The morning sun bathed the Xuantian Sect, casting long shadows across stone courtyards where disciples buzzed with restless energy. Their voices clashed in a chaotic clamor, grating on Elder Zhou's patience. His piercing gaze, sharp as a frost-forged blade, swept over them, and with a single icy snort, he silenced the din. A heavy stillness settled over the crowd.
"What's the meaning of this racket?" His voice sliced through the air, cold and commanding. "Enough! Still your tongues and prepare yourselves. The Skyrunner awaits at Cloud Sea Pier."
The disciples froze, their eyes darting toward the sleek silhouette of the Skyrunner docked nearby. A marvel of craftsmanship, the silver-hued vessel gleamed faintly under the sun—a workhorse of the sect's fleet, its hull blending elegance and utility.
Beyond the sect's towering gates lay the Eastern Wilderness, a vast, untamed expanse stretching to the horizon. Jagged peaks pierced the sky, their summits veiled in mist, while shimmering rivers threaded through shadowed forests alive with whispers of wonder and peril. This boundless realm had cradled countless creatures and dynasties, their legacies rising and fading like waves in the annals of time.
The Xuantian Sect stood as an unshakable colossus, its dominion spanning hundreds of dynasties and a vast network of vassal states. Each year, these lands offered tributes—glittering spirit stones, fragrant herbs from hidden groves, and enchanted ores from the earth's depths—in exchange for the sect's protection. In return, the sect sent scouts to scour the territories for prodigies to bolster its ranks.
Qin Ting was one such prodigy, a scion of the illustrious Qin Family, a clan that pledged loyalty to the Xuantian Sect in name but wielded power as a near-equal. Their tribute flowed generously to the sect, yet much was funneled to Qin Ting, fueling his relentless rise in cultivation.
The rest secured the favor of sect leaders, ensuring his path remained clear. The Qin Family was no mere vassal; it was a force bound by tradition, its ambition burning as fiercely as their prodigy's own.
For short journeys—leaping valleys or soaring through skies—a cultivator's power sufficed. But this expedition targeted the Lian Yun Mountain Range, a mist-shrouded enigma far beyond the sect's heartland. Traversing such a distance alone would take months, draining even the hardiest disciple.
The Skyrunner, swift and tireless, could cross thousands of miles in a day, its hull slicing through clouds with the grace of a blade through silk. Such vessels, feats of ingenuity and wealth, were standard for a titan like the Xuantian Sect, though lesser sects could only dream of them.
As the disciples moved toward the pier, their robes rustling in the breeze, Qin Ting stepped forward. His presence parted the crowd like a river cleaving stone. A faint, confident smile curved his lips, and with a dismissive wave, he spoke, his voice smooth yet resonant.
"There's no need for the Skyrunner. The Lian Yun Mountains are too far, and even that ship might leave us lagging. The other sects have a days' head start. We'll take my Auric Celestial Skyspire instead."
His words sparked awe in the disciples' wide eyes. The Auric Celestial Skyspire! Whispers rippled through the crowd, excitement swelling in their chests. This was no sect-issued craft but Qin Ting's personal flagship, a radiant symbol of his status as the Qin Family's young master. The sect had granted him a Skyrunner upon his rise to True Disciple, but he'd dismissed it as inadequate. Why settle for less when his family had crafted a masterpiece?
The Skyspire was a wonder beyond compare. Its speed outstripped the finest Skyrunners, and its opulence fueled whispered legends. The disciples had only glimpsed it from afar—a golden silhouette shimmering on the horizon—and envied it. Now, the chance to board it sent a thrill through their veins.
'When the others hear we rode the Skyspire, they'll choke on their jealousy!' one disciple thought, a grin tugging at his lips as he imagined the scene back at the sect.
Even Elder Zhou, a man of iron resolve, couldn't hide the longing in his eyes. He'd heard tales of the Skyspire's creation—how the Qin Family had poured rivers of wealth into it, summoning master artificers and scouring the Eastern Wilderness for rare materials. It was no mere ship but a floating fortress, its firepower said to rival an army, capable of reducing a kingdom to ash in a single volley.
