The seventh dawn after Scholar Ren's departure broke with a deceptive serenity, the Yunshan Mountains cloaked in a veil of pearlescent fog that muffled the world's edges like a half-remembered dream. Lin Feng stood at the temple's threshold, basket slung over one shoulder, the weight of salvaged herbs a familiar anchor against the tide of change swelling within him. Two moons remained until the Azure Cloud Sect's recruitment—a span that felt both eternal and fleeting, a fragile bridge between the boy he had been and the warrior he was forging. The pendant thrummed softly against his chest, its jade heart a compass pointing inexorably toward the unknown, but its warnings lingered like smoke: shadows gathered, hounds loosed upon the scent.
Old Man Wei's counsel from the previous eve echoed in his steps as he descended the winding path to the village square. "The eastern trail claims more than coppers, lad. Rogue cultivators—bandits with meridians twisted by desperation—prowl like jackals in lean times. If you must venture, arm your wits sharper than any blade." The elder's words carried the weight of experience, his own scarred past a map of regrets Lin Feng was determined not to retrace. Yet necessity drove him: the temple's larders ran thin, and whispers of a minor spirit herb auction in the nearby town of Willowbrook promised coppers enough for a sturdy mule—and perhaps a low-grade Qi condensation pill, a luxury that could shave days from his cultivation grind.
The village stirred around him, a tapestry of routine woven with threads of newfound deference. Villagers nodded with cautious respect as he passed, their eyes tracing the subtle shift in his gait—the predator's poise beneath the orphan's humility. Aunt Li pressed a steamed bun into his hand at the well, her callused fingers lingering. "Eat, Feng. You've grown taller overnight, or so it seems. The Guardian smiles on you." Her tone held no mockery, only the quiet awe of one who had buried too many children to doubt miracles. Lin Feng accepted the gift with a murmured thanks, the dough's warmth seeping into his palm like a benediction. Even the children, once quick to tease the temple rat, now trailed him with wide-eyed curiosity, begging for tales of the woods' "glowing lights"—embellishments born of his veiled experiments.
Wang Li's absence was the loudest silence. The bully and his cronies had vanished into sullen seclusion, nursing wounds both physical and to their fragile egos. Rumors swirled: Wang Li's arm hung limp, unresponsive to poultices; Jiao's knife-hand trembled like autumn leaves. In Yunshan's insular world, such a reversal was legend fodder, and Lin Feng found himself cast as reluctant hero. But glory chafed; it drew eyes, and eyes invited questions he could not yet answer.
The eastern trail began innocuously, a rutted dirt ribbon snaking from the village's edge through terraced fields of golden rice swaying under the morning breeze. Dragonflies hummed over irrigation ditches, their wings fracturing sunlight into jeweled shards, while farmers bent like willows, transplanting seedlings with rhythmic precision. Lin Feng's senses, honed by the Aadi Shakti, painted the scene in vivid strata: the soil's earthy Qi pulsing like a subterranean heartbeat, the rice stalks exhaling faint wood essence in verdant sighs, the distant thunder of a waterfall cascading from the peaks. He moved with purposeful leisure, the Chaos Veil draped lightly over his form—not full cloak, but a subtle refraction that blurred his outline to wary travelers, making him seem just another pilgrim on the path.
Willowbrook lay three li distant—a modest town huddled at the confluence of the Yunshan River and a tributary from the northern hills, its walls of packed earth and bamboo palisades a bulwark against wandering beasts. Markets thrived here, drawing peddlers from the Central Plains with wares scented of spice and steel: silks dyed in sunset hues, talismans etched with warding runes, and the occasional smuggled spirit stone glinting like captured starlight. Lin Feng had visited thrice before, always under Wei's errands, haggling for incense or thread. Today, the auction promised more—a clandestine gathering in the back alleys where minor cultivators bartered herbs infused with trace Qi, the kind that could nudge a novice's dantian from stagnation.
The trail steepened after the fields, climbing into a narrow defile flanked by sheer cliffs veined with quartz that caught the sun like veins of liquid silver. Here, the air thickened, laced with the mineral bite of exposed stone and the undercurrent of wild Qi—untamed eddies from the Heavenly Veil's fringes, where the barrier between realms frayed like old silk. Lin Feng paused at a switchback overlook, scanning the path ahead. No overt threats: a merchant caravan rumbled below, mules laden with clay pots clinking softly; a lone herbalist woman with a staff carved in serpentine coils trudged upward, her satchel bulging with desiccated roots. Yet the pendant warmed, a subtle prickle against his skin—like fingers brushing the nape of his neck in an empty room.
