Nyxarin, living under the guise of Yuan Fengxin, sits in the corner of a quiet teahouse, sunlight spilling through the wooden slats as he reads a thin, unassuming book titled Basic Math.
His divine consciousness, sharp and vast, absorbs every line effortlessly.
The numbers, symbols, and equations imprint themselves in his mind like runes etched in the void.
Yet, the more he reads, the more his brow furrows.
How will this help in cultivation?
For ordinary mortals, such arithmetic would indeed be useful—it would sharpen memory, train logic, and make counting coins more precise.
But for someone who can command laws, who can sense the rhythm of the world's pulse, what use is a mortal's counting system?
Still, curiosity keeps him turning the pages.
He finishes the book and reaches for the next—Basic Physics. This one holds his attention longer. In its early chapters, it speaks of energy transformation—how energy never disappears, but changes form, and how each transformation loses a portion of its strength.
His eyes narrow. He has felt that same loss countless times when using divine magic.
No matter how refined his control, roughly twenty per cent of his power vanishes before manifestation.
He begins to deduce quietly, tracing patterns of energy flow in his mind.
Then, with a flick of his fingers, he gathers energy onto his palm and forms a small flame. The fire burns steadily.
He feels the loss again—but this time it's smaller, tighter, refined.
"Seventeen per cent," he mutters. "No—sixteen."
The result draws a faint, grudging smile from his lips. So, this mortal system… can refine thought.
The book's claim—that all elemental energy originates from spiritual energy—makes him pause.
"If one masters the Law of Spiritual Energy, one masters all elements," he quotes softly, tapping the page. "Absurd… and yet—intriguing."
He frowns. He was born from the Law of Night, and because of it, the Law of Day rejects him utterly. If he tries to touch its essence, his own law riots within him, tearing at his body. The book doesn't explain how spiritual energy transcends such oppositions.
He sets the physics aside and flips open Basic Chemistry.
At first, it seems mundane—atoms, elements, compounds—but as he reads further, an appreciation stirs within him. The section on alloys and reaction patterns gleams with potential. For a puppet refiner, understanding these processes could revolutionise metal refinement. New materials. New frames. New vessels for his puppets.
Then comes Basic Biology.
He skims through the diagrams of human anatomy, the explanations of organs, blood, and nerves. He already knows much of this—after all, he has refined puppets not only from wood and metal but from flesh, both living and dead.
Yet, these simple mortal words raise questions that even divine knowledge has never considered. The book treats the human body as a system—one that can be studied, replicated, and altered. Perfected.
He closes the book slowly. A strange heaviness sits in his chest.
"These books…" he murmurs, "they're dangerous."
They carry not divine law, but understanding. A power that builds slowly, silently—until it surpasses heaven itself.
His thoughts darken.
Kong Wuya. The name rolls in his mind like venom. This man's potential… if left alive, he may indeed form divinity. Another god born from man—after the one at Tianren Mountain… no, I cannot allow it.
His jaw tightens. "One god is enough to threaten me. Two… would destroy me."
He stands, sliding the books aside. The wooden chair creaks faintly as he tosses a silver coin on the table.
Downstairs, the air hums with the noise of the city—the scent of spice, the shuffle of sandals, the ring of hammers from distant forges.
Yuan Fengxin descends the stairs, every movement calm but carrying silent weight. When he steps into the street, the light seems to dim around him.
Then—his steps falter.
A faint, golden glimmer catches his eye.
Across the road, a woman passes, veiled and radiant, golden hair flowing beneath the thin cloth, divine light flickering faintly around her frame.
For an instant, his divine senses roar in alarm.
Danger.
His pupils contract, and a chill crawls down his spine.
That aura… a Twilight Protoss.
Nyxarin doesn't slow his stride, his expression perfectly composed. Only his eyes darken slightly, like clouds forming behind glass. So, a Twilight Protoss has descended here…
His thoughts coil inward, sharp and deliberate. Is it sent by my dear sister and her husband—or has it come of its own accord?
If it's the former, then the game is already delicate. His sister and brother-in-law—the Goddess of Evening and the God of Dawn—would never act without reason. They may be watching the Wizard Way's founder themselves, waiting for proof before making their move. If Nyxarin strikes first and they're watching, his identity would be exposed before his strength fully returns.
He keeps walking, the noise of the street fading behind him, the veil of mortals slipping from his mind.
Even if this Twilight Protoss came by chance… he muses, I can't act until I know where it stands. Killing it outright would reveal me—and that would ruin everything.
His fingers twitch slightly at his side, faint black veins appearing beneath the skin before fading again. He could destroy a Twilight Protoss in a breath if he used his full divine strength. But stealth is worth more than violence now.
"Then I will let the Divine Puppet Sect handle Kong Wuya," he murmurs inwardly, voice like cold iron sliding into place.
