dead. It was picked fresh," Lu Chen replied mildly, rolling the supple wood over his knuckles. "Against the Murong Clan’s sword art, fresh wood is more than enough."

"Presumptuous stray!"

Murong Feng’s patience snapped. The three inches of steel he had already bared hissed as his wrist snapped forward. A pale, crystalline frost surged along the length of his blade, dropping the surrounding air into a sudden winter chill.

The crowd gasped.

Fourth Stage Qi Condensation—Frost-Biting Sword!

Even Instructor Zhao felt a cold prickle graze his neck. Murong Feng was not merely posturing; he was aiming to slice off Lu Chen’s right arm right here on the gravel pathway.

Before the frost-edged blade could travel half a yard, an explosive roar shattered the air.

"Die!"

Kuang Yan moved.

His monstrous frame did not lumber; it blurred like an avalanche breaking loose from a mountain crest. The black iron slab lashed to his back whistled through the air as his right hand gripped its hilt. At eighteen, his wild bronze physique radiated untamed power, and the displaced wind alone blew three nearby disciples off their feet.

CLANG!

A deafening metallic crash tore through the courtyard.

Kuang Yan hadn't even unsheathed the weapon—he had simply smashed the cloth-wrapped scabbard horizontally into the path of Murong Feng’s blade.

The frost Qi shattered into glittering powder.

Murong Feng let out a muffled grunt as a terrifying physical force surged through his weapon, jarring his wrists until skin split between thumb and forefinger. He was flung back three full steps, his boots gouging twin furrows into the limestone pavers before he caught his balance.

Blood rose bitter in his throat.

"You uncivilized animal!" Murong Feng hissed, his hand trembling with numbness. "You dare draw steel against an inner court noble?"

"You moved first," Kuang Yan rumbled. His eyes burned blood-red, thick with raw savagery. "Step forward again. I crush your skull."

The heavy black iron slab slammed into the granite ground, sinking four inches deep.

"Halt! Both of you, stand down!"

Instructor Zhao finally broke his stupor, leaping between them. His own body flared with Sixth Stage Qi Condensation power, his bronze rod trembling as he forced the two sides apart.

"Young Master Murong, the bylaws forbid lethal combat outside the assessment arena!" Zhao said hurriedly, sweat beading on his forehead. "If blood is spilled before the deacons arrive, the Disciplinary Hall will hold all of us accountable!"

Zhao turned his head toward Lu Chen and Kuang Yan, his jaw tight. "And you two! Drag that beast carcass out of the courtyard immediately. One more disturbance, and not even Master Gu will shield you from twenty cane strikes!"

Swallowing the bitter taste of blood, Murong Feng glared past Zhao at Lu Chen.

Lu Chen had not taken a single step back. He stood calmly behind Kuang Yan's broad shoulders, his willow branch resting against his thigh, his ethereal, sculpted features as tranquil as frozen jade.

"Good. Very good," Murong Feng breathed, sheathing his sword with a sharp click. "Enjoy your three days of life, Lu Chen. On the assessment stage, weapons have no eyes, and bylaws do not stop a severed artery. Let us see if your savage dog can jump into the ring to save you."

Without waiting for an answer, Murong Feng spun around, his silk robes snapping in the wind as he stormed toward the inner pavilion.

The surrounding disciples exchanged fearful, eager glances before scattering like startled crows.

*

At the secluded eastern corner of Canglan Academy, hidden behind a dense grove of black bamboo, sat a dilapidated wooden compound.

This was the Eastern Medicine Pavilion—or what remained of it. Three years ago, Master Gu Tianxing was one of the three chief elders of the academy. But after suffering a mysterious meridian poisoning during a border expedition, his influence had dwindled, and six months ago he had sealed himself into a stone grotto behind the mountain to attempt a life-and-death breakthrough.

Since then, the Eastern Pavilion had become a forgotten corner of the academy. Weeds choked the stone paths, and dust gathered thick on the roof tiles.

For Lu Chen, however, it was the only quiet place in Border Cloud City.

Thump.

Kuang Yan dropped the Iron-Armored Rhinoceros into the rear stone shed, then walked over to the wooden bench under the eaves, breathing heavily. Fresh blood had soaked through the beast hides on his chest, staining his rough breeches.

Lu Chen brought a wooden basin of cold mountain water and a jar of black herbal salve from the shed.

"Sit," Lu Chen commanded.

Kuang Yan lowered his massive frame onto the bench, sitting rigid like an obedient war hound while Lu Chen cut away the shredded hides.

A jagged claw wound ran from Kuang Yan’s left collarbone down to his ribcage. The flesh was blackened at the edges, frosted with the venomous chill of a Tier-One Shadow Falcon.

"You fought a Shadow Falcon on the Black Hawk Cliff just for three stalks of grass?" Lu Chen’s voice was calm, but his fingers were precise and gentle as he cleansed the wound.

"Shadow Falcons nest near the Dragon Grass," Kuang Yan grunted, not flinching as the cold water touched the raw meat. "The grass needs falcon blood to sprout. I crushed its neck with a stone."

"And almost let its talons tear your lung." Lu Chen dipped his fingers into the black salve, spreading it evenly across the torn skin. A faint herbal scent rose into the cool air.

Two years ago in the Southern Border slave pits, Kuang Yan had been chained to an iron post facing starvation. Lu Chen bought his freedom with silver from Master Gu and guided Kuang Yan’s crude fists with three simple instructions to crush the pursuing thugs.

