Li Wei and Leng Yue stepped into the swirling haze that cloaked the ancient crypt’s innermost sanctum. The hazy scent of ancient incense and plush clouds swallowed them whole as their footsteps clanged against tile-lined porcelain. Bitter wind shrieked through the skeletal gate overhead, sending chill tremors through the air. Beneath their breaths, they muttered low invocations—"May the Ancients light our path..."—yet dread lay heavy upon their shoulders.
anwhile, beyond these haunted walls, Li Wuji—a once-revered hunter of Blue Carp County—was locked in irons, and marched through Black Temple’s doom-laden archway. His once-lit form now moved with rigid purpose. Bound arms dug into leather with each step. Though his face was marred by spitting sneers of the guards, his eyes burned with a frost of malice so cold it could crack stone.
Bastards... his mind seethed, unseen behind the mask of controlled agony.
They hurled him into the cell with savage force. The iron door slamd, the reverberation rattling his bones like distant thunder. He spat into the gloom: "Bastards!" The echo swallowed his fury.
In that dim confinent, with ceilings lost to shadow, Li Wuji took careful inventory: rough-hewn stone walls, a narrow slit for light, and the stale stench of mildew. The air was thick with decay and despair.
"To think my own clansn could betray so thoroughly." His mory unraveled the betrayal—false charges, seized property, his every honor stripped by those who once shared his blood.
He sank to the ground, cold stone pressing into spine and soul, and cradled the wound near his chest. It had been the final thrust of treachery. With a asured breath, he plunged his hand into the wounded flesh. Anguish roared, yet he did not flinch. He worked his fingers deeper, searching. Minutes inched by.
Then—clink. A hollow tallic ring. He halted, paused, then, with a calculated grimace, extracted the object: a crimson orb, cold and humming with latent danger. The world around him rippled as though the orb exhaled a silent exultation.
"Fools," he rasped, voice brittle with pain. "The Jie Clan prized only what shined. They left this... their doom."
Blood stained the orb’s magic-veined surface, but his focus remained unswerving. Within, a smoky tempest writhed: the precious essence of a Blood Deity—an Imperial Martial Saint’s quintessence: red as wrath, thick as fate.
Li Wuji studied it. A faint curl of hatred twisted his lips. "This will be the turning point of my fate." Steeling himself, he crushed the orb in his palm. It shattered, releasing a coil of smoke that slithered like living fla, filling the cell’s tight space. He trembled—not from fear, but from anticipation.
With a hoarse command, he whispered to the mist: "Co!" The red wind swirled, spiraled faster, then shot into his ear. White-hot pain blood, then cascaded into the marrow of his bones. In that silence, the stages of his cultivation leapt forward: from Origin Gathering to Qi Shattering seventh stage in re breaths.
"What is that commotion?" Outside, in the dreary corridor, unknowing guards shuffled.
Inside, Li Wuji sat cross-legged, eyes closed. His cell lay peaceful—the world unmoved—but within him, a revolution raged. Symbols of power, ephera of martial ascension flashed: mid-Origin, late-Origin, peak-Origin... first Qi Shattering... seventh Qi Shattering...
A voice as soft as dusk and as potent as doom broke the silence: ethereal and crimson, it rumbled in his mind:
"The path of cultivation is thorned with hardship, but the inheritance you have unlocked grants passage through the realms unhindered. Do you accept this power?"
A lotus of blood-red petals—ethereal, otherworldly—coalesced in the smoke before him. Li Wuji parted his lips, voice solemn:
"I accept."
At his vow, crimson tendrils of energy sprang forth from his temples, weaving into three floating manuals of blood-red phosphorescence. Their aura was so heavy that death itself shuddered under their weight.
He froze. He had never dreamt such treasures would appear so soon.
"T—these are Sky-tier martial art manuals..." His voice faltered. Such treasures could not exist. Such power was only whispered. Possession would invite a storm of hunters—masters of the Five Realms, emperors of war, seeking blood and supremacy.
Yet here they hovered, inviting him.
The ethereal lotus glowed ferociously—nearly blinding—then silently manifested a fourth, a jet-black manual that reeked of portentous malevolence. The cell’s walls pulsed with dread.
Three red. One black. Four sky-tier treasures, hung in the gloom like crucifixes. Their intent: challenge, or damnation.
"Sky-tier is not enough!" the lotus voice crackled. "Only those with the true heart of a saint may wield true arts."
Li Wuji inhaled deeply, fire raging in his eyes. The lotus’s judgent weighed upon him. Yet he had no choice. With a steady tone, he replied:
"Then I shall prove my worth with blood."
At once, the lotus faded. The red smoke converged, forming the orb once more. It descended into Wuji’s clasp. He exhaled.
A brittle silence followed.
Then, from the lotus’s own voice, the nas of the texts wove through the air:
"Ardent Gates: Sky-tier cultivation technique. Master it and you shall withstand rivals from realms above your own, your body forged in celestial fire."
"Five Yaksha Palm: Sky-tier martial art. Novice level reduces re beasts to ashes; Adept shakes valleys; Master-level rends all below void-shatter."
"Ghost Martial Claw: Sky-tier art. A novice rips iron as if paper; Adept sunder masters; Grandmaster can tear space’s veil."
"Devil Fla Fist: Sky-tier. Novice can punch through castle walls; Adept evaporates lakes; Master obliterates all matter itself."
Li Wuji’s gaze shimred with reverent hunger. In his heartbeat, he recognized the magnitude: these four nd not rely flesh—but fate.
A snake’s grin curled on his blood-stained lips. He opened the Ardent Gates, traced crimson lines with shaking fingers. His lips ford silent incantations. The air rippled, and within the gloom of the cell, runes burned, casting shadows like living scripture.
He passed his hand over the Five Yaksha Palm manual... mindful of its latent devastation. He morized the ridians, the focus of chi, the path of wrath. Under his breath, he recited:
"Yaksha’s heart is stone... Yaksha’s fury is fla."
The cell trembled.
He paused only to gather strength, collect focus, then turned to the Ghost Martial Claw. Flickering lights danced like stars in the gloom. He inhaled sharply, drained all unease, and extended his fingers—one, two, three—feeling the sudden rush of power. Steel nearby creaked. Bone-deep pressure pulsed in his fingertips.
Lastly, he embraced the Devil Fla Fist. He looked at the rough wall before him... and punched. The strike cracked the stone. Dust curled upward like smoke in a funeral pyre. His knuckles glowed temporarily, as if they were lit by molten suns.
Li Wuji staggered back. His breath rattled. Sweat and blood trailed down his temples. Magma-red runic tattoos had blood across his skin. The air was thick with brimstone and power.
He looked at his hands, then the manuals, then at the iron bars of the cell door. He whispered:
"This... is but the dawn."
In the corridors, footsteps paused. Guards exchanged looks. Deep inside, in that forsaken crypt, a storm was brewing—a storm that would rise and break upon Jade Halls, Black Temples, and the very heart of the Jie Clan.
And in the stillness, Li Wuji—no longer a prisoner of mortals or fate—grinned with savage might.
The twilight of an unjust captive yields a crimson dawn... and the world shall quake beneath his vengeance.
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