Violet sparks arced closer, illuminating the terrified laborers, who scattered like dry leaves in a gale. Commander Rhuol and his remaining Crimson Cinder Enforcers, their faces pale, instinctively took defensive stances, but even their hardened expressions showed raw dread. This was an act of the firmament, beyond mortal power. He Chuan felt raw, crackling pressure descend, prickling his skin. Guci was right. He had brought down the cosmic jealousy that snuffed out prodigies. Before despair could pin him, a blur of white and brown fur shot past his ankles. Baozi, his dumpling-shaped body wobbling with frantic speed, began to dig. His small paws were a furious whirlwind, throwing up clods of dirt and loose stones. He wasn’t running for cover. He was digging a trench, a shallow, absurd groove around He Chuan’s feet, his little nose twitching, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. It was a futile gesture, a spirit badger’s desperate attempt to ground a heavenly tribulation, but the sight of his fierce loyalty, his innocent belief, punched through He Chuan’s carefully constructed wall of indifference. A strange warmth spread through He Chuan’s chest, melting the ice around his heart, just for a moment. He looked down at the tiny badger, then up at the roiling, vengeful sky. "Guci," he gritted out, his voice a low rumble, "Can you stop this?" “Stop it?!” Guci scoffed, though the spectral form in the pendant pulsed with agitation. “I’m a ghost, not a god! But… there might be a way to mask your aura. A temporary measure, mind you. It will drain me to my core, boy, and you owe me for this! Don’t you dare forget that!” “Just do it!” He Chuan snapped, the warmth in his chest hardening back into stubborn resolve. He would not let Baozi's frantic loyalty be in vain, nor would he let himself be crushed like a stray dog. Guci’s spectral form flared within the jade pendant, a blinding emerald light that pulsed outwards, enveloping He Chuan. An ancient, primeval tide washed over him, not painful, but profound, like being submerged in a frigid sea. He felt his connection to the volatile Edict of the Ashen Spark, to the chaotic currents surging within his newly forged meridian, dim, then vanish. It was as if a shroud had been thrown over his very essence, making him invisible to the cosmic eye. The churning black clouds overhead hesitated. The violet glare, poised to blast down, guttered and died. The suffocating pressure eased. Slowly, agonizingly, the clouds began to thin, to dissipate, revealing patches of the serene azure sky once more. The ominous hum faded into the gentle sigh of the mountain breeze. The premature tribulation had been averted. The outer servants stared, mouths agape. Rhuol and his enforcers lowered their blades, confusion warring with a profound sense of relief. He Chuan, the broken laborer, had not only defied them but had somehow stared down the wrath of the firmament. Baozi, exhausted, flopped onto his side, a tiny, satisfied whimper escaping him. The silence that followed was broken by a new sound – a distant, resonant hum, growing rapidly louder. A golden streak descended from the highest inner peak of the Mist-Piercing Pavilion, not with the uncontrolled fury of a storm, but with the deliberate, crushing presence of a true master. It was a descent of pure, unadulterated power, announcing itself to all. “It's the Senior Student!” someone whispered, the reverence in their voice thick with fear. “Zhao Feng!” Zhao Feng landed gracefully in the center of the outer valley, his golden robes shimmering, untouched by the dust and chaos. His face was sharp, almost hawkish, his eyes cold obsidian chips that swept across the cowering laborers before settling on He Chuan. A powerful aura, like a physical weight, pressed down, intended to force every laborer to their knees. It was a familiar display from inner peers, a crude assertion of dominance. But He Chuan, shielded by Guci's lingering veil and his own inherent stubbornness, remained standing, unbowed. “A peculiar energy flux,” Zhao Feng’s voice was smooth, deceptively calm, “A heavenly anomaly. Such a thing usually signifies the emergence of a rare treasure, or perhaps… a hidden prodigy.” His gaze sharpened on He Chuan, a predatory glint entering his eyes. “Tell me, base drudge, what arcane power did you foolishly unleash to draw the sky's notice? And where is the treasure it revealed?” He Chuan scoffed, a dry, dismissive sound that cut through the oppressive silence. “A treasure? Do you mean my own, unparalleled talent, Senior Student Zhao? Forgive me for not realizing my mere presence could cause such a ruckus.” He ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, a lazy, arrogant smirk playing on his lips. “As for an arcane power, perhaps you refer to the celestial aura radiating from my very being, so magnificent that even the skies themselves had to take a peek. A pity your own foundation is so… pedestrian. One might think an honored senior would cultivate something more than a glorified parlour trick to scare valley folk.” The air froze. Gasps erupted from the scattered workers. No one dared to speak to Zhao Feng like that. His face, previously calm, tightened. A vein throbbed on his temple. “Insolent trash,” he hissed, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You mock me? A broken drudge, mocking the first-ranked peer of the Mist-Piercing Pavilion?” Zhao Feng moved with the speed of a coiled viper. His hand shot out, not in a full-blown technique, but a swift palm thrust, imbued with enough force to shatter stone. It was a casual attack, meant to crush He Chuan's windpipe and send a clear message to any who dared defy him. “Duck left, pivot on your heel, elbow block!” Guci’s voice barked in He Chuan’s mind, a flash of pure tactical brilliance. The advice was instantaneous, precise. He Chuan reacted without thought, his body moving on instinct, a swift twitch honed by years of dodging more brutal blows. He ducked under Zhao Feng’s palm, pivoting sharply on his left heel, the golden-robed cultivator's palm whistling past where his head had been moments before. He Chuan then raised his elbow, a purely defensive, unrefined block, more a flailing instinct than a practiced move, but it was enough to deflect the follow-through of Zhao Feng’s hand, sending it harmlessly wide. Zhao Feng’s brows hitched, genuine shock crossing his features. His casual blow, meant to instantly incapacitate, had been effortlessly avoided, as if He Chuan had known precisely where it would land. The valley hands, who had braced themselves for He Chuan’s immediate demise, stared in stunned silence. “You… you dare evade my palm?” Zhao Feng’s voice was low, laced with venom. His aura flared, the pressure returning with renewed intensity, crackling with fury. He had been humiliated. In front of lowly workers, by a broken youth. “Very well. Your insolence demands a proper response. I, Zhao Feng, challenge you, He Chuan, to a death match in the upcoming Biannual Ranking Tournament’s final round!” The words hung heavy in the air, a death sentence. The Biannual Tournament was brutal, often lethal. A death match with the senior student was an unthinkable proposition for a fully cultivated inner fighter, let alone an enfeebled scullion. Zhao Feng then gestured to Baozi, who had just begun to stir, lifting his head. “And if you refuse, or should you fail to appear for our duel, that… ‘spirit-beast’ of yours will be forfeit. It will join my collection of other pitiful creatures in the Obsidian Pits, where they learn their place in the natural order.” Ice crept through He Chuan's veins, the lingering warmth from Baozi’s loyalty freezing solid. The Obsidian Pits were infamous, a brutal underground fighting arena where captured spirit-beasts were pitted against each other for the entertainment of peak elites, often to the death. Baozi, his wholesome, naive Baozi, forced to fight? Never. But a death match against Zhao Feng, with his shattered meridians and only the precarious Edict of the Ashen Spark, was certain doom. He was trapped. He had to accept, or Baozi would pay the price.

The Gathering Storm