The span of a mortal life is reckoned a hundred years, yet few indeed attain such an age.

Wang Ping, in his seventy-second year, felt the icy breath of mortality upon his neck. Though his frame remained sturdy, a sense of finality settled upon him, a chilling premonition that his time was drawing to a close.

Winter descended with a swiftness reminiscent of the passing of Master Tai, blanketing the land in snow and isolating the village. The villagers, unable to venture forth, remained huddled within their homes, seeking solace in the warmth of family as they weathered the harsh season.

A biting wind howled through the heavens, a mournful dirge that seemed to carry away departing souls, ushering them towards a promised spring, a cycle of rebirth.

This winter proved crueler than those of memory. The wind, laced with icy flakes, pierced through simple dwellings with a chilling intensity, demanding the constant vigilance of a blazing hearth to ward off its frigid embrace.

In a humble abode nestled at the village’s western edge, a warm glow flickered through the window, a beacon of comfort against the swirling blizzard. Yet, in the face of the storm’s fury, it seemed but a fragile ember.

The wind shrieked and clawed at the corners of the dwelling, whipping the snow into swirling eddies across the frozen ground. Even the village livestock huddled together, their bodies trembling against the encroaching cold.

Above, the sky was a tapestry of impenetrable darkness, broken only by the endless descent of snowflakes, a hypnotic dance that threatened to disorient the gaze.

Within, Wang Ping sat hunched upon a stool, his hands wielding a carving knife with practiced ease. Each stroke was a whispered testament, a memory etched into wood as life’s twilight deepened around him.

His subject remained his father, though the likeness now bore the weight of years, the furrows deepened by time and hardship.

Of late, Wang Ping’s dreams often transported him back to his childhood, to the taste of bitter draughts forced upon him. A taste that once filled him with childish resentment, now evoked a bittersweet nostalgia, a sweetness not of flavor, but of the heart.

Qing Yi, his beloved, sat silently beside him, her eyes filled with a tenderness laced with sorrow.

The wind howled like a hungry beast, its icy fingers clawing at the walls, as if seeking to claim Wang Ping before his time.

“When I am gone, burn these carvings,” Wang Ping said softly, his gaze fixed upon the unfinished statue in his hands. It was his final masterpiece, one he was determined to complete.

Along one wall stood a massive wooden rack, laden with hundreds of carved figures, each a likeness of Wang Lin, his father.

Beside some of these stood smaller figures, children with faces alight with joy, clutching their father’s hand in adoration.

“Father,” Wang Ping whispered, his gaze softening, “I have long since forgiven you…”

As the blizzard raged, a blinding bolt of lightning tore through the inky sky, shattering the heavens with its celestial wrath. The protective layers of the atmosphere parted before its might, and the thunderous echoes reverberated across the very fabric of Dan Yun Star.

At that moment, the snow itself seemed to freeze in mid-air, suspended in a moment of awe. Even the wind, with all its fury, faltered and broke.

Every cultivator on Dan Yun Star felt the immense power surge through the land, a tangible manifestation of celestial force. The reverberations of the thunderous echoes seemed to rend the very fabric of existence.

Ancestor Shua Xi, head of the Shua Clan, who had long secluded himself in meditation, snapped his eyes open. In a blink, he stood beneath the tumultuous heavens, his face contorting in a mixture of dread and awe.

“Such potent celestial energy! Such terrifying thunderous echoes!” he gasped, his eyes narrowing.

Behind him, eight cultivators of the Sun Clan, all in the late stages of Nascent Soul, materialized. Sun Qiming, their leader, spoke with grim resolve: “Ancestor, the intentions of this being are surely malicious!”

The Dan and Zhao clans echoed the Sun Clan’s anxieties, feeling dwarfed by Sun’s power. Many of Dan Yun’s most powerful cultivators had long since left the world.

Within the Wang Clan compound in Qi Shui City, Wang Lin paused in his drinking, lifting his gaze to the tempestuous skies. His eyes, once bright with arcane power, were now clouded over, like those of a man aged beyond reckoning.

With a weary sigh, he lowered his head and took another swig from his flask.

Above, a colossal beast wreathed in lightning pranced across the void, its nostrils spewing forth twin bolts of pure energy, a truly magnificent sight. Upon its back sat a middle-aged man, his face as sharp and unforgiving as a thunderbolt. It was Lei Daozi, of the Thunder Celestial Temple!

His gaze, like sharpened steel, swept across the land, his divine sense unfurling to encompass the entirety of Dan Yun Star, Qi Shui City included.

Yet, for reasons known only to fate, his awareness did not linger upon Wang Lin for even a fleeting moment.

As his divine sense washed over the land, the very souls of Dan Yun Star trembled. Beasts shivered as they faced the full might of the heavens. Even the mortals felt a shiver run down their spines, and fell into a deep slumber.