Zhou, a Divine Platform Realm cultivator and elder of the Inner Sect's Law Enforcement Court, wielded mountain-shaking authority. Yet beside Qin Ting's masterpiece, his own sect vessel felt like a childish trinket.
Masking his envy with a gruff cough, Elder Zhou barked, "Well? Are you all mute? Show your gratitude to Senior Brother Qin!"
The disciples snapped from their daze, clasping fists and bowing low. "Thank you, Senior Brother Qin!" they chorused, their voices ringing with fervor. Many were older than Qin Ting in years, but his rank as a True Disciple and Divine Spirit Realm cultivation rendered age irrelevant.
In this world, strength was the only currency, and "Senior Brother" fell from their lips naturally.
From the sidelines, onlookers—disciples who'd come to gawk—overheard the exchange. Their jaws dropped, and one groaned in dismay. "The Auric Celestial Skyspire? If I'd known that was an option, I'd have fought to join this trip! What a waste!"
Nods and murmurs of regret spread through the group. They'd dismissed the expedition as routine, a slog through the wilds. Who could've guessed Qin Ting would lead it—and bring his legendary ship? The sting of missed opportunity gnawed as they watched the chosen few follow him.
Unfazed by their laments, Qin Ting led his entourage to Cloud Sea Pier, where the Skyspire awaited. From a distance, it had been a shimmering mirage; up close, it stole their breath. The vessel loomed a thousand feet long and hundreds high, a golden colossus that seemed more palace than ship.
Its surface gleamed with intricate carvings—dragons coiling around pillars, phoenixes soaring across pavilions—each detail showcasing the artisans' skill. Within, hundreds of maids and Death Guards stood ready, residing aboard year-round to serve Qin Ting's travels. This was the might and wealth of a great clan laid bare.
At the pier's edge stood Nie You, Qin Ting's head steward and Commander of the Death Guard. Clad in black robes that seemed to absorb light, he was flanked by rows of maids and guards, their movements synchronized as they bowed. "We humbly welcome aboard the Young Master!" their voices boomed, a thunderous wave that stilled the wind. The air itself seemed to bow to Qin Ting's presence.
These disciples, no strangers to grandeur, were humbled. Entry into the Xuantian Sect demanded excellence—many bore noble or royal blood, their lives steeped in privilege. Yet the Skyspire's majesty awed even them. 'To witness this splendor in one lifetime—what more could I ask?' one mused, his chest tight with awe.
Qin Ting strode forward, his figure commanding, bathed in the ship's golden glow. The female disciples lingered behind, their gazes tracing his form—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hearts fluttering with unspoken yearning. To stand at his side, even briefly, felt like an unattainable dream.
Elder Zhou lingered at the pier, his stern facade softening as he watched Qin Ting ascend the ramp. "Truly, this is what it means to be touched by the divine. Fortunate indeed that he's ours," he murmured, his voice a faint whisper carried by the breeze.
The Skyspire's engines thrummed, a low pulse vibrating through the pier. As the disciples boarded with reverent steps, the vessel rose into the boundless sky—golden, glorious, and unstoppable.
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Two days had passed since the Auric Celestial Skyspire departed the Xuantian Sect, its golden hull gliding through the heavens with relentless grace. Qin Ting stood atop the flying citadel, his purple robes billowing in the wind—a cascade of silk that spoke of nobility and power.
His aura radiated quiet supremacy as he gazed outward, hands clasped behind his back. Clouds stretched endlessly before him, pierced by distant mountain peaks, yet his thoughts drifted to his ambitions.
The disciples had settled into the journey's rhythm. The initial thrill of boarding the Skyspire—a once-distant dream—had tempered into quiet reverence. Each was a budding talent, their wills forged by the sect's exacting standards. Seizing the chance to travel with Qin Ting, many sought his guidance, eager to glean wisdom from a True Disciple whose cultivation towered above theirs.
