As the season turned, a multitude of scholars, each harboring dreams as vast as the Zhao Kingdom itself, journeyed forth. Some, like Wang Lin, traveled alone, while others formed small bands, all setting their sights upon one of the forty-nine ancestral county towns scattered across the realm. For only within these hallowed grounds could they earn the title of “Cultivated Talent,” the sole key to unlock the gates of Su City for the second, more arduous examination.

Su City, a beacon of learning, owed its name to the venerable Sage Su Dao, a man of profound wisdom whose very presence had transformed the city into the Zhao Kingdom’s literary heart.

Within Su City’s formidable examination, those who ultimately triumphed were bestowed the title of “Su Graduate.” These select few, bound by a shared destiny, were then summoned to the kingdom’s capital. There, they would either soar to unimaginable heights or fade into obscurity, their fates hanging in the balance.

Wang Lin, carrying the hopes of his parents and a heart brimming with anticipation, trod the King’s Road. Trailing behind him was a middle-aged man, clad in freshly laundered clothes, a bamboo-frame book chest strapped to his back. This was Da Fu, Wang Lin’s manservant, humming a tune lost to the annals of time, his demeanor one of carefree leisure.

The heavens were draped in a somber gray, yet no rain fell. Instead, the remnants of past storms clung to the road, puddles reflecting the chill of the air, mingling with the earth to create a treacherous mire.

What should have been a journey of half a day stretched into the twilight hours, until finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Wang Lin and Da Fu caught sight of their destination, a county town bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun.

The sun descended, its golden rays piercing through the clouds, enveloping the town in an ethereal light. From afar, it seemed as though they had reached the end of an ancient path, where twilight reigned supreme.

“At last,” Wang Lin breathed, wiping the perspiration from his brow. The journey had been fraught with trials, and as he reflected upon them, even he found the events to be tinged with an otherworldly quality.

“Da Fu, ahead lies the county town. We shall reside there for a time,” Wang Lin said, a smile gracing his lips as he glanced back at his manservant.

“I still despise this name,” Da Fu grumbled, shaking his head with vehemence.

“Nonsense! I think it suits you well,” Wang Lin chuckled, leading Da Fu towards the town’s gates. There, they presented the road permit issued by their village, and after a thorough inspection by the city guards, they were granted entry.

Despite the lingering dampness and the encroaching darkness, the county town pulsed with life. The streets teemed with travelers, many of whom, like Wang Lin, were scholars converging from all corners of the land. Wang Lin had arrived later than most, it seemed, for they and Da Fu found no vacant rooms in the first four inns they tried.

As the sky grew darker, Wang Lin’s anxiety mounted. Fortune smiled upon them at the fifth inn, where a single room remained available. The price was exorbitant, but as a thunderclap echoed through the heavens and the threat of renewed rain loomed, Wang Lin steeled his resolve and instructed Da Fu to produce the coins.

Da Fu reluctantly retrieved the pouch of silver he had been entrusted to carry, meticulously extracting the required amount with visible pain. He muttered under his breath,

“So little coin remains… the suffering! Ah, yes, I think, I did experience something before, silver is very, very important…”

The innkeeper, overhearing his words, cast a disdainful glance at the pair, having grown weary of scholars both lavish and impoverished.

Wang Lin, of simple character, noticed the innkeeper’s scorn but dismissed it from his mind.

The room was small, but adequate for two, though a musty odor assailed their nostrils as they crossed the threshold. Such was unavoidable this season, save for the most luxurious of accommodations.

After a meager meal, Wang Lin lay upon the bed, still clothed, his gaze fixed upon the oil lamp flickering atop the table. The sonorous snores of Da Fu filled the room.

The bedding was damp and uncomfortable, and after much tossing and turning, Wang Lin abandoned all hope of sleep. With a sigh, he rose from the bed, oblivious to Da Fu’s rhythmic symphony, and settled at the table. He retrieved his books from the bamboo chest and, by the lamp’s light, began to study.

As he immersed himself in the texts, thunder roared outside, and lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the heavens in a dazzling display. The thunderclaps echoed relentlessly, shaking the county town and rousing its slumbering inhabitants.

A fierce wind swept through the realm, as though the very fabric of the sky had been torn asunder. The wind howled and wailed, scouring the earth, whipping up mud and sand, and driving the torrential rain against the houses.

The windows of Wang Lin’s room rattled violently, as though on the verge of shattering. He could no longer concentrate on his studies, and with a frown, he looked up.

But in that instant, the window was thrown open by a tremendous force. The shutters swung inward, slamming against the wall, as a gust of wind and rain burst into the room.