In that moment, the entire world held its breath. Lei Daozi, his search complete, furrowed his brow. He had found no one fitting the profile of those who sought him.

As his divine sense withdrew, the snow resumed its descent, and the wind began to howl once more.

“Perhaps he departed long ago, or fate was kind to him,” Lei Daozi mused, his thoughts twisting and turning. As he turned to leave, his eyes narrowed as he focused his divine awareness on a small mountain village!

Qing Yi, already weakened by the initial surge of power, gasped as the divine sense honed in on her. Her body trembled uncontrollably, and she was on the verge of destruction.

Wang Ping turned his gaze to her. “Qing Yi, what troubles you?”

Before she could respond, Qing Yi’s face twisted in pain as she spat out blood. With relentless force, a colossal wave of awareness crashed in, tearing apart snow and wind as it plunged towards her.
A wave of power, vast and terrible, resonated with the very earth. The ancient forest floor groaned under the assault, and the thick blanket of snow erupted in a blizzard of ice crystals.

Outside the humble dwelling, the newly reformed drifts of snow and howling winds buckled once more. Within the heart of the secluded village, the abode of Wang Ping became an island of serenity. Though snowflakes still danced in the air and a biting wind clawed at the world, no trace of this wintry fury dared to trespass upon his threshold.

It was as though the storm itself had been shattered, its essence banished in a single, overwhelming instant.

Qing Yi, her nascent soul barely formed, strained against the oppressive force. With faltering steps, she channeled her meager spirit energy, placing herself before Wang Ping, a shield against the unseen storm.

Though age etched itself upon her features, her eyes burned with fierce defiance.

“Intriguing! You resist oblivion?” A voice, cold as glacial ice, echoed through the small dwelling.

As the chilling words reverberated, the door to the room swung inward with unnatural force. A figure stepped across the threshold – a man in the prime of his years, radiating an aura that choked the air from Qing Yi’s lungs.

She felt as though an impossible power had descended, a force akin to the very will of the heavens, against which no mortal could possibly stand.

Before him, Qing Yi was nothing, a mere insect, insignificant enough to be crushed with a thought, extinguished from existence for all eternity.

More terrifying still, tendrils of raw lightning danced around him, crackling with untamed energy. He appeared a celestial being, a veritable god of thunder made flesh.

With each measured step, the room itself groaned in protest. Veins of searing energy snaked across the walls, transforming the humble dwelling into a prison of electrified light.

From the outside, the spectacle was undeniable. Wang Ping’s house was engulfed in a blinding web of lightning. High above, a monstrous beast, wreathed in crackling energy, lazed in the heavens, its eyes burning with an ancient disdain. Nothing, it seemed, could ever capture its true interest.

For it was a Raivasha, the Thunder Fiend! A scion of the sacred beasts that once roamed the celestial realm of thunder!

Its bloodline might have been diluted through the ages, its power but a shadow of its forebears, but its pride remained absolute, woven into the very fabric of its being.

Wang Ping, setting aside his wooden carving, rose to his feet. He stepped before Qing Yi, his gaze meeting the intruder’s with an unsettling tranquility. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice steady and unwavering.

In that moment, Wang Ping was no mere mortal. The serenity in his gaze was not a mask, but a reflection of a heart truly at peace. He stood between the woman and the storm, a figure of quiet strength, a bulwark against the encroaching darkness.

He owed this strength to his father, Wang Lin. Nineteen years of quietude, eight years spent wandering amidst nature, followed by three decades as a revered mortal – these experiences had forged within him a spirit that dared defy the heavens themselves. If he knew no fear for the sky, why should he fear this cultivated man before him?

Qing Yi stared at Wang Ping’s back, a silent sentinel against the intruder. In that moment, his image was etched into her heart forever. She allowed her own feeble power to dissipate, meeting the newcomer’s gaze with a newfound serenity.

The man studied Wang Ping with a predatory gleam in his eyes, as if he could peer into the depths of his soul.

He had sensed this place from afar as his divine sense swept across the land. Every other mortal had succumbed to unconsciousness, the overwhelming power of his spiritual senses, amplified by the raw energy, had been far too much to bear. Only this one, this seemingly ordinary man, remained untouched, unaffected, as if he were oblivious to the pressure. It was this anomaly that had piqued his curiosity, compelling him to investigate.

He spoke, his voice laced with amusement. “Intriguing! Now I see why you remain undisturbed.”

As the man spoke, countless miles away in the city of Qiushui, Wang Lin, who had been calmly sitting in his chair and taking a sip from his wine flask, suddenly looked up. The wine flask in his hand shattered, and the liquid within evaporated into nothing.

As Wang Lin’s head raised, the most fierce look he had ever donned in the past 70 years appeared on his face. This look was several times more terrifying than the time when he was in the tavern because his son was now in danger!