The gates of the Inner Sect slowly opened with a dull, resounding hum, their towering jade arches etched with ancient runes—dragons soaring into the clouds, phoenixes weeping fire into the void. Mystical light shimmered faintly along the carvings, as if those ancient beasts still breathed within the stone. The air itself seemed to tighten, charged with reverence and awe. Beyond the threshold lay a realm spoken of in hushed tones—a place where legends walked, where geniuses honed their blades on the whetstone of ambition, and where monsters wore the faces of men.
As the gates parted fully, the grand sight of the Inner Sect was revealed. Pristine pavilions floated on clouds of spiritual mist, hovering lakes mirrored the heavens above, and mountains pierced the skies like celestial spears. Disciples cultivated atop flying swords, and spirit beasts the size of palaces basked under divine arrays. Yet all such glory paled against the silent procession that awaited just beyond the entrance.
A row of inner sect elders stood solemnly in formation, their flowing robes undisturbed by the wind, each a pillar of the Spirit Transformation Realm. Their gazes were cool, sharp, and unyielding—assessing. Above them, a curved stone balcony wrapped around the outer cliffs of the sect's main hall, where several elite disciples in snow-white robes leaned casually along the carved railings. They were the proud stars of the Inner Sect, eyes usually distant and indifferent.
But then, they saw him.
Long Tianyan stepped through the gate.
Still clad in his tattered competition robes, stained with sweat and blood, he was a stark contrast to the immaculate elegance around him. Dust clung to his shoulders. The hem of his robe fluttered in the wind, torn and frayed. Yet despite his ragged appearance, there was a gravity to him. His face was expressionless—calm, detached, as if nothing in this world could stir him. Not a trace of pride, nor fear, nor even satisfaction glimmered in his eyes.
And yet… every step he took struck like silent thunder.
The sound of his boots touching the polished jade pathway was barely audible, but the sensation reverberated through the hearts of those watching. Each step felt heavier than the last—as if the heavens themselves bowed in rhythm with his stride.
Then, like wind stirring a still pond, whispers began to ripple through the disciples gathered above.
"That's him..."
"The one who crushed Liu Yan."
"He's only at the 6th Layer of the Spiritual Sea Realm... then why does it feel like I'm standing before a mountain?"
Some lowered their heads, uncomfortable with the pressure they couldn't explain. Others stared, eyes narrowed, as if trying to pierce through the veil around him. Even among the seasoned inner sect elders, several exchanged glances. His cultivation was nothing special—on the surface. But cultivation could be masked. Presence could not. And the stillness that cloaked him like a shroud… it hinted at something ancient. Something dangerous.
Far from the entrance, on a rocky outcrop overlooking the scene, Elder Yan stood with her arms folded. The wind tugged at her outer sect robes as she gazed down in silence. She said nothing. But her eyes gleamed—shimmering with a restrained pride that only those who had fought for someone in silence could understand.
Not far from her, seated on a boulder in the shadows, was Liu Yan.
His face was pale. His fists were clenched, blood dried along his knuckles where his nails had dug too deep. His usual arrogance was gone. The fire in his eyes still burned—but it was low, flickering. Not with rage. Not with resentment.
But with shame… and fear.
He had thrown Long Tianyan off a cliff. Crushed his bones. Left him for dead. And yet, that boy had returned—stronger, calmer, and more terrifying than ever.
At the top of the stairs leading into the main sect hall, a poised inner disciple in white robes stepped forward. His cultivation surged gently, revealing him to be at the 8th Layer of the Marrow Washing Realm—a realm far above Tianyan. Yet as he faced him, he bowed lightly, voice clear and formal.
"Disciple Long Tianyan," he announced. "By the decree of Sect Master Qing Wuyou, you are hereby accepted as an Inner Sect Disciple of the Verdant Mist Sect. Welcome."
A collective breath was drawn through the crowd. Then came the name. Qing Wuyou.
It crashed through the minds of everyone like thunder.
Qing Wuyou—the Sect Master. A figure known across the Upper Realms. A man of silence and supremacy, who had never taken a disciple in his entire life.
That he had now chosen this boy…
Shock swept through the disciples like a tide. Several elders stiffened. Some disciples gasped audibly. The very foundation of the sect's hierarchy trembled.
Long Tianyan said nothing.
He simply stepped forward, passing the inner disciple without pause, crossing the sacred threshold.
A sudden gust of wind howled down the mountain paths. Clouds churned. The trees along the cliffs bowed low, their leaves swirling in chaos. From deep within the Inner Sect, in a temple long forgotten, a massive dragon statue cracked—ever so slightly—across the brow.
He had entered the Inner Sect.
Not as a hopeful.
Not as a challenger.
But as a storm destined to rise.