The Golden Beast Sect had retreated.

  Three of their mid-stage cultivators y dead, and even Yan Hǔ, their purple-scaled enforcer, had been forced to retreat with a deep gash across his fnk and scorched cw gauntlets. He hadn’t said a word—but the fury in his retreating eyes promised that this wasn’t over.

  The battle had been fierce, and for a time, the outcome uncertain.

  If not for one decisive moment, the loss might have been greater.

  During the csh, one of the senior disciples—previously thought to be in the mid-stage of Qi Condensation—had suddenly erupted with immense spiritual pressure, revealing himself as an upper Qi Condensation cultivator. His name: Jin Yuan.

  Jin Yuan’s sudden surge of power had caught the enemy completely off guard. With water qi shaped into tidal bdes and crashing whirlpools, he had cleaved through one ambusher, wounded another, and directly engaged Yan Hǔ himself—preventing him from reaching the immortal seedlings a second time.

  His emergence had turned the tide.

  And yet, despite that heroic intervention, the cost remained.

  Not far from where Zhang Tian stood, the broken body of a senior disciple y cradled in the sand. Yan Hǔ’s strike—a vicious backhand cw across the chest—had torn through his defense, cutting deep into his core and shattering his cultivation. His robe was stained dark, torn down the center.

  He had shielded the immortal seedlings with his life.

  Xiao Fang knelt beside him, hands glowing faintly with a stabilizing pulse of essence. But her silence said everything. The damage couldn’t be reversed.

  His breath came in short, fading gasps. One eye fluttered open.

  “I’m… not making it,” he rasped, voice thin and wet.

  Xiao Fang said nothing at first. She only nodded and leaned closer. “Then give me your final wish.”

  His fingers twitched weakly. “My sister… Yanyan. She’s in the vilge by the southern mountain pass. Doesn’t know about the sect. Doesn’t know I’m gone. Just… keep her safe. Please.”

  Her expression softened, just slightly.

  “I will,” she promised. “You have my word as a cultivator of the Water Serenity Sect.”

  A tear slid from the corner of his eye. His breathing slowed.

  “Thank you…”

  With a whisper of water essence, she pced her palm gently over his chest. The qi condensed—sharp, clean, without pain.

  “Rest now,” she said.

  One silent pulse. Then stillness.

  The desert winds stirred again. The disciples—young and old—watched in silence. Even the beasts had gone quiet.

  He had no great title. No glory. No reputation. But he had given his life so they could live.

  Zhang Tian stood frozen, the image etched into his mind. He didn’t even know the man’s name.

  But he would remember his face.

  Xiao Fang rose, brushing sand from her knees, her eyes cold and sharp once more. She turned to face them, the weight of leadership returning like a mantle.

  “This is the path of cultivation. Not the tournaments. Not the lectures. This.”

  Her gaze swept over the thirteen remaining seedlings.

  “He died protecting all of you. He died doing what he swore to do. Never forget that.”

  A pause. Her voice softened, but her tone remained steel.

  “We move. Now.”

  And so they did—one less than before. But each of them walked forward carrying something heavier than exhaustion.

  And far behind, the wind carried the silence of a promise fulfilled.

  A Day Later — Rain Season

  It was night, and the rain fell like silver spears, sshing against the shattered ruins of what had once been a small outpost. The skies above were alive with thunder—lightning twisting through the clouds like dragons crawling and roaring in fury.

  The rain season had arrived—an unpredictable, often violent time near the bordernds of the Water Serenity Sect. On most days, weather meant little to cultivators. But during these rare elemental storms, even those in the Qi Condensation Realm had to tread carefully. The natural world, infused with wild elemental force, became something far more dangerous.

  Inside a partially colpsed stone building, the remaining entourage had taken shelter.

  A first-rank hiding formation had been activated by one of the senior disciples who specialized in formations—dimming their spiritual presence, cloaking them from beast and man alike.

  Within the dim structure, the fire crackled softly—its embers glowing orange in the darkness, hissing quietly with each drop of rain that managed to slip through cracks in the roof. Shadows danced on the broken walls, reflected in tired, alert eyes. No one dared speak loudly. No one dared go outside.

  Even the Golden Beast Sect, wherever they were, would not brave this night. The storms were too violent. Talisman communications barely worked in these conditions. Thunder disrupted spiritual signatures. Wind scattered qi like dry leaves.

  For the first time in weeks, there was no pursuit. No death. No pressure.

  Just a fragile moment of silence.

  Zhang Tian’s Nightmare

  But Zhang Tian knew no peace.

  He y curled near the fire, eyes shut tight, body trembling slightly in his sleep.

  He was dreaming. No—drowning.

  In his nightmare, he was once again being chased—through the twisting woods near the Yellow Dragon River, a bestial roar howling behind him. As he turned to leap across a ravine, the ground vanished—and he fell, only to crash into a violent, surging river.

  He kicked. Struggled. Fought to surface.

  But something was holding him down.

  He looked—and saw a hand, bloody and nail-less, clutching at his leg. A girl’s face stared up at him from the depths—the girl who had “died” during the entry trial, her neck torn and her mouth sck with death.

  Her dead eyes stared through him.

  He screamed, kicking wildly, trying to break free. But her grip held fast. The light above him dimmed as he was pulled down—down into a spinning whirlpool, a tunnel of darkness swallowing everything.

  Then—impact.

  He fell into the gaping mouth of a massive desert worm, its throat a tunnel of jagged teeth. He closed his eyes, bracing for pain—but opened them again to find himself standing in the middle of a silent desert.

  Across from him stood a figure cloaked in shadow, a demonic aura radiating like bck fire.

  Zhang Tian looked down.

  A knife was buried in his abdomen.

  The pain was slow to register. His hands trembled. His eyes widened in horror and disbelief. He staggered back—only for the knife to be ripped out, the blood warm and endless.

  He colpsed into the sand.

  Only to find himself caught—arms around him, holding him upright.

  Xiao Fang.

  She was looking down at him, her face calm, composed.

  Then her expression shifted.

  Her smile grew wide—too wide.

  Too wrong.

  Her features twisted, rippling like water, until her face morphed into Yan Hǔ’s, his purple-scaled grin splitting wide with cruel satisfaction.

  Zhang Tian screamed.

  But no sound came.

  His limbs were paralyzed, his body refusing to obey. The dream dissolved into squirming illusions—a thousand flickering images crawling across the darkness like insects, each one whispering fear.

  Yan Hǔ loomed over him, silent and still. Watching.

  Zhang Tian tried to move, to cry out, to fight—but he could only watch as everything around him warped and twisted into a formless nightmare.

  Then—

  He gasped, eyes snapping open.

  The fire crackled nearby.

  His robe clung to his sweat-drenched skin, breath heaving. His chest felt tight, like the air refused to stay inside his lungs.

  He sat upright, blinking rapidly. His heart still pounded. The world around him was real again. The rain continued to batter the broken walls. Shadows flickered quietly in the fme’s low light.

  Yan Hǔ was gone.

  It was only a dream.

  But the fear lingered.

  And in that moment, surrounded by the quiet storm and the muted presence of sleeping cultivators, Zhang Tian felt small again. Helpless.

  More than ever, he understood—he was not ready for this world.

  Not yet.