A hundred years ago, the Azure Wind Sect stood among the top five powers of the Azure Wind Region.
Its sword qi once split clouds.
Its disciples once walked with pride.
Its ancestor once entered the Crimson Lotus Secret Realm with twenty elders at his back and ambition blazing in his eyes.
He never returned.
The elders never returned.
The Lotus Realm sealed.
And in one single night, the pillar of the sect collapsed.
The wind that night had howled like a funeral hymn.
Lan Qingyun remembered it clearly.
He had been young then — barely past Foundation Establishment — standing beneath the ancestral hall's eaves, watching lanterns sway violently.
The sect bells rang.
Not celebration.
Not breakthrough.
But mourning.
The tablets in the ancestral hall cracked one by one.
First the elders.
Then the Grand Elder.
Then—
The Ancestor.
The brightest name on the central jade plaque dimmed like a dying ember.
The entire mountain seemed to sigh.
From that day forward, everything changed.
Without its Nascent Soul Ancestor, the sect's standing plummeted.
Neighboring powers circled.
Trade routes shifted.
Allies grew distant.
Enemies grew bold.
The next sect master — Elder Wei — inherited a throne of cracks.
He was Peak Golden Core.
Powerful.
Respected.
But not invincible.
And in the world of cultivation, not invincible was the same as vulnerable.
Lan Qingyun cultivated.
He trained.
He waited.
He believed.
Because he was not of this world.
He had awakened in this body one hundred years ago.
He had believed, like every transmigrator in the stories he once read, that something extraordinary would happen.
A system.
A treasure.
A destiny.
Something.
Anything.
He waited a year.
Nothing.
He waited ten.
Nothing.
He waited fifty.
Still nothing.
By seventy, he stopped looking at the sky expectantly.
By eighty, he stopped muttering in empty rooms.
By ninety, he laughed at himself.
At one hundred—
He no longer cared.
He reached Mid Golden Core through patience.
Through discipline.
Through accepting reality instead of arguing with it.
He was not a genius.
His talent was average.
His comprehension moderate.
His luck unremarkable.
But he endured.
And in cultivation, endurance was its own kind of talent.
The decline of Azure Wind Sect was not sudden.
It was slow.
Like a blade rusting.
Like paint peeling.
Like pride fading from disciples' eyes.
The spirit fields yielded less each year.
The defensive formation flickered during storms.
Outer disciples whispered about transferring.
And then came the breaking point.
Senior Brother Lu left first.
A genius sword cultivator.
He bowed respectfully in the main hall.
"Sect Master, the Verdant Mountain Sect has offered me Elder position."
Elder Wei said nothing for a long time.
Lan Qingyun stood at the side, hands folded into sleeves.
Finally—
"Go."
Just that.
No shouting.
No pleading.
Lu left.
Then Senior Sister Mei.
Then the twin brothers.
Then three inner disciples.
They took with them the most promising juniors.
They took manuals.
They took connections.
They took momentum.
And each time, Elder Wei aged a little more.
One evening, after another departure, Elder Wei sat with Lan Qingyun beneath the old pine tree overlooking the valley.
"Qingyun," the old master said quietly, "do you resent them?"
Lan Qingyun shook his head.
"No."
"Why?"
"They are pursuing stronger paths."
The old master studied him.
"And you?"
Lan Qingyun looked toward the distant mountains.
"I chose to stay."
"Why?"
He did not answer immediately.
Because once, long ago, he had stayed because he thought destiny would descend from the sky.
Now—
He stayed because someone had to.
Years passed.
The pine tree grew twisted.
Elder Wei grew thin.
Azure Wind Sect shrank.
By the time Lan Qingyun was declared successor, there were barely fifty young disciples left.
Most with mediocre aptitude.
Some with outright poor foundations.
None extraordinary.
The mountain was quiet now.
Too quiet.
Present Day
The training grounds were dusty.
Wooden practice swords clashed weakly.
Qi fluctuations were thin and unstable.
Lan Qingyun stood watching them from the terrace.
His long hair was tied loosely.
His robes simple.
His presence steady.
He looked younger than his age suggested.
Golden Core preserved vitality.
But his eyes carried a hundred years of waiting.
"Strike with intent," he called out.
A young disciple stumbled mid-form.
"Your wrist is loose. Again."
The boy flushed and corrected his stance.
Another girl coughed after circulating qi.
Her meridians were narrow.
Poor foundation.
He made a mental note to adjust her breathing method.
Trash talents?
No.
Just unpolished stones.
Maybe cracked stones.
But still stones.
Behind him, footsteps echoed weakly.
He turned.
Elder Wei stood supported by a wooden cane.
His aura had grown unstable.
Golden Core fluctuations flickered like a candle in wind.
Lan Qingyun stepped forward immediately.
"Master."
Elder Wei smiled faintly.
"You are watching them again."
"They lack guidance."
"They lack talent."
Lan Qingyun did not reply.
Elder Wei's gaze swept over the disciples below.
"I failed."
"You did not."
"I could not protect our ranking. Could not keep the genius disciples. Could not break through."
Silence settled between them.
Finally—
"Qingyun."
"Yes, Master."
"After I pass… the sect will be yours."
Lan Qingyun's jaw tightened slightly.
"You will not pass."
The old man chuckled weakly.
"Even Golden Core ends."
A cough.
Blood at the corner of his lips.
"Promise me one thing."
Lan Qingyun bowed.
"I promise."
"Do not let the Azure Wind name vanish."
The wind moved gently through the terrace.
Disciples below continued clumsy forms.
The once top-five sect now barely within top twenty.
Maybe worse.
Lan Qingyun lowered his head deeper.
"I will not."
That night, the sky was quiet.
Too quiet.
Lan Qingyun sat alone in the ancestral hall.
The ancestor's tablet stood cracked but intact.
He stared at it for a long time.
A hundred years.
He had waited.
Waited for opportunity.
Waited for miracle.
Waited for something.
Nothing came.
He exhaled slowly.
"Enough waiting."
Far away, thunder rumbled.
Not storm.
Not tribulation.
Just distant clouds shifting.
Lan Qingyun stood.
If no destiny would descend—
He would build his own.
Even if the sect had only fifty mediocre disciples.
Even if neighboring sects mocked them.
Even if the world forgot their former glory.
Azure Wind Sect would not die quietly.
Not while he still breathed.