Shadows follow, the ancient voice murmured, faint as wind through reeds. Lin Feng exhaled order, circulating Qi to sharpen his perception. The world resolved: faint tracks in the dust, boot prints too deliberate for casual wanderers; a whisper of discordant energy, like oil on water, clinging to the boulders above. Bandits? Or something subtler, tied to the scholar's probing gaze? He pressed on, veil tightening, footfalls silent as falling leaves.
The defile opened into a broader valley, the trail merging with Willowbrook's approach road—a bustling artery flanked by waystations and tea houses where travelers slaked dust from their throats with barley brew. Lin Feng slipped into the flow, the Chaos Veil shedding like mist under the sun. The town gates loomed, guarded by two militia in lacquered leather, spears crossed in lazy vigilance. Banners fluttered from the ramparts, emblazoned with Willowbrook's sigil: a willow tree rooted in a coiling river, symbol of resilience amid floods. A faint Qi array hummed in the stonework—basic wards against low-level beasts, flickering blue when a stray spirit fox slunk too close.
Inside, the town thrummed with midday vigor. Narrow streets twisted like veins, lined with stalls hawking everything from spiced skewers sizzling on charcoal braziers to jade amulets promising luck in love or lottery. The air was a symphony of scents: sesame oil's nutty perfume, jasmine from flower vendors' carts, the acrid tang of alchemical brews bubbling in cauldrons. Lin Feng navigated the throng with ease, his heightened senses filtering chaos into clarity—bargains struck in rapid-fire dialect, pickpockets' sly glances deflected by an instinctive sidestep, a street performer's flute weaving melodies that tugged at heartstrings like invisible threads.
The auction house lurked in the shadow of the central pagoda, a nondescript warehouse with doors barred by iron runes that glowed when pricked by a drop of blood—verification for those with even trace cultivation. Lin Feng presented his palm, the pendant's influence coaxing a droplet infused with primordial essence. The rune flared emerald, admitting him with a resonant hum. Inside, the air was cooler, heavy with the musty aroma of dried herbs and oiled wood. Dim lanterns cast pools of amber light over tiered benches, where two dozen figures huddled: grizzled foragers in patched cloaks, wide-eyed novices clutching frayed manuals, and a few sharp-eyed merchants with rings of beast cores dangling from sashes like barbaric jewelry.
The auctioneer, a portly man named Master Liang with a mustache like coiled wire and eyes that missed nothing, presided from a raised dais. His voice boomed like a gong, infused with mid-stage Qi Gathering projection. "Lot thirteen: Three stalks of Crimson Vein Lotus, harvested under the blood moon. Mild meridian opener—starting bid, five silver taels!" Bidding erupted in murmurs, hands flashing like birds in flight. Lin Feng settled into a rear bench, basket at his feet, observing. His Red Spirit Grass was low-grade chaff compared to these treasures, but volume might sway the desperate alchemists seeking bulk for decoctions.
When his turn came—lot twenty-two, a modest bundle of wilted but potent grass—the bids crawled sluggishly. "Two coppers per bundle," Liang droned, scanning for interest. A bony alchemist in spectacles raised a finger; Lin Feng countered with a nod, pushing to three. The hammer fell in his favor, netting a pouch of fifteen coppers—enough for supplies, but shy of the mule. Disappointment nipped, yet opportunity glinted: whispers among the crowd spoke of a black-market trader in the rear alleys, dealing in "unorthodox aids" for aspiring sect disciples.
Slipping out amid the dispersing crowd, Lin Feng followed the murmurs to a labyrinth of backstreets where sunlight barely penetrated, shadows pooling like spilled ink. Laundry lines sagged overhead, dripping sporadically; feral cats eyed him from crates, their gazes unnervingly intelligent. The trader's den was a squat hut marked by a faded sigil—a coiled serpent devouring its tail, emblem of forbidden cycles. A knock yielded a slit-eyed youth who vanished inside, returning with a gravel-voiced invitation.
The interior was a clutter of shelves groaning under vials of iridescent liquids, scrolls yellowed with age, and jars where things—eyes? teeth?—floated in murky brine. The proprietor, a woman of indeterminate age named Widow Shen, lounged behind a counter scarred by knife fights and alchemical spills. Her hair was a wild crown of silver-streaked black, eyes like chipped obsidian appraising Lin Feng in a glance. "Sect hopeful?" she rasped, lips curling in a smoker's smirk. "You've the look—hungry, but not desperate. What scratches your itch, boy? Pills? Arrays? Or something... rarer?"
Lin Feng's pendant warmed, a subtle probe. Shen's aura flickered—late Body Tempering, laced with wood Qi from years brewing elixirs, but undercut by a shadow of deviance, meridians scarred by impure breakthroughs. "Qi condensation aids," he said evenly, placing a copper on the counter. "Low-grade, nothing fancy. For the Azure trials."