The thought steadies him. The sect's puppeteers, once his worshippers, still serve remnants of his influence. They will act as his hands. And if Kong Wuya dies under their blades, the gods above will suspect nothing.
Still, unease twists faintly in his chest. He hates leaving things uncertain. His heart won't rest until Kong Wuya lies dead.
He changes direction abruptly, turning off the main road.
Instead of heading back to the inn, he moves deeper into the city's noble district. The air grows quieter, colder. Mansions rise on both sides, their courtyards veiled by stone walls and blooming spirit trees.
He takes a narrow alley that curves between two estates, hidden from casual eyes. At its end stands a modest gate of old wood, its paint long faded, its aura faint but precise—concealing rather than repelling.
Nyxarin pushes the gate open.
It creaks softly, the faint scent of metal oil and burnt incense wafting from within.
He steps through without hesitation.
The courtyard beyond is empty—no servants, no sound but the faint ticking of mechanisms beneath the ground. The estate's spirit formation flares briefly, recognising him, and fades again.
He walks across the overgrown garden, past the silent fountain and the rusted statues of armoured men whose joints gleam faintly with metal seams.
The Divine Puppet Sect's hidden base lies beneath this place.
He stops before a stone well at the centre of the courtyard, places his hand on the rim, and whispers a short chant in an ancient, forgotten tongue.
The ground rumbles softly. The bottom of the well glows faint red, then vanishes—revealing a staircase descending into darkness.
Without pause, Nyxarin steps down.
Nyxarin steps out of the hidden chamber and ascends the well, the stone sealing itself silently behind him.
The courtyard air feels colder as he walks beneath the moonlight toward the inn, each footfall measured and slow.
Qin Yian remains kneeling in the dark, already sending silent orders through the sect's runic net to marshal reinforcements.
Within an hour, three iron eyes detach from the sect's vault and rise into the night, carrying commands only puppets can hear.
Nyxarin slides into his room at the inn and closes the lattice, his reflection in the lacquered table showing eyes that do not sleep.
He pours a cup of bitter tea and lets the heat slow the storm of his thoughts while runic messages flow like veins through the city.
The thought of the Twilight Protoss does not leave him, and he quietly summons a dozen sky-eyes to fan out above the palace and the preaching ground.
Each sky-eye returns with only fragments—an angelic wing flashing across the clouds, a faint golden footprint pressed into dust—but no trail that leads to the Protoss's patron.
Nyxarin exhales quietly and drains his cup, the taste of bitterness clinging to his tongue. He unfurls the map across the table and marks his targets: the preaching field, the western river crossing—routes of retreat, points of ambush.
The plan forms, deliberate and patient. The assassination will not strike immediately after the sermon. The Divine Puppet Sect's members are in the Shi Kingdom, and even with their methods, it will take ten days before the Divine Mind Puppets arrive in Tang.
He will wait. He must.
He cannot leave until he witnesses Kong Wuya's death with his own eyes.
Outside, the city drifts into uneasy dreams beneath the pale moonlight, unaware that within one of its quiet inns sits a shadow—ancient, hateful, and waiting for dawn to bring its prey into the open.
When the first sunlight cuts across the horizon, Nyxarin steps out, his dark robe blending with the flow of early travellers.
He walks the road leading west, toward the wide field chosen for the sermon.
The preaching ground is already filled with people when he arrives. A stone tower rises at the centre, surrounded by concentric rows of straw mats spreading like ripples across a lake of green.
The air hums faintly with spiritual pressure—hundreds of people gathered, their curiosity tangled with doubt and hostility.
Nyxarin allows a faint pulse of his divine energy to escape, masking it as the aura of a peak Core Formation cultivator. The crowd parts subtly, giving him space near the inner circle, just close enough to see and strike if needed.
He sits cross-legged, still and calm, scanning faces with divine precision.
Then he feels it. A familiar, radiant pressure brushes against his senses—soft yet divine.
A woman in a long silver veil lowers herself onto the mat beside him. Golden hair glints faintly beneath the fabric. Her wings, hidden beneath a white mantle, flicker once, imperceptibly.
The Twilight Protoss.
She glances at him briefly. Her amethyst eyes meet his for half a breath—neither hostile nor welcoming—then return forward.
Nyxarin lowers his gaze, concealing the storm in his mind. So… she came too.
Minutes stretch into silence.
Then, from the top of the wooden tower, a figure steps into the morning light.
His robe ripples with wind, his presence calm yet commanding.
Kaelan stands before the gathered world.
He looks over the countless faces—martial artists, Qi refiners, nobles, merchants—and when he speaks, his voice carries with unnatural clarity.
"Today," he begins, "I will speak of a new path—one born not from divine will or bloodline, but from knowledge."
And so begins the first preaching of the Wizard Way.