Qin Ting didn't lavish effort on teaching. His responses were measured, tinged with mild indifference, yet even his offhand advice sparked insights that advanced their practice. To him, these cultivators were more than companions—they were the foundation of his future strength. 'One day, they'll be my soldiers, my pawns,' he thought, his gaze distant. 'They must be strong, capable. A weak tool is no tool at all.'
When they brought him questions—obscure riddles or perplexing knots from their meditations—he listened with a faint tilt of his head. After brief thought, he unraveled their dilemmas with insights that revealed his mastery of the Dao. What seemed insurmountable to them was, to him, as trivial as noting the breeze. The disciples left in awe, their reverence deepening with every word.
The Outer Disciples were especially delighted. The Xuantian Sect's dominion teemed with followers—hundreds of thousands of common disciples toiling on the outskirts, earning merit through menial tasks or crowding into Dao Lectures, dreaming of ascension.
Above them, tens of thousands of Outer Disciples formed the sect's backbone, each granted a monthly stipend and a mentor, though one elder might oversee hundreds, leaving little room for guidance.
The Inner Disciples, numbering in the hundreds, were geniuses handpicked by eager elders, their resources lavish. True Disciples, rare as stars at noon, numbered no more than seven, each a heaven-defying talent. With Song Changge's fall, one slot now lay vacant, a reminder of the mighty's fragility.
Amid cultivation discussions, a bold voice broke through. Zhang Xiaoxiao, a spirited Outer Disciple, stepped forward, her cheeks tinged with nervous determination. "Senior Brother Qin, I still don't fully grasp the Essence Channeling Method you explained earlier. I'm sorry for being so dull. Could you… personally guide me to mastery?"
A soft chuckle came from Zhou Pingyue, a True Disciple whose presence carried quiet authority. She glanced at Zhang Xiaoxiao, shaking her head with an amused smile. "Why trouble Junior Brother Qin over such a trifling matter? Junior Sister Zhang, why not come with me instead? I'll demonstrate the technique for you."
Zhang Xiaoxiao's smile stiffened, her eyes flickering with unease. "I wouldn't dare trouble Senior Sister. I'll figure it out on my own when we return."
Zhou Pingyue's smile faded, her voice dropping to a stern, velvet-edged tone. "What's this? Does Junior Sister Zhang look down on me, Zhou Pingyue?" When she smiled, her warmth was disarming; when her expression darkened, the air seemed to thicken, pressing down with suffocating force.
Zhang Xiaoxiao's breath hitched. Zhou Pingyue's status as a True Disciple loomed like a mountain. Even her own mentor bowed in her presence. Defiance wasn't an option. "I'll follow Senior Sister Zhou's instructions!" she stammered, her voice trembling.
Zhou Pingyue's smile returned, bright and radiant. "In that case, Junior Sister, come along. I'll make sure to teach you well." She turned with a graceful sweep of her robes, and Zhang Xiaoxiao followed, her cautious steps betraying trepidation.
The other disciples exchanged glances, a silent pang of sympathy passing between them. Zhang Xiaoxiao's boldness had earned her a daunting lesson.
The exchange dampened the group's enthusiasm, and one by one, they bid Qin Ting farewell, retreating to their quarters with newfound reluctance. Qin Ting watched them go, a wry smile on his lips. Zhang Xiaoxiao's fate didn't concern him. 'If she falters or dies, what of it?' he mused. 'One broken tool among many makes no difference.'
Qin Ting turned smoothly, his gaze settling on Nie You, the steadfast figure shadowing his steps. "Leave me," Qin Ting commanded, his voice calm yet authoritative. "I'm going into seclusion for a while. Let nobody disturb me."
"My lord," Nie You responded, his tone clipped and reverent. He bowed sharply, then retreated with the soundless grace of a wraith vanishing into the dark.
Fifteen days remained until they reached the Lian Yun Mountain Range, and Qin Ting had no intention of wasting them. In cultivation, diligence was the bedrock of progress. Others would strive while he rested, and the pursuit of the Dao was a relentless current—pause, and you drifted backward.
Qin Ting understood this with near-obsessive clarity. As the Skyspire hummed beneath him, he strode toward his private chambers, the golden walls casting his silhouette in sharp relief. The journey had only begun.