Chapter — The Road to the Crucible
The wind off the western mountains was sharp enough to cut skin.
Lan Xian still bore the wounds of yesterday's battle, but Xiao Feng no longer stood within its walls. At dawn, he and Chen Hao had slipped past the east gate, their footsteps echoing softly on the spirit-etched stones. The city watched them go in silence—every rooftop shadow, every flicker of lantern light carrying a hundred unasked questions.
The road west was not one of convenience. It was one of trials.
Between Lan Xian and the Aetherion Empire lay the Sea of Glass a desert and the Nine-Fold Pass, a fortress carved into living mountains by hands no mortal could claim.
Chen Hao walked ahead, cloak drawn close, his sword balanced against his shoulder. "You're quiet," he said without turning.
"I am listening," Xiao Feng replied. His blind eyes were fixed forward, but his hearing reached farther than sight could ever travel.
"To what?"
"The road. The sky. The ones who think they follow without being seen."
Chen Hao stiffened. He had felt the weight in the air too, but hearing it spoken aloud made it heavier. "Zhao Han's men?"
"No," Xiao Feng said simply. "Something older."
They did not speak again for hours.
By midday, the horizon split into shards of light sunlight bouncing off dunes so smooth they looked like they had been poured from molten glass. The heat shimmered above them, turning the air into liquid.
The Sea of Glass.
Legends called it the place where a celestial beast had fallen in the First Age, Every grain here was sharp, every dune a blade.
Chen Hao tied a strip of cloth across his mouth. "Two days to cross if we move fast. Longer if the storms hit."
"Storms won't touch us," Xiao Feng said.
"You sound sure."
"I am."
When Chen Hao looked back, the air behind them seemed… wrong. A faint distortion shimmered, like heat waves—but the temperature had dropped. Cold. And then it was gone.
The first night in the desert was not quiet.
They camped between two jagged spires of crystal that hummed faintly in the wind. Chen Hao sharpened his blade, the sound ringing like chimes. Xiao Feng sat cross-legged, his summons circling the perimeter in silent patrol Baihu's glowing eyes scanning the dunes, Long Shuang's shadow sliding like ink along the sand, Yuan Lei roosting above, feathers catching moonlight.
Chen Hao broke the silence. "The Celestial Crucible," he began, "I've heard the stories since I could hold a sword. It's not just combat. It's… choice. The trials change for each participant. What you see, what you face it's drawn from your own path. It knows where to cut you deepest."
"I know," Xiao Feng said.
"No, you don't." Chen Hao's voice hardened. "There's a reason most who enter never return. It's not because they were weak. It's because the Crucible doesn't kill you. It changes you. And some things… you can't come back from."
Xiao Feng's expression didn't shift, but inside, a fragment of the Abyss whispered in agreement.
The second day brought wind.
Not ordinary wind—this was the breath of the Glass Storm. A wall of spinning crystal shards rose in the west, glittering under the sun.
Chen Hao cursed. "We can't outrun that."
"We don't need to," Xiao Feng said, rising to his feet. He touched the sand with his bare palm, and sigils rippled outward, forming a dome of pale light.
The storm hit like a beast's roar, shards clanging against the barrier. For hours it raged. Within the light, Xiao Feng sat still, his mind wandering to the black tower he had seen in his vision.
The Veil will break… Seal it, or let it rise.
The words were carved into him now. Not a warning. A demand.
When the storm passed, they stepped out into a world remade. The dunes had shifted, burying their old path. And ahead—carved into the mountains like the jaws of some colossal beast—was the Nine-Fold Pass.
A fortress without banners.
It was not Aetherion's gate yet, but the empire's shadow began here.
Two guards in bronze lamellar armor stood before the gate, halberds crossed. Their eyes were cold, their stances perfect. "State your purpose."
Chen Hao held up the crimson-sealed scroll. The guards stiffened, then stepped aside.
As they passed under the first archway, Xiao Feng's skin prickled.
The pass wasn't just stone. It was alive. The walls whispered—not with voices, but with memory. Every challenger, every victory, all carved into the marrow of this place.
By the time they crossed the ninth arch, the air had grown heavier, charged.
They emerged into the empire's heartland by dusk. The difference was immediate—Aetherion did not sprawl like other realms; it ascended.
Cities clung to the sides of mountains, their towers piercing cloud. Bridges of gold-lit glass spanned valleys so deep the bottom could not be seen. Spirit eagles and skyships drifted overhead, banners trailing in the wind.
And far to the west, a glow in the clouds.
"Solstice Crown," Chen Hao said softly.
It looked less like a city and more like a star. Spires of jade and moonstone caught the light, the whole city wrapped in a halo of pale fire.
"The Crucible," Xiao Feng murmured, "is awake."
They reached the outer district by nightfall. The streets were filled with arrivals warriors in armor etched with sect crests, robed scholars carrying talismans, even beast tamers leading spirit beasts the size of houses.
Some turned to watch them pass. Most looked away quickly.
Chen Hao led them toward what seemed to be an ordinary gate in the lower quarter a heavy wooden door set into plain stone walls. It looked too simple, too small, to be the entrance to anything of worth.
Yet dozens of cultivators stood around it.
Some were leaning on spears, some standing with arms crossed, but all of them were murmuring to one another.
"This can't be the arena," one scoffed. "The Crucible is supposed to be carved of silver and light this is nothing."
"They're keeping the real entrance sealed," another said, "until the first call."
The low hum of conversation stopped when Xiao Feng and Chen Hao stepped into view.
A few cultivators straightened.
Others exchanged glances.
"That's him," someone muttered.
"The blind beast summoner."
"The one who walked out of the Abyss."
"I heard he shattered Zhao Han's spears without moving a step."
"That's just rumor," another said, though his voice held doubt. "No one returns from the Abyss whole."
Yet among them were some whose eyes did not hold skepticism, but something sharper. Recognition. Respect.
A tall woman in a red mantle inclined her head slightly toward Xiao Feng. A swordsman with storm-grey hair whispered to his companion, "If he's truly what they say, we may finally have someone who can challenge the old names."
And from the shadows, a deep voice said, almost to itself
"…Or break them entirely."
The air grew heavier, charged not with open hostility but with expectation.
The Crucible had not yet begun.
But the watching had.