For half a year, Zhang Tian had reached toward it in meditation, in silence, in desperation. At first with curiosity. Then with hope. Then with stubborn persistence. But the monolith in his spiritual consciousness—dark, massive, ancient—had never responded. Not once.

  No flicker. No hum. No ripple of resonance.Only silence.Stillness.

  As if it had nothing to do with him.

  The ck of response had gnawed at him more than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t that he expected power to fall into his p. He’d stopped believing in luck long ago. But the simple refusal—its sheer indifference—felt like a quiet insult he couldn’t ignore.

  Whatever the Stoneheart was, it seemed content to sleep. And that silence, more than the sand, more than the thirst, more than the aching in his bones—was what frustrated him the most.

  I didn’t choose this world, he thought. I didn’t ask for any of this. The least you could do is answer me.

  But the Stoneheart, like the desert sky, offered nothing in return.

  And so, Zhang Tian walked on—feet blistered, heart simmering, and spirit quiet.

  Still waiting.

  Three days passed.

  By now, the sun felt less like light and more like pressure—a smothering weight pressing down from above. The dunes stretched endlessly, but the horizon had begun to shift.

  A flicker of green appeared.

  At first, it was a lone tree, barely visible, its dark canopy peeking above the golden dunes. But soon after, more signs followed: patches of vine-choked ruins, clusters of stubborn shrubs, and a partially buried pyramid—its ancient stone stairs barely visible beneath the sand.

  They were nearing the edge of the forest.

  Soft murmurs ran through the group, a mix of disbelief and awe. Even Zhang Tian, sore and sweat-streaked, blinked hard as he looked up from his beast’s back, uncertain if it was real or mirage.

  But it was real.

  The immortal seedlings—tired, worn, and thinned in number—continued their journey mounted on beasts bred for endurance. Their massive, tiger-horse hybrids snorted beneath the burden of dust, muscle, and long hours. The mounts, like their riders, were nearing their limits.

  At the front of the caravan, Xiao Fang, a true cultivator already well into her journey, sat calmly atop her own tiger mount. Her eyes swept the line of disciples behind her before settling again on the sight ahead.

  She allowed herself a rare smile.

  “We’ve entered the transitional zone,” she announced. “That forest marks the edge of sect-protected territory. Once we reach it, there will be rest, water, and natural essence veins to help you recover.”

  A wave of restrained hope stirred in the group. Even the beasts lifted their heads slightly, their pace tightening as the scent of trees rode faintly on the wind.

  But Xiao Fang’s expression turned serious once more.

  “Don’t be fooled by what you see,” she continued. “That treetop is only the beginning. It will take us a week and a half more to reach the forest floor. Between here and there lie ravines, buried ruins, and terrain made for ambushes.”

  She held up a glowing jade talisman.

  “I’ve received word from the sect. A welcoming party will be waiting at the edge to escort us in.”

  Though the information sparked some relief, none of the immortal seedlings cheered. Too much had been lost to lower their guard now.

  What unsettled Xiao Fang more than anything was the silence.

  Despite all they’d faced—bandits, beasts, hostile terrain—the Golden Beast Sect had made no move. No interception. No pressure. No sign they were even aware of the group’s position.

  And yet Xiao Fang knew they were.

  They hadn’t forgotten. They were merely waiting.

  Perhaps the sect’s assassins were already ahead, hidden. Perhaps they followed at a distance, cloaked in concealment techniques. Perhaps they watched, waiting for a moment of weakness.

  Or perhaps they intended to strike just before safety.

  The final blow, when defenses lowered and fatigue clouded instincts.

  Xiao Fang didn’t voice her concerns.

  Instead, she sent a quiet transmission through the talisman, instructing the outer sect seniors to widen their scouting formation and keep essence concealment measures active.

  As they pressed forward across the shifting sands, the immortal seedlings followed quietly—thirteen now, from the original eighteen. The beasts' paws sank deep into the dunes, and the wind howled softly across the ridges.

  The forest was close.

  But the forest could also be the trap.

  And Xiao Fang, hardened by experience, trusted nothing until they passed its roots in one piece.

  Two days ter, the calm shattered.

  The group was navigating a winding path between sand-bsted pyramids when the wind shifted—and the sand beneath their beasts began to churn.

