The fragrance of sandalwood drifted softly through the chamber.
Inside a lavish room—lavish in the way wealth speaks without words—the morning sunlight poured through tall, arched windows draped in translucent veils of pale jade silk. Ornamental pillars carved with coiling dragons supported a ceiling painted with scenes of cloud-wrapped mountains. The floorboards were polished so clean they reflected light like still water. An intricate snow-lotus carpet lay beneath a low circular tea table made of red sandalwood, its surface engraved with flowing cloud patterns. A faint golden glow shimmered throughout the room, cast by spirit stones embedded into lanterns shaped like blooming chrysanthemums.
It was a room that didn't merely show wealth—it radiated the authority of the number-one merchant group in the Southern Plains.
In this chamber sat a young maiden, her posture refined, her presence dignified.
Bai Lianxue, the Third Young Miss of the White Dragon Hall.
Her beauty was the kind that felt almost unreal—skin fair as the first snow of winter, long jet-black hair cascading like silken ink, and eyes of cool emerald that reflected calm intelligence. The green silk robe wrapping her slender figure shimmered with spirit-woven threads, subtle but unmistakably luxurious.
She held a porcelain teacup lightly between her fingers as she read through a series of letters. The jade rings on her hands glimmered each time she shifted the pages.
And then—
A smile curled at the edge of her lips.
Soft. Refined. Certain.
"Everything is progressing exactly as planned," she murmured, her voice like cool spring water. "Six months of maneuvering, scheming, and burning resources without restraint… finally, it is time to claim my place in the succession competition."
Her eyes gleamed—not with excitement, but with cold, steady ambition.
A soft step came from behind.
Mei Qinglan—her personal attendant—approached with measured grace. A young woman in her early twenties, she wore simple but neat azure robes, her black hair tied with a ribbon. She lacked extravagant ornaments, yet her composure gave her an elegant air.
She bowed respectfully and gently lifted the empty teacup from the table.
"Young Miss," she spoke softly, "the results truly align with your expectations."
Before Bai Lianxue could reply, another voice came—firmer, deeper.
"Young Miss's strategies have always been flawless," Yun Heshan said, stepping forward.
A tall, broad-shouldered man, Yun Heshan exuded the quiet steadiness of a mountain. His cultivation—entry stage of the Peak Realm—radiated from him subtly, like a silent storm held in restraint.
Beside him, Fen Ruoxing bowed as well. Slender, sharp-eyed, light on her feet—the pinnacle of a first-rate martial artist. Her presence was like a flickering star, elusive yet clearly dangerous.
"There is no chance your plans would ever fail," Fen Ruoxing added with respectful certainty. "You are destined to be the future head of the White Dragon Hall."
Praise filled the air… but Bai Lianxue's expression did not waver.
Her steady emerald gaze remained calm, untouched by flattery.
"Schemes succeed only when one does not lose themselves to praise," she replied lightly.
She rose from her seat, the hem of her silk robe brushing the lotus-patterned carpet. Her steps were graceful as she approached the window.
"Strategist Cho," she said without turning her head, "send the final instructions to Bai Hanyue."
A voice came from near the doorway.
"At once, Young Miss."
A middle-aged man with keen, calculating eyes stepped forward. Strategist Cho was neither tall nor imposing, but his presence was sharp—like a blade hidden beneath cloth. His dark hair had begun to grey at the temples, but his mind remained vigilant.
He bowed deeply before exiting with swift footsteps.
Bai Lianxue looked outside.
The view from her chamber encompassed nearly the entire White Dragon Hall branch. Towering buildings made of white stone and carved wood dotted the landscape. Spirit beasts pulled merchant caravans in orderly lines. Vendors called out prices. Dozens of carriages entered and exited the main gate, each stamped with the emblem of a soaring white dragon.
People bustled everywhere—cultivators, merchants, negotiators, guards. A blend of wealth and vitality.
It was a magnificent sight.
A world built by gold, influence, and silent power plays.
"The fruits are ripe," Bai Lianxue whispered, her eyes growing colder. "And it is time to harvest."
Her attendants bowed their heads simultaneously, sensing the shift in her aura.
Today marked the true beginning.
The start of a storm that would engulf Yunlai Village.
⸻
Flowing Cloud Sect — Sect Leader's Hall
At that same hour, far from the merchant hall's grandeur, a suffocating silence filled the main hall of the Flowing Cloud Sect.
Thick stone pillars supported the dimly lit chamber. Flickering torches cast wavering shadows on the floor. The air was heavy, tense—like a bowstring drawn to its limit.
Li Cheng knelt on the cold stone tiles, his back straight but sweat rolling down his spine.
In front of him sat Li Hong, Sect Leader of the Flowing Cloud Sect.
Despite looking in his sixties, Li Hong had eyes sharp enough to pierce through steel—eyes that had seen countless battles and crushed countless opponents. His long greying hair was tied behind his back, and his black and crimson sect robes carried a faint scent of old blood and medicinal herbs.
