Xin Province—he once called it home. Now it felt like a prison wrapped in silk, and Luan had no use for silken chains. The moment he saw the Moonsteel Spider vanish into the mist like it had been summoned back into legend, he knew—
It was time to leave.
No farewell.
No glance back.
He walked under the veil of midnight, through crumbling alleyways and sacred courtyards that once denied him even a cup of water. His father's clan crest still glowed faintly on his robe, but it meant nothing now. The Xin Clan had thrown him away like dust from their boots.
Their loss.
---
He crossed the North Gate before sunrise, heading into the misty lands of the Drifting Valley, a wild stretch that bordered the Ashtar Dominion—a chaotic second-class territory known for blood contracts, rogue cultivators, and untamed spirit beasts.
Every mile forward was a step out of Xin's shadow.
But the world wasn't about to let him walk in peace.
---
Day One in Drifting Valley:
Bandits.
Four of them.
Ex-cultivators turned scum. All of them had weak cultivation—around the 3rd to 5th Mortal Core Realm. Normally no threat, but Luan had zero Qi.
That didn't stop him.
When one of them charged with a curved dagger, Luan stepped aside, caught his wrist, and ignited a sliver of black flame across his palm.
The man melted.
Not burned.
Melted into smoke and screams.
The rest fled.
But unseen eyes were watching from the trees.
---
Later that evening, while camping under a lightning-struck tree, Luan heard a rustle.
Then a whisper.
Then a voice: "You gonna eat that squirrel or just stare at it till it combusts?"
Luan turned sharply. A boy around his age stood there, grinning wide, a massive sword strapped across his back. Half the blade was chipped, but the guy carried it like it was an extension of his soul.
"I'm Kei," he said. "Former disciple of the Scarlet Bone Sect. Long story. Got any firewood?"
Luan raised an eyebrow.
Black flame flickered from his fingertip.
Kei blinked. "Damn. That'll do."
---
The next day:
They found a girl bleeding in the grass, surrounded by dead wolves.
She wasn't a cultivator. She used a flute, of all things. Magical sounds—sonic techniques. Her name?
Linari.
Her village was burned three days ago by bounty hunters looking for a boy with black fire.
Funny how fate works.
Luan didn't run this time. He stayed.
He lit the funeral pyre himself.
---
Nightfall.
They reached the broken bridge over Gravemist Ravine—the boundary between Xin Clan territory and the world beyond.
On the other side?
Orlan City. Home of the rogue academies. Gambling dens. Weapon forgers. Elixir smugglers. The kind of place where legends were made—or buried.
But crossing wasn't easy.
The bridge guardian appeared—a spirit golem with eyes of molten gold and armor made of cracked jade. It demanded proof of power.
Luan stepped forward.
No cultivation. No Qi.
Just a spark.
Black fire.
The golem hesitated… then knelt.
For the second time in days, the impossible repeated.
Kei whistled low.
"Bro, you're either cursed… or chosen. Either way, I'm in."
Linari simply stared, her fingers tightening on her flute.
---
Behind them, smoke rose from Xin Province.
Far ahead, danger stirred in the hearts of ten thousand rogue sects.
And within Luan's sea of consciousness…
The shadow-self spoke a word for the first time.
A single word that felt like thunder.
"Soon."
---