She chuckled, a dry rattle like autumn leaves. "Fancy's for fools with deep pockets. But you've spark—real Qi, not the peddler's parlor tricks." Her gaze sharpened, as if scenting the chaos beneath his veil. "Five coppers gets you a vial of Willow Essence—condenses ambient Qi overnight, but beware the flux dreams. They twist the weak."
Lin Feng hesitated, the price steep but tempting. The pendant whispered caution: Purity over haste; foreign essences breed discord. Yet time pressed; two moons were scant for peak Stage 1. He slid the coins across, accepting the vial—a thumb-sized crystal phial stoppered with wax, its contents swirling emerald and gold. Shen's fingers brushed his in the exchange, a deliberate graze that sent a jolt through his meridians—probing, testing. He withdrew sharply, Chaos Veil flaring instinctively, blurring his form to her eyes.
"Feisty," she murmured, amusement fading to calculation. "Watch the roads back, spark. Not all shadows in Willowbrook are cast by buildings."
The warning hung as Lin Feng exited, vial tucked into his sash beside the coppers. The sun dipped toward afternoon, casting long fingers across the alleys. He retraced to the main thoroughfare, mind churning: Shen's touch had carried intent, a subtle thread of tracking Qi, like a hook baited for fish. Not bandits, then—scouts? The scholar's words resurfaced: Our paths cross again. Paranoia? Or prescience?
The return trail felt heavier, the defile's cliffs closing like jaws. Lin Feng maintained the veil, senses extended like antennae. The merchant caravan had passed, leaving wheel ruts fresh in the dust; the herbalist woman was a distant speck. But midway through the switchback, the air shifted—a discordant hum, like strings plucked out of tune. From the boulders above, figures detached: three men in mottled gray cloaks, faces obscured by hoods embroidered with serpent motifs. Widow Shen's sigil.
Rogue cultivators, mid-Body Tempering by their stances—coiled, predatory, Qi radiating like heated iron. The leader, tallest with a scar bisecting his exposed jaw, leaped down with a grace that belied his bulk, landing in a crouch that cratered the earth. His companions flanked, one wielding a chain whip that uncoiled like a viper, the other a curved saber etched with poison runes. "The boy with the spark," Scar-Jaw growled, voice like grinding gravel. "Shen sends regards. Hand over the vial—and whatever else hums in your veins. Quietly, and you walk."
Lin Feng's heart steadied, chaos coiling in his dantian like a serpent rousing. No flight; the defile trapped as surely as it concealed. Harmony, the pendant urged. He inhaled void, the world fracturing into flows: cliff's stone Qi rigid and unyielding, wind's sigh carrying wood essence from distant pines, his own primordial torrent a wild counterpoint. "Shen overreaches," he replied, voice calm, edged with the timbre of awakening power. "Tell her the spark burns those who grasp too greedily."
Scar-Jaw's laugh was a bark, devoid of mirth. "Bold words for a whelp." He surged, palm thrusting in a technique Lin Feng recognized from peddler's manuals: Crushing Palm Strike, Qi condensed to pulverize bone like overripe fruit. The air compressed, a visible ripple distorting the path.
Lin Feng exhaled form, Chaos Veil exploding into full shroud. He blurred, a phantom in the bandits' periphery, the palm slamming empty earth with a boom that showered pebbles. The chain-wielder whipped forward, links whistling like vengeful spirits, seeking to ensnare. Lin Feng twisted, Qi threading his steps into a vortex—borrowing the wind's flow to propel him aside, the chain coiling harmlessly around a boulder that cracked under the strain.
The saber-man struck next, blade arcing in a poison-laced crescent, green ichor dripping from the edge to sizzle on stone. Lin Feng met it with improvisation: inhaling chaos, he forged a barrier of primordial mist, tendrils lashing out like living whips. The saber clanged against the haze, sparks of clashing essences igniting the air—earthly poison warring with cosmic void. The bandit recoiled, blade notched, a hiss escaping as the mist corroded his runes.
Scar-Jaw roared, summoning his full might: Qi erupting in a aura of earthen spikes, the ground buckling as stone lances erupted toward Lin Feng. The defile became a cage of jagged teeth, the air thick with pulverized rock. Lin Feng's core strained, the pearl of essence spinning faster, drawing deeper from the pendant's well. Overreach reclaims, the warning tolled, but survival drowned it. He exhaled order, channeling the technique unveiled in his dreams: Primordial Echo, a ripple of chaos that mirrored and amplified the attack. The spikes reversed, not in crude reflection but twisted—earthen Qi infused with void, turning against their master.