The candle was snuffed out, plunging the chamber into darkness. Wang Lin’s hair was whipped about his face, his clothes lashed by the wind, and the rain threatened to snatch the book from his hands.

Wang Lin cried out in surprise and rushed to the window, intent on securing it. But as he reached for the latch, a thunderbolt crashed nearby, seeming to explode just outside the window. The deafening roar resonated through his very being.

Then, a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, a blinding flash that engulfed the sleeping town in its ethereal light.

In that fleeting moment, Wang Lin saw a segment of the city illuminated, and he paused, stunned.

For there, once again, he beheld the white bird that had haunted his dreams and graced his travels. The bird soared through the storm-wracked sky, circling amidst the wind, thunder, and lightning.
A flicker of awareness crossed Wang Lin’s perception; the white bird, a creature of ethereal grace, dipped its head, its obsidian eyes meeting his in a moment of profound connection.

The tempest raged around him, a furious ballet of lightning and thunder, yet within the chiaroscuro of the storm, a revelation struck Wang Lin like a physical blow. A nascent thought, indistinct and unfamiliar, began to bloom within the fertile ground of his mind, coalescing into a whisper, a phantom echo.

“Causality… what is causality…? Causality, what could it be…?”

The wind, an unwelcome guest through the open window, lashed against his form. He remained rooted, unyielding to the elements, his gaze lost to the sky, where only the white bird held his captive attention.

With a beat of its wings, the bird became a streak of luminescence against the storm-ridden sky, hurtling towards him with impossible speed. It perched upon the windowsill before him, a silent sentinel, its dark eyes locked upon his own.

Wang Lin stared back, lost in the depths of his own contemplations.

“Was it you… that voice speaking in my mind?” he murmured. “Causality… what could it be?”

The bird offered one last, piercing gaze before launching itself into the churning heavens, its piercing cry swallowed by the storm as it vanished into the roiling blackness.

Even as it disappeared, the thunder seemed to intensify, an oppressive cacophony that grated upon Wang Lin’s burgeoning thoughts. A frown furrowed his brow, and with a subconscious impulse, his right hand rose, pointing towards the storm-wracked sky.

As his finger extended, a sigil of lightning flared within his right eye, an instant, incandescent mark. In that same breath, the thunder ceased, silenced by an unseen force, an authority that reigned above even the storm’s fury.

The very lightning itself seemed to cower, its blinding flashes extinguished as if snuffed by an unseen hand. Even the wind, a savage force moments before, recoiled, abandoning its attack, twisting upwards into the heavens, dragging the torrential rain with it in a chaotic retreat. The rain, like a sentient being, fled in terror, the downpour abruptly ceasing.

And it was not only within this small town that the rain retreated. The will that emanated from Wang Lin’s outstretched finger, the king of all thunder, reached across the land of Zhao. The storm throughout the entire kingdom froze in that singular moment, the thunder silenced, the lightning extinguished, the clouds dispersed, and the wind and rain sent howling in reverse.

High above, within the skies of Zhao, members of the Heng Yue Sect, including Wang Zhuo, Xu Fei, and Zhou Bi, were shaken by the sudden shift, their faces etched with terror. An elder among them gasped, his eyes wide with horrified realization.

“That aura… Heavens, what level of cultivation is this?!”

Elsewhere, in another part of Zhao, two figures, a man and a woman, were sent reeling by the collapsing storm. The woman,柳眉(Liu Mei), her face drained of color, looked back with a haunted expression.

Her companion, however, was on the verge of utter panic.

Within the walls of the Teng family city, the old ancestor, 藤化元(Teng Hua Yuan), a nascent soul cultivator, was abruptly wrenched from his meditative state. Terror flooded his features, a primal fear gripping his very being.

Upon Heng Yue Mountain, 黄龙真人(Huang Long Zhenren), the Yellow Dragon True Man, a wizened figure draped in yellow robes, frowned as he attempted a divination. His right hand trembled violently, drawing blood from beneath his fingernails. A strange disbelief flickered across his face.

“This… how is this possible?!”

Far away, on the planet Suzaku, within the borders of the Suzaku Kingdom, lay a powerful sect, a force capable of overwhelming even a Level Five cultivation nation. Its gates were shrouded in a spectral miasma, the mournful wails of countless spirits echoing through the heavens, transforming the land into a ghastly banner.

Within the heart of this swirling darkness sat a solitary figure, a middle-aged man who was none other than 遁天(Duntian)’s senior disciple.

“I cannot calculate it… In my life, I have attempted this thirty-seven times, and each time I have failed. Does this mean my Refining Soul Sect is truly without hope?”