From amidst the swirling mists, four figures stood poised upon the precipice of the Cloudsea Mountains, a region whispered to be under the dominion of water spirits. Two were maidens, the elder with her raven hair swept into a graceful chignon, silken strands escaping to frame a face of jade-like smoothness. Upon her brow danced glittering fragments of star-stuff, catching the light that gleamed in her wise, pearl-bright eyes, set above the curve of a delicate jaw. Though not blessed with surpassing beauty, she possessed a charm that could steal the very moon from the sky. Seemingly but twenty years of age, a knowing spark within her eyes betrayed a maturity beyond her tender years.

Her white robes, though loose and flowing, could not entirely conceal the alluring curves beneath. For those touched by the mystic arts, time held little sway. The most skilled could even stretch the boundaries of life itself. Thus, the true age of such a one was often a secret closely guarded.

Beside her, the second maiden seemed almost plain. Long, unbound tresses cascaded down her fragile frame, as slender as a willow sapling, and clad in the softest rose hues. Her complexion was pale as moonlight, lending her an air of wistful fragility, a quality absent in her more striking companion, yet drawing a tender pity from the heart.

“Behold, my sisters,” a voice, warm as summer wine, broke the silence. A youth in crimson robes, radiating an aura of effortless grace, stood near. “This is the Cloudsea of the Water Sprite Domain, a place of enchantment I stumbled upon long ago. Though I have not yet seen the celestial realms, I wager this place surpasses even the heavens. What say you, Murong?”

A figure swathed in shadows, his face a mask of coldness, stood impassively by. “Acceptable,” he grunted, then retreated into a silent vigil, his eyes snapping shut.

The crimson-clad youth, unfazed, simply smiled. He was accustomed to the terse pronouncements of his companion.

“Surely, Brother Du, your fondness for this Cloudsea goes deeper than mere aesthetics,” the moon-kissed maiden murmured, a playful glint in her eyes.

“Indeed, sister Zhao,” Du confessed with a laugh. “Within these swirling mists, I have found a chasm, a fissure in the very earth. I believe it to be the legendary Abyss of Tides.”

Lady Zhao’s gaze danced with curiosity, but before she could speak, the black-clad youth, Murong, broke his silence once more, his eyes snapping open, fixed upon some distant point.

“Powerful,” he hissed, his voice a low rasp.

From across the heavens, a streak of light descended, resolving into a lone figure garbed in white. His face was unremarkable, yet he strode with a purpose that belied his unassuming appearance. Without so much as a glance at the waiting group, he surveyed the misty landscape with a chilling gaze, and moved forward, his purpose clear.

“It is he!” Du exclaimed, a flicker of surprise quickly masked by a charming smile. His keen senses had recognized the man’s true cultivation, a level known as ‘Ascension to the Heavens’. “He has achieved Ascension! Brother Wang, stay your course!”

The white-clad figure paused, his eyes, cold as winter stars, flicked over the assembled company. Yet it was not the maidens, nor the crimson-robed youth, that drew his gaze, but the silent, black-clad warrior. *’He detected me from leagues away. His power is not to be scoffed at. The aura around him suggests an early stage of Ascension,’* the newcomer mused. His gaze then moved to the red-robed youth, who held a semblance of familiarity, being a disciple of the Crimson lineage of Skyfate.

Of the four, only the silent one had attained Ascension, the others were at the pinnacle of Form Synthesis.

*’The Skyfate disciple is on the verge of Ascension himself. He must fear the trials of comprehension, that many die within.’* “Greetings, Brother Du,” the white-robed man said, offering a polite bow.

Du chuckled, sensing the other did not recognize him. “You honor us, Brother Wang. I am Du Jian.”

Du Jian gestured towards the black-clad warrior. “Allow me to introduce Murong Zhuo of the Obsidian Gate, and these fair maidens are fellow disciples of the Floating Clouds Sect.”

Murong Zhuo, the taciturn warrior, subjected Wang Lin to a piercing stare before offering a formal bow. “Greetings, Fellow Daoist Wang. I am Murong Zhuo, a fourth-generation disciple of the Obsidian Gate.”

Du Jian and the maidens exchanged surprised glances. Seldom had they heard Murong utter more than five words at a time. His taciturn nature was legendary.

Yet now, he had spoken at length, laying particular emphasis on his lineage, a gesture that spoke of respect from one peer to another.

Zhao Yi, her captivating eyes fixed on Wang Lin, offered a sweet smile.

“Greetings, Brother Wang, I am Zhao Yi, and this is my sister, Xu Fei.”

“Xu Fei…” The simple name stirred a distant memory within Wang Lin. He turned to the pale maiden, who dipped her head in a graceful bow. “Greetings, Brother Wang,” she whispered.