"Repeat your words," Li Hong commanded, his voice low.
Li Cheng swallowed hard. The memory of Aelric's crimson gaze still haunted him.
"Father… I—I cannot determine his cultivation or strength. He subdued my bodyguard instantly. Not even a blur of movement… no signs of inner energy… just—just a gaze." His voice trembled. "It must have been a pressure-point technique, but… but I've never seen anything like it."
Li Hong's expression darkened further. The torchlight reflected sharply in his fierce eyes.
"And you are certain that you are not exaggerating his abilities?"
Li Cheng shook his head quickly.
"I am at the pinnacle of Qi Gathering… yet even I couldn't perceive him. His eyes—father, his eyes were like a predator staring at prey. I do not believe he is easy to deal with."
Silence settled again, colder this time.
After a long moment, Li Hong spoke slowly.
"We cannot allow a single man—a stranger who appeared out of nowhere—to ruin months of preparation."
He leaned forward, voice dropping with steel-hard certainty.
"All our agreements with Branch Manager Bai are finalized. The White Dragon Hall has already placed its bet on us. The spirit realm must fall into our hands—no matter the method."
Li Cheng nodded quickly. "But father… divine doctor won't join us."
Li Hong's expression turned colder than ice.
"Then he will die."
Li Cheng stiffened.
Li Hong continued, voice devoid of hesitation:
"Contact the Silent Crown Sect. Tell them the divine doctor must not survive the night. I want him dead before sunrise."
His voice was decisive, ruthless.
"As long as he breathes, he remains a threat to the Flowing Cloud Sect… and to everything we have built."
Li Cheng bowed deeply, fear tightening his chest.
He understood now—
Aelric had been marked for death.
⸻
Azure Heaven Sect — Sect Leader's Private Chamber
Back at the Azure Heaven Sect, a heavy air lingered in the Sect Leader's private chamber.
Jian Wuhen sat stiffly, the lines around his eyes etched deeper than usual. His earlier calm had crumbled the moment Aelric spoke those chilling words.
"There will be no duel," Aelric had said.
"There will be a bloodbath, and the Azure Heaven Sect will be erased."
The words echoed again in Jian Wuhen's mind—sharp, merciless.
Jian Wuhen's voice trembled with controlled anger.
"Senior Divine Doctor… you may be an esteemed guest of our sect, but such statements—such curses—cannot be spoken lightly!"
A cold gust seemed to sweep through the room, tension wrapping tight around both men.
Aelric, however, remained completely composed. His face unreadable.
"To escape calamity," he said quietly, his deep voice resonating like a slow bell, "one must first acknowledge it. A man who refuses to accept reality chooses his own destruction."
The poetic sharpness of his words cut the silence like a blade.
Jian Wuhen exhaled deeply as the anger ebbed from his eyes. He bowed his head slightly.
"I… spoke out of agitation. Forgive my discourtesy."
Aelric gave no response—only an indifferent glance.
Jian Wuhen continued, struggling to steady his breath.
"With White Dragon Hall acting as spectator, and another sect supporting the Flowing Cloud Sect… our situation is far more precarious than I thought."
His voice grew faint.
"What must we do?"
Aelric's calm voice answered:
"Clear the room."
Jian Wuhen hesitated—but a single look into Aelric's crimson eyes made his breath halt. He waved his hand, and the six hidden guards—whose presence Aelric had sensed the moment he entered—retreated instantly.
Aelric and Jian Wuhen spoke alone.
For one and a half hours.
No one knew what was discussed.
But when Aelric finally stepped out of the chamber, the sect leader's expression was as hard as iron. His brows furrowed with the weight of new understanding. The tension in the air outside grew thick, and even the chirping cicadas seemed to fall strangely silent.
Night had fallen fully now. A faint wind rustled through the treetops, carrying the distant hoots of nocturnal spirit birds.
Aelric made his way back to his room, mind immersed in calculation.
Every possible path the Flowing Cloud Sect might take…
Every step the White Dragon Hall might have orchestrated…
Every piece of the puzzle…
All began aligning in his thoughts.
Yet one shadow hovered behind it all.
One hidden puppeteer.
He entered his room quietly and walked toward the window. Outside, the night sky stretched endlessly. The moon hung low and pale, clouds drifting across like thin veils.
Village torches flickered like dying stars. The distant silhouettes of forests swayed in rhythm with the cold night breeze.
Aelric's crimson eyes gleamed faintly, tinted with cold amusement.
"So… let's see," he murmured inwardly. "Let's see how this world fights… and how its blood flows."
As he turned away from the window, he felt it.
A faint killing intent.
Weak. Concealed. But unmistakably directed at him.
Aelric's lips curled upward.
"Let the blood be spilled," he said softly.
And the night suddenly felt much, much colder.