The Ghost Market was restless.
Torches burned dimly across the stone walls, their light trembling as hundreds of cultivators crowded the underground auction hall. The air was thick with greed and killing intent.
On the raised platform stood a man in crimson robes embroidered with the emblem of a blazing sun — Elder Zhao Han, an emissary of the Scarlet Sun Sect. His aura was suffocating, his cultivation at the peak of Foundation Establishment.
> "The next item," Zhao Han announced, his voice echoing through the cavern, "is not an artifact, nor a pill, but a name."
The crowd stirred.
> "A name?" someone scoffed. "What kind of trick is this?"
Zhao Han smiled faintly, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
> "The name of a traitor who dared to kill our disciples and steal from the Scarlet Sun Sect. His name—"
The hall grew silent.
> "—is Wang Chung."
A ripple of whispers spread through the crowd. Dozens of cultivators exchanged glances, sensing opportunity.
> "He's wanted by the Scarlet Sun?"
"A hundred mid-grade spirit stones for a mortal-born cultivator?"
"He must be hiding something valuable…"
Zhao Han's smile widened.
> "Bring me his head, and the reward is yours. Bring him alive, and the Sect will remember your name."
The auction floor exploded with noise.
Above them, high on the shadowed balcony, a figure in a black cloak sat silently — face covered, eyes glowing faintly beneath the hood.
Wang Chung.
He had arrived long before the auction began.
Now, as the hall descended into madness, he stood, his cold gaze locked on Zhao Han.
> "So they've sent one of their dogs."
Below, cultivators began to leave their seats, spreading through the tunnels, searching every corner of the Ghost Market.
Wang Chung moved.
Silently. Efficiently. Like a shadow devouring light.
When the first bounty hunter turned a corner, a hand seized his throat. There was a faint shimmer of cold steel — and blood splattered the wall.
Another stepped forward, drawing a talisman — only to find his arm sliced off before he even saw the blade.
No screams echoed. Wang Chung killed too quickly for that.
But each death stirred the market's killing intent further. Soon, Zhao Han himself rose from the stage, his eyes narrowing.
> "Enough games."
His voice reverberated through the tunnels, empowered by qi. "Show yourself, boy! You cannot hide from the eyes of the Scarlet Sun!"
The ground trembled. Dozens of talismans flared to life, releasing waves of golden light that illuminated every dark corner of the cavern.
And there — standing in the center of the hall, cloak torn by the light — was Wang Chung.
The crowd gasped. He was calm, his iron sword lowered, his face half-hidden by a simple mask. His aura… faint, almost mortal.
Zhao Han sneered. "You have courage, I'll give you that. Remove your mask."
Wang Chung's voice was low and steady.
> "You want my face? Earn it."
The words hadn't even faded before his sword moved.
Shiiing!
A flash of silver tore through the air. The first cultivator who rushed him collapsed instantly, his throat open.
The hall erupted into chaos.
Blades, spells, and talismans flew. But Wang Chung was already gone — weaving through the storm like a wraith. His movements were simple, silent, deadly.
Each step he took drained the air of qi; the Silent Sky Art devoured energy from every source around him.
The weaker cultivators found their techniques sputtering — flames dimmed, barriers cracked, swords dulled.
> "My qi… it's vanishing!" someone screamed.
Zhao Han's eyes widened slightly. "That technique… what is it?"
Wang Chung appeared before him in an instant, sword arcing upward in a clean, merciless strike.
Zhao Han parried — barely. Sparks flew as spiritual pressure collided.
The air shattered.
Zhao Han staggered back, feeling a numbness spread through his arm. The boy's strength was unnatural. His qi… was consuming his own!
> "Impossible!" Zhao Han roared, unleashing his full power. Crimson flames exploded around him, forming a burning domain that swallowed the hall.
Stone melted. The floor cracked. Cultivators fled screaming.
And through that inferno, Wang Chung walked forward.
His black cloak burned away, revealing a tattered robe and cold, unyielding eyes. The bead within him pulsed, purifying the wild qi rushing through his veins.
He raised his sword.
> "You burned my sect. You burned my home. Let me return the favor."
The next strike was silent.
A single golden line split the flames in half. Zhao Han's domain shattered like glass.
He fell to his knees, clutching his chest — blood spilling from his mouth. His eyes trembled as he looked up at Wang Chung, realization dawning too late.
> "Y–you… that bead in your soul… you don't even know what you are, do you?"
Wang Chung's grip tightened. "What?"
Zhao Han smirked weakly.
> "The Scarlet Sun… hunts you because you carry something older than the heavens themselves… a Celestial Core…"
Before he could finish, Wang Chung's sword descended.
Silence.
Zhao Han's head rolled across the floor. The flames flickered once, then died.
Only the masked youth remained — standing amidst smoke and ruin, his sword dripping blood.
He looked at the corpse coldly, his voice barely above a whisper.
> "Then I'll uncover the truth myself."
As he turned to leave, the bead within him pulsed once more — faintly, almost as if it had heard the words.
The Ghost Market burned that night, and the name "Wang Chung" spread through the cultivation world like wildfire.
But no one knew who he truly was.
Only that a masked cultivator had slaughtered a Scarlet Sun Elder under the moon.
And thus began the rise of the man who would one day defy heaven itself —
The Celestial Immortal Emperor.