The Iron Fang Sect's outer hall perched on a granite cliff, its jade-tiled roof glinting under a moon carved thin by clouds. Torches lined the walls, their flames spitting shadows across polished stone, where banners hung heavy with the sect's snarling wolf sigil. The air carried pine and iron, undercut by the faint hum of qi—arrays etched into the floor, pulsing with quiet menace. Elder Wu Shen sat at a lacquered table, his broad frame draped in silver robes, his beard a gray cascade. His qi rippled at Foundation Establishment 1, a steady tide, but his eyes burned restless, fixed on a jade slip glowing with reports: Black Claw's rout, Lin Clan's shame, and a valley sparking like a buried star.
Disciple Kang Wei stood opposite, his blue silk blood-flecked, qi at Body Tempering 6—Lin Hao's handler, sent to watch the Ye Clan's dust. His sharp face twitched, shame warring with defiance, as he clutched a cracked scroll from Lin Tao's failed dawn. "Elder," Kang began, voice tight, "the wanderer—Lin Feng—he's no mortal. Broke Tao's ribs, Hao's wrist, now Deng Kao's axe. Black Claw's forty fled like rats."
Wu Shen's fingers drummed the table, qi flaring—a gust rattling the banners. "Deng Kao," he rumbled, voice low as thunder. "Body Tempering 7, crushed by a drifter? You saw this?"
Kang nodded, swallowing. "From the ridge, yes. He glows—golden, like a core waking. Ye Clan's worms fight like disciples now—traps, wards, a girl with a dagger sparking qi. The valley's alive, Elder. Ravine's humming—felt it myself."
Elder Liao Qin, lean and sharp-eyed, lounged nearby, her silver hairpin glinting, qi at Body Tempering 9—a blade honed quiet. She toyed with a qi crystal, its pulse faint but steady, her voice a silk drawl. "Lin Hao's your pup, Kang. He swore this Feng was trash—divorced, broken. Now he's snapping sects like twigs?"
Kang's fists clenched, blood crusting his knuckles. "Hao's rash, but not wrong. Feng was nothing—then this. He's hiding power, Elder. Lin Clan wants him dead; offered a shard to Black Claw."
Wu Shen snorted, the jade slip dimming as he tossed it aside. "Lin Clan's fools—chasing grudges while the valley sparks. That ravine—describe it."
Kang hesitated, then spoke, voice low. "Stone arch, runes old as mountains, qi thick like blood. Last night, it cracked—light spilled, not natural. Felt… watched."
Liao's crystal paused, her eyes narrowing. "Runes? Like sect arrays?"
"Older," Kang said, shivering despite the hall's warmth. "Heavy, like they're breathing. I swear, Elder, it's tied to him—Feng."
The hall's doors groaned, admitting Disciple Mei Yun, her robes dust-stained, qi at Body Tempering 5, her face pale from a night's ride. She bowed, clutching a wax-sealed missive—Lin Clan's crane, smeared with mud. "Elders," she said, breathless, "Lin Tao's back, begging aid. Says Feng's a demon—claims he glowed, broke Black Claw single-handed. They're rallying ten more, dawn tomorrow."
Wu Shen's laugh was cold, qi spiking—torches flared, shadows dancing. "Ten? Tao's ribs aren't lesson enough? Let them bleed."
Liao leaned forward, hairpin glinting, her voice a blade's edge. "This Feng—nobody rises that fast. Body Tempering 2, you said? Yet he snaps 7? Either he's a genius… or something's cracked."
Kang shifted, uneasy, scroll creaking in his grip. "The valley's qi—it's wrong. Wolves circle, not normal ones—Shadowfangs, drawn to that ravine. I saw a shadow, cloaked, not Lin Clan's. Chanting, frost-cold. Mentioned a name—Yan Huo."
Wu Shen froze, his qi stilling—a rare pause, the hall's hum louder in silence. "Yan Huo," he repeated, voice a growl. "You're sure?"
Kang nodded, sweat beading. "Clear as moon. Felt like… eyes, old ones, watching."
Liao's crystal rolled in her palm, her smirk gone. "Yan Huo's a ghost story—rogue cultivator, vanished centuries back. If that name's stirring, the valley's no grudge-match."
Wu Shen stood, his bulk casting a shadow, qi a steady pulse. He paced to a bronze map on the wall—valleys, rivers, peaks etched deep, the Ye Clan's speck marked red. "Black Claw's broken," he said, tracing the river. "Lin Clan's desperate. This Feng—he's the spark. If Yan Huo's tied, we can't sit."
Mei Yun stepped forward, missive trembling. "Elder, Lin Tao's note begs swords—says Iron Fang owes them for Hao's training. They'll hit the valley, shard or no."
"Let them," Wu Shen snapped, but his eyes lingered on the map, qi humming. "We watch. Kang, you're back at dawn—take three, Body Tempering 6. Find that ravine, test its qi. Don't touch Feng—not yet."
Kang bowed, relief flickering, but Liao's voice cut through, sharp. "Careful, Wu. If Yan Huo's real, that ravine's a trap. Feng's no stray—he's bait, or worse."
Wu Shen's gaze hardened, returning to the map. "Bait catches fish. We're no minnows."
The hall's arrays pulsed, a low thrum, as a disciple outside struck a gong—midnight, patrols shifting. Mei Yun clutched the missive, her voice soft but firm. "Elders, there's more. Lin Clan's scouts found silk—blue, not theirs, by the ravine. Blood-flecked, torn. Someone else is hunting."
Liao's crystal stopped, her eyes like knives. "Black Claw's done. Lin Clan's bleeding. Who's left?"
Kang's voice dropped, a whisper. "That shadow—cloaked, chanting. I swear, it wasn't human. Qi like frost, moving wrong. If it's Yan Huo's—"
"Enough," Wu Shen barked, qi flaring—banners swayed, the jade slip cracking on the table. "Ghosts don't bleed. Kang, ravine by dawn. Mei, burn that note. Liao, your scouts—west, now. Find that silk."
Liao rose, hairpin flashing, her qi a quiet blade. "My boys are sharp, but frost-qi's no joke. If this is Yan Huo's work, we're poking a grave."
"Then poke," Wu Shen said, turning to the map, finger jabbing the valley. "Iron Fang bows to no shadow. Feng's the key—genius, demon, or bait. We'll crack him open."
Mei Yun bowed, missive tucked away, her face pale but set. Kang lingered, scroll heavy in his hands, eyes darting to the hall's shadows—torchlight flickered, too quick, like eyes blinking. The gong rang again, fainter, as patrols moved beyond the cliff, their boots a dull echo.
Liao paused at the doors, her voice low, meant for Wu Shen alone. "Old man, you're bold, but graves spit bones. That ravine's qi—matches tales of sealed relics. If Feng's tied to Yan Huo—"
Wu Shen's qi surged, a tide swallowing the hall's hum—torches dimmed, stone groaning. "Then we take it," he said, eyes burning. "Relic, demon, or god—Iron Fang claims what's ours. Send your scouts, Liao. If Feng's waking graves, we'll—"