Since that day, Kuang Yan called him Brother. To the giant, there were no heavens, no gods, and no empire. There was only Lu Chen.

"My chest is cold not because of illness, Yan," Lu Chen said softly, applying clean linen strips around Kuang Yan’s chest. "It is cold because the things sleeping inside me are finally hungry."

Kuang Yan blinked, not understanding, but he nodded vigorously. "If they are hungry, I will hunt more beasts."

Lu Chen chuckled softly, tying off the bandage. "Rest. Eat the rhino meat once you skin it. Do not let anyone disturb me tonight."

Kuang Yan stood, bowed his head deeply, and picked up his skinning knife.

*

Inside his cramped bedchamber, Lu Chen sat cross-legged atop a worn straw mat.

Before him lay the three stalks of Blood-Nourishing Dragon Grass. Their leaves were crimson, shaped like serrated dragon scales, glowing with faint, pulsing veins of spiritual vitality.

Lu Chen closed his eyes.

He didn't need incense, chants, or complex breathing mantras. With a single thought, his consciousness descended straight into his sea of soul.

The void within him was boundless and silent.

In the center of that expanse, the Wordless Heavenly Scripture hung suspended in luminous majesty. Its jade-white pages were ancient beyond mortal reckoning, carved from an epoch that predated the current celestial heavens.

This morning, when Murong Feng had drawn his sword, the first page of the scripture had turned.

Now, as Lu Chen focused his gaze upon the open parchment, golden ripples spread across the jade surface like ink dropped into clear water.

Lines began to trace themselves onto the page.

Swish. Swish.

A golden humanoid silhouette materialized on the parchment, holding a slender blade of light. The silhouette executed a sword strike—the exact posture Murong Feng had unleashed this morning: the Frost-Biting Sword.

As the figure struck, words of fire ignited beneath its feet:

Technique: Frost-Biting Sword.

Origin: Mortal Low-Tier, Murong Clan Ancestral Art.

Flaws: Thirty-six structural errors. Force circulation broken at the elbow; cold Qi stagnates in the yin meridians, cutting off the rebound; blade angle leaves the right flank completely exposed.

Lu Chen watched the golden silhouette calmly.

Then, the golden light flared. The scripture began to rewrite the stance.

Lines of energy shifted across the silhouette’s meridian pathways. The clumsy, frozen stagnation vanished, replaced by an ethereal, flowing current that resembled moonlight drifting across an autumn lake. The blade’s trajectory altered by a mere three inches, transforming a crude slash into an inescapable, sovereign decapitation strike.

Revised: Moon-Cleaving Frost Intent.

Rank: Earth-Tier Peak.

Execution: Perfected.

A complete martial art, preserved by the Murong Clan for five centuries, had been dismantled, purified, and elevated into a lethal masterpiece in less than ten breaths.

This was the power of the Wordless Scripture. Any martial art, law, or formation entering Lu Chen’s eyes was stripped of mortal impurities and restored to the Great Dao.

"Earth-Tier..." Lu Chen murmured within his thoughts. "In this tiny border town, an Earth-Tier sword art is enough to start a war between dynasties."

He opened his physical eyes.

He reached out, crushed the three stalks of Blood-Nourishing Dragon Grass between his palms, and swallowed the raw crimson juice.

BOOM!

A scorching wave of heat erupted in his throat like molten bronze, racing violently down toward his dantian. For an ordinary cultivator at the First Stage of Qi Condensation, swallowing raw Dragon Grass without refining it into a pill would scorch their inner organs.

But the moment the violent heat reached Lu Chen’s chest, the dormant bloodline deep inside his marrow stirred.

It was not a beast bloodline, nor an elemental gift from heaven. It was the Primordial Dao Origin Bloodline—an ancient lineage butchered and erased by the eight parasitic sovereigns who had slaughtered the original Heavenly Dao. Its embers had slept in his veins, waiting for the scripture to open.

Humm—!

The scripture hummed like a distant temple bell.

The violent crimson heat of the Dragon Grass was instantly subdued. The unruly medicinal energy was pulverized into microscopic strands of golden mist, flowing smoothly into Lu Chen’s bones, flesh, and meridians.

His skin took on a faint, translucent jade sheen. The chill that had lingered in his chest for three years began to recede, replaced by a deep, surging tide of primeval vitality.

Crack. Crack.

Tiny sounds echoed from his spine, like dry bamboo snapping under fresh snow.

First Stage Qi Condensation.

Second Stage Qi Condensation.

Third Stage...

The barriers holding ordinary disciples back for months shattered in minutes. His physical strength surged exponentially—ten thousand jin, fifteen thousand, twenty thousand jin...

By the time the midnight moon hung high above the black bamboo grove, Lu Chen exhaled a long breath of grey, turbid mist. The mist shot across the room like an arrow, punching a clean hole through the wooden wall before dissipating into the night breeze.

He opened his eyes. Within his pupils, two golden characters formed and vanished like fading stars:

All Laws.

Lu Chen raised his right hand.

On the wooden table beside his bed, the willow branch lay in the moonlight. He did not touch it, yet with a single twitch of his index finger, the branch trembled. A sliver of imperceptible sword intent leaked from the green tip, slicing a fallen bamboo leaf ten paces away cleanly in half.

"Three days," Lu Chen whispered to the quiet room, his lips curving into a cold smile. "Murong Feng... do not disappoint me."