  Without warning, a massive sand beast erupted from the ground. Its scaled body resembled that of a desert crocodile, but its eyes shimmered violet, and rippled fins fred along its shoulders, glowing faintly with spiritual energy. The aura it radiated was unmistakable—upper Qi Condensation.

  Three more followed, each slithering through the dunes, snapping with jagged teeth and exuding the pressure of mid-stage spiritual beasts.

  Before the group could respond, a sharp screech echoed from the ridge above. A massive, goril-shaped beast—coated in obsidian fur and armored with bone-pted arms—descended like a meteor, crashing into Xiao Fang’s tiger mount and kicking up a wall of dust and pressure.

  Xiao Fang met it mid-air with a burst of glistening blue energy—water qi surging from her palm like a crashing tide. Their strikes collided, sending ripples through the air, spraying sand and essence alike in a glittering wave.

  Then—chaos.

  Masked attackers in pin brown robes surged out from behind the dunes, weapons raised, spiritual talismans igniting in their hands. Their faces were hidden. Their affiliation was not.

  The Golden Beast Sect had struck.

  “Form ranks! Shield the immortal seedlings!” Xiao Fang’s voice rang out across the battlefield, calm but sharp, rippling like the surface of water under sudden pressure. “Engage with water control—flood and deflect!”

  Her disciples responded instantly. Spheres of rippling blue essence erupted around them as they invoked sect techniques. Arcs of condensed water curved through the air like whip bdes, sharp and flowing. Defensive spells were cast—mist barriers, water films that absorbed spiritual projectiles, and rushing strikes modeled after tidal currents.

  Zhang Tian was quickly pulled back behind the third perimeter, along with the other immortal seedlings, while the senior disciples engaged the ambushers head-on.

  One enemy in particur drew attention—a tall, broad-shouldered cultivator whose jawline was marked by jagged purple scales, and whose hands were sheathed in spirit-forged beast cws. His qi was thick, aggressive, wild. Upper Qi Condensation Realm.

  He was ter identified as Yan Hǔ, a field enforcer of the Golden Beast Sect—known for his beast-enhanced body refinement and pursuit tactics.

  He moved like a predator, tearing through a defensive line with brutal force, breaking through mist barriers with raw, pounding essence. A pair of senior disciples attempted to hold him back, weaving their water qi into twin serpents that lunged and coiled—but his cws shredded one serpent apart, and he smmed the second disciple into the sand.

  Just as Yan Hǔ prepared to move toward the protected seedlings, one of the outer sect seniors—who had previously concealed his power—suddenly released his aura in full.

  Upper Qi Condensation Realm.

  A geyser of emerald-tinged water qi erupted around him, forming sword waves that flowed forward like crescent-shaped tides. He cshed directly with Yan Hǔ, locking the beastman in a stunning back-and-forth of technique and force. Water rippled from every strike, soaking the sand and sending wet shards flying with every parried blow.

  Meanwhile, Xiao Fang battled the goril-like beast with graceful precision. Her movements were fluid, her counterattacks flowing like whirlpools—each one redirecting force and then releasing it in powerful strikes. A whip of spinning water burst from her palm and sliced deep into the beast’s arm. She bore a few injuries—charred skin across one shoulder, a shallow gash at her waist—but she never wavered.

  After several grueling minutes, the Golden Beast Sect retreated. Three of their mid-stage cultivators y dead. Yan Hǔ bore a deep wound in his side and a scorched cw, retreating with a venomous gre and a vow unspoken.

  But the Water Serenity Sect had not gone unscathed.

  One of their senior disciples was badly wounded, and several others were bruised or drained. Xiao Fang herself showed light injuries, though she stood tall, eyes scanning the dunes for signs of a second wave.

  She gathered the group quickly.

  “That,” she said with a tight breath, “was only the first wave.”

  She looked over the immortal seedlings—each pale, shaken, but alive.

  “Some of you still believe this world has rules. That righteousness is a banner carried with clean hands.”

  She let the silence settle.

  “The Golden Beast Sect, like many others, wears the robe of virtue. But beneath it, they are no different from the ones they condemn. In this world, hypocrisy is tradition. And if you want to survive, you must learn to see past appearances.”

  She paused, eyes locking with Zhang Tian’s for the briefest moment before drifting to the forest in the far distance.

  “Prepare yourselves. More will come.”