For three days, Qi Shan Wei slept without dreams. His body lay still on the woven reed mat in the Pavilion's infirmary, yet the energy within him churned like a storm sealed inside a jar. Elders placed suppressing talismans around his bed, each sigil glowing faintly before dimming—overwhelmed by the prismatic aura that leaked from the boy even in unconsciousness.
By the fourth dawn, the talismans finally held. The prismatic glow dulled to a soft pulse. Shan Wei stirred.
Elder Lu, slumped in a chair nearby, jolted upright at the soft rustle of blankets."Shan Wei? Easy—don't sit up too fast."
The boy blinked, eyes adjusting to the filtered morning light. "I'm… alive?"
Lu exhaled. "Barely. You faced a tribulation meant for cultivators dozens of years older. And you survived it."
Shan Wei frowned. "It didn't feel like surviving… more like drowning in fire."
"Tribulations often feel like both," Lu said, pouring him warm herbal tea. "Pain and rebirth. And if you fail—just pain."
The boy accepted the cup with trembling hands. "Did I… hurt the mountain?"
Lu chuckled under his breath. "The mountain is older than your mistakes. Even so, you shook it well."
Before Shan Wei could reply, the door slid open. The Pavilion Master entered, robes unruffled, aura calm—yet the weight of the room seemed to shift with him. Elder Lu stood immediately and bowed.
"Master."
The old man's eyes drifted to the boy. "Stand, Qi Shan Wei."
The child wavered but managed to rise to his feet. The master studied him for a long moment—eyes tracing the faint prismatic mark that shimmered on the boy's wrist.
"You have awakened your Heavenly Flame prematurely," the master said. "Not through will—through fate."
Shan Wei lowered his head. "The heavens struck first."
"Indeed," the master murmured. "And they rarely strike without reason."
He folded his hands behind his back. "There are murmurs beyond these mountains. Whispers that the child of the Crimson Comet has touched tribulation lightning. Whispers that a prismatic light was seen across five valleys."
Elder Lu stiffened. "Master, the Pavilion boundaries are sealed. How could word escape so quickly?"
The old man's gaze darkened. "Because certain ears are always listening. Especially those belonging to the Hidden Sect of Guanyin Shade."
Shan Wei blinked. "Hidden Sect?"
The Pavilion Master nodded slowly."A sect older than ours. They do not teach. They do not trade. They collect. Talent, artifacts, and anything the heavens bless too brightly."
Lu clenched his jaw. "Vultures."
"Precisely," the master said softly. "And they have taken interest in you."
Shan Wei felt a chill coil around his spine. "Why? I haven't done anything."
"You were born," the master replied. "Sometimes, that is enough to provoke fear—or greed."
The boy's fists tightened. "Let them come then."
Lu placed a hand on his shoulder. "No. Let us prepare."
The Pavilion Master nodded. "Your training begins today. Not to make you stronger—but to help you survive what follows strength."
Shan Wei looked up. "Training? I can barely walk."
"Then you will learn to walk in pain," the master said calmly. "Pain is a loyal teacher."
The Pavilion's First Lesson
They brought him to a secluded garden where moss-covered stones formed a ring. Sunlight filtered through ancient pines, dappling the ground in soft gold. A gentle contrast to the fierceness that waited.
Elder Lu stood at one side. On the other, a younger man in green robes—lean, sharp-eyed, with an unfriendly smirk.
"This is Senior Disciple Yan Ming," Lu said. "One of our most disciplined cultivators."
Yan Ming bowed stiffly. "Master Lu says you survived a tribulation. Interesting." His gaze hardened. "Let's see if you can survive me."
Shan Wei swallowed. "I'm not… strong yet."
"Exactly why this is the right time," the master said from behind them. "Strength is most honest when weak."
Yan Ming stepped forward. "Lesson One: Flow with the world, or the world will break you. Let's see how you flow, little comet."
He snapped his fingers. A ripple of wind shot across the garden like an invisible whip. Shan Wei staggered, caught off guard, tumbling backward into the moss. He gasped, clutching his ribs.
Yan Ming didn't pause. Another flick—two wind-blades crossed paths, slicing past Shan Wei's hair and leaving faint cuts along his sleeve.
The boy scrambled upright, breath shaky. "Stop—"
"Lesson Two," Yan Ming said, voice cold as iron. "The world does not stop."
Wind surged again—three strikes this time. Shan Wei raised his arms instinctively—
And the prismatic flame within him surged in response.
A faint shimmer formed around his body, a translucent veil of shifting color. The wind-blades struck it—and broke apart like raindrops against stone.
Yan Ming froze. "What—?"
Elder Lu inhaled sharply. "A spontaneous defensive manifestation…"
The Pavilion Master nodded. "His flame protects instinctively. Even untrained, it has its own will."
Shan Wei, panting, stared at his hands. "I… didn't mean to do that."
"You will learn," the master said.
Yan Ming's eyes hardened—not with disdain now, but with something closer to respect. "Again."
This time, when the wind came, Shan Wei breathed—slow, steady, anchoring himself. The prismatic glow bloomed more gently, forming a thin barrier around him like a second skin.
Yan Ming grinned. "Good."
For the next two hours, the senior disciple battered him with elemental strikes—wind, water, vibrations of sound. Shan Wei endured them all—barely, trembling, exhausted—but each time, he adjusted. Learned. Adapted.
When he finally collapsed onto the moss, chest heaving, Yan Ming knelt beside him.
"You're rough. Untempered. Reckless."
He smirked. "But not hopeless."
Shan Wei smiled weakly. "Is that a compliment?"
"Barely."
The Hidden Sect Moves
That night, as the Pavilion slept, a slow mist rolled down the mountain. Too slow. Too deliberate.
From within the fog, shadowed figures emerged—cloaked in gray, faces covered by porcelain masks carved with serene expressions.
One figure knelt, touching the ground where a faint trace of prismatic energy lingered.
"The child's power has awakened," the masked figure whispered.
A second voice replied—smooth, feminine, chilling:
"Then we collect him before the heavens claim him."
The fog swelled, swallowing the path.
"The Child of the Crimson Comet belongs to the Hidden Sect."
A soft, echoing laugh drifted through the night.
"And fate itself cannot refuse us."
To be continued..
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