The Iron Fang Sect's inner hall carved deep into the Blackthorn Peak, its obsidian walls swallowing light, save for qi-lit crystals studded like stars in a midnight sky. Their cold blue glow danced across wolf-head statues, each fang bared in silent menace, while arrays etched into the stone floor pulsed with a low, restless hum—power leashed, ready to bite. Incense curled from bronze urns, thick with pine, blood, and a faint metallic tang, clotting the air with unease. Elder Wu Shen stood at the hall's heart, his broad frame cloaked in silver robes, qi at Foundation Establishment 1 a steady storm, rippling the air with quiet force. His gray beard quivered, rage simmering beneath a scowl as he clutched a jade slip, its faint glow flickering with dire reports: Gao Ran's rout at Ye Clan's gate, Lin Mei's midnight flight, and a valley sparking qi brighter than any sect's forge. The ravine's crack—its frost-cold chant of Yan Huo, rise—clawed at his mind, a shadow older than Iron Fang's banners, threatening to unravel their grip.
Elder Liao Qin lounged on a stone bench, her lean frame draped in gray silk, qi at Body Tempering 9 a veiled blade, sharp and still. Her silver hairpin spun lazily between deft fingers, catching crystal light, while her eyes—cold, probing—fixed on a bloodied wolf-sigil cloak tossed carelessly onto the table. Gao Ran's, torn from his broken retreat. "Your pup's done," she said, voice a silk thread laced with venom. "Lin Clan's thirty bled out too—Mei's ribs snapped, half her spears dust. This Lin Feng's no wanderer, Wu. He's a storm."
Wu Shen's qi surged, a gust rattling urns, crystals dimming briefly. "Body Tempering 3," he growled, voice low thunder, the jade slip cracking in his grip. "Crushes 7s, 8s, like dry reeds. Ye Clan's worms—qi sparking, traps sharper than our blades. A girl with a dagger, a cripple slinging wards. Explain it, Liao."
Disciple Kang Wei stood rigid at the table's edge, his blue silk robes torn, blood crusted from scouting Ye Clan's valley. His qi—Body Tempering 6—flickered, strained from nights without rest, his sharp face pale under Wu Shen's glare. "Elder," he began, voice tight but steady, "I saw it—Feng glows golden, moves like a sect lord reborn. His qi's raw, Body Tempering 3, but it cuts like 9. The girl, braid tight, dagger like a wolf's fang—she's Body Tempering 2, fresh but fierce, carved Mei's men. A cripple, leg bent, slings wards that burn qi—Body Tempering 1, sparking fast. The valley's alive, Elder. Ravine's runes pulse, frost-qi chanting Yan Huo. It's no tale—it's waking."
Liao's hairpin paused, her smirk vanishing, eyes narrowing to slits. "Yan Huo," she said, voice low, leaning forward. "Rogue cultivator, sealed by heavens centuries past—tales older than our gates. If his shadow's stirring, that ravine's no feud. It's a grave, Wu, and Feng's digging."
Wu Shen snorted, tossing the slip—it skittered across stone, glowing faint. "Graves yield loot," he said, pacing, boots echoing in the hall's vast hollow. "Feng's the spark—genius, demon, or something worse. Lin Clan's begging swords, offering qi crystals. Black Claw's dust—Deng Kao's licking wounds in some ditch. Ye Clan's valley pulls all eyes—Red Talon's sniffing, Mist Veil's whispering. Why?"
Kang swallowed, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "The ravine, Elder—it's not stone. Runes, carved deep, older than sects, glow silver, thick as blood. I felt it—qi like a heart, beating slow. Last night, it cracked wider—light spilled, frost-cold, chanting Yan Huo, rise. Feng was there, touched a box—jade, small, pulsing cold. His qi flared, golden, brighter than before. He's tied, I swear—him and that box."
The hall's doors groaned, admitting Disciple Mei Yun, her robes dust-stained, qi at Body Tempering 5 trembling from a grueling ride through the peaks. Her face, pale but set, bore the weight of news—she clutched a bone shard, not jade, etched with a fang that seemed to drink the light. She bowed low, voice steady despite exhaustion. "Elders, from the valley's west—scouts bled to bring this. They saw a shadow, cloaked, qi like frost, chanting Yan Huo. Not Lin Clan's silk, not ours—silver, moving wrong."
Wu Shen seized the shard, his qi probing—frost bit his fingers, sharp as a blade, a pulse syncing briefly with his core before fading to silence. His eyes widened, a flicker of dread breaking his scowl. "Void Fang Relic," he muttered, voice heavy, almost reverent. "Power sealed by heavens, bound to Yan Huo's cage. If Feng's cracked its lock…"
Liao's hairpin resumed spinning, slow and deliberate, her voice a quiet blade. "Cracked how? Body Tempering 3, breaking Mei's 8? He's no prodigy—something's fueling him. That girl, the cripple—they're sparking too, fast, like his shadow's teaching. Or worse—feeding."
Kang nodded, sweat beading despite the hall's chill, his eyes darting to the shard. "The box, Elder Liao—it's no trinket. Runes matched that fang, pulsing cold when Feng held it. He took it from the ravine's heart—stone doors, arrays older than Iron Fang. I swear, his qi sang with it, golden and frost, like… kin."