The bandits staggered as their own assault rebounded: spikes impaling cloaks, shattering the chain, deflecting the saber into its wielder's thigh. Poison bloomed in the air, backlashing its caster into convulsions. Scar-Jaw endured longest, his tempered frame absorbing the brunt, but cracks spiderwebbed his defenses, blood welling from fissures in his skin.
Seizing the breach, Lin Feng pressed: a azure orb coalesced in his palm, denser now, laced with the vial's untasted essence. He hurled it not at flesh, but at the cliff face above—a calculated detonation that loosed a cascade of boulders, the defile groaning in protest. Dust choked the air, screams cut short as stone entombed the fallen. Scar-Jaw clawed free, eyes wild with terror, aura flickering like a guttering candle. "What are you, demon spawn?" he spat, staggering back.
Lin Feng advanced, veil shedding to reveal eyes aglow with inner storm. Pity warred with resolve— these men were Shen's blades, but beneath the cruelty, desperation etched their faces, meridians warped by the same hunger that drove him. "A spark on the path," he said softly. "Return to your widow. Tell her the vial stays, and the shadows lift. Or the void claims all."
The bandit fled, cloak torn, limping into the underbrush. Silence descended, broken only by settling dust and Lin Feng's ragged breaths. His dantian ached, the pearl dimmed to a ember, backlash seeping in as phantom voids nibbling at his edges—heart demon whispers, faint but insidious: Power's price, devour or be devoured. He quaffed the vial then, emerald liquid burning down his throat like liquid starfire, condensing ambient Qi into a rush that stabilized his core. Visions flickered: cycles of creation, warnings of greater hunts.
The remainder of the trail passed unmolested, Willowbrook's bustle a distant memory as Yunshan reappeared like a faithful sentinel. Villagers greeted his return with the day's end chorus—supper smells wafting, lanterns kindling—but Lin Feng's thoughts raced ahead. Shen's web connected to larger threads: the scholar, the peaks' observer. The pendant confirmed it, runes shifting to form a partial map—ruins in the northern foothills, caches of primordial relics guarded by trials.
That eve, over congee thickened with wild greens, Old Man Wei pierced the veil. "Trouble on the road, lad? Your eyes carry storms." Lin Feng confessed fragments—the ambush, the vial—omitting the pendant's role. Wei's face darkened, pipe forgotten. "Widow Shen's vipers. She's no mere brewer; ties to rogue sects, sniffing for talents to harvest." He leaned close, voice a conspirator's hush. "The Azure trials draw such vermin. Prepare not just body, but guile. And this..." He pressed a small talisman into Lin Feng's palm—a jade slip etched with basic evasion arrays, his own failed youth's remnant. "From one who knows the fall. Use it well."
Gratitude swelled, a bridge across generations. As night deepened, Lin Feng meditated under the stars, Qi replenished by the vial, pushing toward Stage 1 peak. Dreams wove richer: allies in azure robes, a fierce maiden with wind-swept hair; betrayals in shadowed halls, the cloaked observer unmasked as a sect elder with abyssal ambitions. The Shadow Abyss loomed larger, fissures widening to swallow plains, demon Qi birthing horrors that clawed at the veil.
Days accelerated, a montage of rigor: dawn spars in the woods, fists blurring into afterimages; midday infusions to the temple gardens, yields doubling under subtle chaos; evenings charting the pendant's map, committing ruin coordinates to memory. Whispers amplified—Yunshan's orphan, blessed or cursed?—drawing a trickle of supplicants: a fevered elder eased by healing touch, a barren field coaxed to bloom. Wang Li resurfaced once, from afar, gaze averted, a nod of grudging respect the only bridge.
The first moon waned when the omen struck. A spirit wolf pack—five alphas with pelts like midnight threaded with silver Qi—descended from the peaks, eyes glowing with abyssal taint. The village mobilized, torches and pitchforks a frail phalanx, but Lin Feng stood forefront, pendant blazing. He unleashed Primordial Echo on the alpha, chaos mirroring the pack's howl into a dissonant wave that shattered their formation, wolves fleeing with yips of confusion. Cheers erupted, but Lin Feng saw the truth: the beasts bore the abyss's mark, black veins pulsing under fur—harbingers, not hunters.
Word spread, reaching Azure Cloud's ears prematurely. A messenger bird arrived at dawn of the second moon, azure feathers shimmering, a scroll clutched in talons: Lin Feng of Yunshan, your deeds echo. Present at the trials. The clouds await. Signed by Elder Yun himself.
Elation warred with dread. The hunt intensified: shadows in the woods, fleeting glimpses of serpent-cloaked figures; Scholar