Six months passed.
And the First Realm, long considered a hollow wasteland of dry qi and faded glory, began to stir with life. What had once been abandoned territory, thought to be beneath the attention of any serious cultivator, was now a battlefield of ambitions. The revival of the spiritual veins didn't go unnoticed. At first, only whispers moved across the lower regions—rumors of forests blooming overnight, beasts growing fangs of qi again, and old spirit mines glowing faintly in the dark. But rumors turned to reports, and reports turned to movement.
Clans returned.
From the fog-wrapped basins of the east came the Tian Family, their caravans lined with frost-tipped beasts and covered palanquins, speaking of ancient lands once theirs. From the jagged reaches of the far north descended the Black Hill Sect, dragging stone markers that bore the symbols of old treaties long forgotten. Even the Red Root Clan, whose banners hadn't touched the First Realm in over a century, returned in full force, declaring their rightful claim to a territory they had once fled in shame. These clans didn't come quietly. They arrived with guards, war caravans, and entire cultivation squadrons. And when they arrived, they found the First Realm already occupied—not by great sects, but by stubborn survivors. Families who had refused to leave. Local sects that had learned to live without qi, crafting meager techniques to scrape by. People who had buried the dead in lands that had long since stopped giving back.
Now those same lands were rich again. And everyone wanted a piece.
Arguments became disputes. Disputes turned to duels. Duels became battles. The East Wastes saw its first real clash when the Bone Vein Clan accused the Silver Root Temple of forging land titles and laid siege to a newly awakened spirit mine. In the Rainwood Plains, three minor sects engaged in a rolling skirmish over the Wild Stone Cavern, its interior now lined with fresh spiritual ore. By the third month, cultivators had begun dying daily. Farmers woke to find spirit swords buried in their courtyards. Young disciples disappeared during midnight patrols. No one knew who governed what anymore. Every stretch of land became a potential warfront.
The imperial courts took notice—but slowly. The Sun Court of Apollo, still fractured after the war and barely clinging to power, issued a decree: all returning clans were to report to their regional governors and provide original land claims for verification. The problem was, most of those governors had either vanished, sold their seats, or been replaced by the very clans they were meant to regulate. The decree dissolved into ink on sand. In the neighboring Yin Empire, the Steel Crown Clan moved with sharper intention, deploying sponsored sects to set up border camps and spiritual checkpoints—forming what they called peacekeeping zones, but were clearly meant to box in influence and keep the chaos under surveillance. Further north, the Three-Winged Empire declared the southern edge of the First Realm an "open frontier" and began construction of fortified cities lined with formation walls, ignoring protests from smaller realms entirely. Even the Benevolent Empire, once known for its measured hands and gentle approach to cultivation balance, began moving shadow units into key zones, claiming to be researching "qi rebirth phenomena," though their quiet occupation of several forests said otherwise.
What began as an awakening quickly turned into a land rush. Sect politics scrambled to keep up. Resources became bargaining chips. Old alliances cracked beneath the pressure. The First Realm was no longer forgotten—it had become the center of everything.
And no one knew how.
Some blamed an artifact. Others whispered that a long-lost Supreme had returned and stirred the veins awake. But a few, the quiet ones, began tracing it back. Not to an item, not to a god, but to a place. A single, unremarkable canyon in the central plains, where the spiritual lines first began to stir. Something had happened there. Something unnatural. Something deliberate.
In the sky above the growing tension, floating gently atop a sky turtle's shell carved with old sigils, an old man in white robes listened to it all. He sipped from his steaming cup of tea as he passed overheard conversation after conversation in his quiet flying tea house. Word of returning clans. Word of conflict. Word of the canyon. He smiled slightly behind the rim of his cup and murmured into the breeze, "It started in the canyon… didn't it?"
But far from the battles, politics, and clawing ambitions, the canyon remained quiet. And nestled near its edge, in a patch of land no one had thought valuable six months ago, stood the Mile estate—rebuilt, repurposed, and alive with the rhythm of hammers.
Smoke rose from open forges. Sparks danced in the wind like fireflies. The sound of metal striking metal rang from dawn till dusk, not with the chaos of war, but the discipline of craft. The Mile family had become blacksmiths.
Boar, now seventeen, worked quietly in the main forge, sleeves rolled up, sweat beading across his brow. With each swing of his hammer, molten metal bent without resistance. The flames obeyed his will, dancing to his rhythm, shaping spirit iron into smooth, balanced blades. It wasn't brute strength—it was mastery born from something deeper.
The Flame Lord, whose core he had first refined, was not just a tyrant of fire. He had been a master forgemaster, builder of legendary weapons and heavenly armaments. Boar had inherited a fragment of that knowledge. Enough to take molten ore and fold it with qi, enough to carve spirit lines into metal that glowed faintly when held. He hadn't just grown in strength—he had grown in skill.
His cultivation had also progressed. After weeks of internal refinement, meditating night after night in the canyon where the spirit veins ran deepest, he had reached Peak Stage Core Forging. His core now shone like a sun at the center of his cultivation sea, its spinning rhythm steady and powerful. Only one step remained before Spirit Climb.
But Boar didn't rush it.
Instead, he worked.
With the blades and tools forged under his hand, the Mile family had begun to earn real coin. The weapons weren't flashy, but they were honest—tougher, sharper, and more reliable than anything most minor sects could make themselves. Word spread fast. Traders arrived weekly. Orders stacked up. His uncle, once a drunk who had nearly sold the family fields, now oversaw inventory with purpose. His cousins had choices—some studying inscriptions, others apprenticing under nearby healers.
His little brother, Jalen, spoke constantly about joining a cultivator academy now that the family could afford the entrance fee.
The estate itself had changed too. What was once a falling-apart hut had grown into a proper compound—stone walls, a working well, gardens with spirit grass, and a forge that burned bright day and night. It wasn't grand. But it was proud.
And the best part? They had done it together.
Boar stood at the edge of the courtyard that evening, watching the sun dip behind the canyon. The wind carried a warm scent—iron, fire, and blooming grass. Behind him, his mother laughed at something his aunt had said. Tools clanged faintly in the distance. Chickens squawked near the herb beds.
He closed his eyes, feeling the steady hum of qi in the land.
Six months ago, this place had been on the edge of dying. And now, it lived.
Not because of power. Not because of violence. But because someone dared to mend something broken—and chose to build instead of burn.
Boar Mile said nothing. He just breathed, let the fire settle in his chest, and returned to the forge. There was more work to do.