Mei Yun clutched her robes, stepping forward, voice firm despite the weight of her words. "Elders, there's more—rumors flood the docks, markets, even Red Talon's outposts. Merchants sing of a golden wanderer—Lin Feng, breaking Gao Ran's spears, Mei's arrays, Deng Kao's axe. Lin Wei's spreading lies, calls him rogue, clanless, stirring sects to hunt. Mist Veil's scribes note his name now."
Wu Shen's laugh was a cold bark, qi spiking—crystals flared, shadows twisting across wolf statues. "Rogue," he said, tossing the shard to the table—it clinked, frost spreading faint across stone. "Wei's clever—lets dogs chase while he licks wounds. But that ravine—frost-qi's no lie. Kang, you felt it—what's waking?"
Kang's voice trembled, eyes fixed on the shard's faint pulse. "It's alive, Elder—like a beast stirring. Runes glow brighter each night, silver light thick as mist. I saw Feng kneel by the crack—his qi flared, golden, but the frost answered, chanting Yan Huo, rise. It's no ghost—it's power, raw, pulling wolves, Shadowfangs, to the valley's edge."
Liao leaned back, hairpin glinting, her voice threading tension. "Shadowfangs," she said, eyes like knives. "Beasts don't circle for scraps—they smell blood, or power. Yan Huo's sealed—scrolls swear Void Fang bound him, heavens' chain. If Feng's got the relic's key, we're not fighting a man. We're poking a storm."
The hall's arrays thrummed louder, a gong tolling outside—dawn an hour off, patrols shifting beyond the peak's shadow. Wu Shen turned to a bronze map bolted to the wall—valleys, rivers, peaks etched in sharp relief, Ye Clan's speck pulsing red like a wound. "Feng's the heart," he said, finger jabbing the ravine's mark. "Genius or bait, he's pulling strings—Lin Clan bleeds, Black Claw's gone, and we're stung. That box—relic's core, I'd wager."
Mei Yun's voice rose, soft but cutting through the hum. "Elder Wu, Lin Clan's moving—midnight failed, but Wei's rallying forty, Body Tempering 7s, heavy arrays. They'll strike Ye Clan at dusk, storm spears ready. Scouts say Wei's desperate—offering three qi crystals to any sect that joins."
Liao's hairpin stopped, her laugh low, bitter. "Three crystals? Wei's bleeding gold to bury shame. Feng's traps tore Mei—thirty down. Forty's bold, but he's sharp. That box—relic's heart, bound to Yan Huo. If it opens…"
Wu Shen's qi roared, a tide drowning the hall's pulse—urns trembled, incense smoke curling thick as fog. "No waiting," he said, voice a hammer forging resolve. "Kang, ten scouts—Body Tempering 6, dawn's first light. Probe the ravine, snatch that box, Feng or no. Liao, your blades—west, track that shadow, frost or flesh. Mei Yun, spread poison: Feng's a demon, stir Red Talon's greed, let Mist Veil choke on rumors."
Kang bowed, relief flickering in his tight frame, but his eyes lingered on the shard—frost pulsed, faint but alive, like a heartbeat under stone. "Elder," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "that shadow—moved wrong, qi cold as death. Chanted Yan Huo, rise, saw me—eyes like voids, not human. If it's tied to Feng…"
"Ghosts shatter," Wu Shen snapped, turning to the map, finger tracing the valley's curve. "Iron Fang fears no shade—Yan Huo's dust, relic or not. Feng's the prize—his qi's the chain. We'll break it."
Liao rose, silk rustling, qi a quiet blade slicing the tension. "Bold words, old man, but graves spit thorns. That box—scrolls call it Void Fang's seal, key to a rogue's cage. If Feng's cracking it, he's not bait—he's the blade, and we're bleeding."
Mei Yun clutched her robes tighter, face pale but eyes steady, voice cutting through. "Elder, one more—scouts found silk by the river, silver, not ours, not Lin Clan's. Blood-flecked, frost-cold, same as that shadow. They swore it moved—chanted, then vanished, like mist."
Kang's breath hitched, his voice a thread. "I saw it too, Elder—silver silk, eyes like stars gone dead. Chanted Yan Huo, rise, raised a seal—jade, cracked, pulsing. If Yan Huo's free…"
Liao's hairpin gleamed, her gaze cold as the shard's frost. "Free?" she said, stepping to the map, finger hovering over the ravine. "Sealed or not, something's waking. Feng's no stray—he's bound to it, box and blood. Wu, your dawn's a gamble—ten's light against him."
"Then we roll," Wu Shen said, qi a storm—crystals flared, shadows leaping across obsidian. "Iron Fang bows to no ghost, no rogue. Kang, dawn—ten, Body Tempering 6, no less. Liao, hunt that shade—frost or flesh, bring its head. Mei Yun, poison the sects—Feng's a demon, let Red Talon bite first."
The gong tolled again, softer, dawn creeping closer, patrols' boots a faint echo beyond the hall. Wu Shen gripped the shard, frost biting deeper, his scowl unyielding. "Feng's waking something—Yan Huo, relic, or hell itself. We'll crush him, claim the valley, and—"