Du Jian, sensing a connection, cast a knowing glance at Wang Lin. “You know our sister Xu?”

Wang Lin shook his head. “I do not, though her name is shared by a sister from my youth.”

Du Jian gracefully avoided the topic. “Tell me, Brother Wang, have you journeyed here seeking the Abyss of Tides?” He asked, dispensing with false pretense.

Wang Lin, his face betraying nothing, nodded. “Indeed.”

Du Jian’s gaze sharpened. “The Abyss is fraught with peril. Even with your Ascension, entry will be perilous. We five seek the Abyss as well. Perhaps we could travel together, for mutual protection.”

Wang Lin hesitated. He was aware of the dangers that lay within, having consulted a divining crystal. Some passages would require him to face death itself.

Had it not been for Murong Zhuo, he would have refused. But the other man’s senses were exceptionally sharp, suggesting a hidden power.

Wang Lin smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “Then I accept.”
A smile played on Du Jian’s lips, yet his heart seethed. It was impossible for him to deny the flicker of envy and suspicion that sparked within at the notion of Wang Lin’s meteoric rise to the Ascendant stage.

He remembered vividly the day he first laid eyes upon Wang Lin, then merely a Nascent Soul cultivator. Now, a scant century later, the man stood at the very threshold of the Ascendant realm, and judging by his bearing, it was a step taken long ago, not freshly claimed.

“This backwoods barbarian from a forgotten star ascends at such a pace? There must be a reason, a secret behind his power. And to have escaped the Death Tribulation on the path to Ascension… something is amiss. If he continues on this trajectory, by the time we depart this place in four centuries, his cultivation will be astronomical, and his standing in the Violet Sect will skyrocket.”

A dark seed of malice took root, yet Du Jian masked it perfectly, his smile warm and brotherly.

But he was dealing with Wang Lin, a man forged in the crucible of Suzaku Star, tempered by trials and tribulations that most could scarcely imagine in a lifetime. He was no fool to be easily deceived. This “backwoods barbarian” was, in truth, a creature of cunning and insight.

Du Jian’s life, compared to Wang Lin’s, was but a flicker of candlelight against a raging bonfire.

The party of five continued in silence, their destination: the Cloudmist Mountain Sea.

Swirls of ethereal mist danced around them, coalescing into phantom images of mountains and seas. The sight was both breathtaking and strangely alluring, a landscape of both wonder and veiled power.

Zhao Yixuan’s gaze frequently strayed to Wang Lin ahead. She could not quite decipher this man. In this Demon Spirit Land, she could typically pierce the veil of even the most powerful Demon Generals, reading their hearts with ease. Yet, in the past century, there were only two and a half souls she could not fathom.

The figure of Wang Lin ahead, obscured by the shifting mists, seemed to grow ever more enigmatic. It was as if the fog itself resisted her scrutiny.

The first soul she found impossible to read was Chen Long of the Great Luo Sword Sect. He was shrouded in a constant, impenetrable mist. Any attempt to peer deeper was met with the sharp sting of a drawn sword, a silent warning to stay away.

The “half” she could not quite decipher was Murong Zhuo. At times, he seemed clear as glass, transparent in his intentions. But then, just as quickly, his thoughts would become like still, stagnant water, making it impossible to grasp the currents beneath the surface.

And now, this newly arrived Wang Lin. He was different. He possessed neither the obscuring mists of Chen Long nor the shifting nature of Murong Zhuo. Instead, he simply locked his own heart away, guarded by sheer force of will.

He needed no tricks, no illusions. He merely closed the door.

A flicker of intrigue sparked in Zhao Yixuan’s eyes. Just then, Wang Lin, without breaking stride, glanced back, his gaze sweeping over her. It seemed a casual, almost dismissive look, yet it struck Zhao Yixuan like a physical blow, a sharp pain in her mind.

“A warning, perhaps? This Wang Lin is… interesting. Even Chen Long of the Great Luo Sword Sect only noticed me after I amplified my power, and Murong Zhuo picked up on it through the faintest of clues. But Wang Lin… he sensed my presence the instant I turned my mind to him.”

Amusement flickered across Zhao Yixuan’s features, quickly masked by her usual composure.

As he walked, Wang Lin’s eyes glimmered, and a chilling smile touched his lips. “These four are indeed intriguing. Each harboring their own secrets, each possessing considerable power. Though among them all, the unassuming woman surnamed Xu is perhaps the most dangerous. She exudes a peculiar aura…”

The five moved with increasing speed, gradually passing through the clouds. Before them, the ground split into a deep chasm, a gaping wound in the earth.

The fissure was immense, perhaps ten fathoms wide, stretching for thousands of fathoms, vanishing into the mist. It was a gaping maw in the earth, or perhaps a scar left by the strike of some devastating spell.