Xiao Lei stayed still for a long while. Time bled away unnoticed, each breath shallow, each heartbeat heavy. Only when the ache in his body dulled slightly did he rise.

  The chamber held its breath, air heavy and unmoving. Uncanny after the storm that had raged within. Seven corpses lay scattered, broken remnants of violence. The air held the tang of scorched qi and blood, acrid as smoke after a fire. Even now, a faint vibration lingered in the stone, as if the battle refused to settle.

  Step by step, Xiao Lei moved among the fallen. His gaze brushed over each body, his hands searching without pause or waste. Spirit coins. A few mortal-grade manuals. Nothing more. They had gambled everything on strength, and strength had abandoned them.

  At last, his eyes turned toward the one body he had left untouched—Qingshan.

  He crossed the chamber in silence, his footsteps deliberate, echoing softly in the still air. The corpse slumped where it had fallen. Head tilted back. In his brow gaped a single hole—blackened and rimmed with charred flesh. A shard of the sun, driven straight through. Precise. Final.

  Xiao Lei crouched and studied it without expression. His fingers brushed the edge of the wound, smearing ash-dark blood, testing the neatness of the strike.

  That arrow.

  The technique that had birthed it was no ordinary art. When he first found the incomplete scroll in the Technique Hall, he had nearly dismissed it—no name, half-finished diagrams, cryptic passages. It demanded qi compressed into an arrow so dense it skirted solid matter. A weapon of inevitability. A flicker of instability, and it would rupture inward, shredding marrow and meridians.

  The academy itself had left a warning on its first page, scrawled in heavy brushstrokes not of the original author: Do not attempt. Too many students had ended broken, cultivation ruined, bodies crippled. The pain alone was said to be worse than death.

  Most would turn away. Xiao Lei had not.

  He remembered marrow burning like molten iron poured into bone, veins screaming under pressure, every nerve howling for release. Yet beneath that agony, he had felt clarity—the edge of something immense, dangerous, his to command. That risk alone was worth the pursuit.

  And here lay proof.

  The arrow had not only pierced through Qingshan’s golden bell echo, it had ended him with a single strike. Admittedly, Qingshan’s composure had cracked, panic unravelling his guard after watching allies fall. His defences had withered to desperation. Yet even so, Xiao Lei had only brushed the surface of what the art promised.

  He rose over the body, the silence deepening around him. In that silence, his resolve hardened. The pain, the warnings, the incompleteness—none of it mattered.

  His gaze swept along the chamber walls, slow and deliberate. The stone was smooth, faint lines etched across its surface, but only a single groove broke the monotony—the narrow switch. Beyond that, nothing. No glitter of jade, no shelves of manuals, no chests brimming with coin. The air itself seemed to mock the promise of treasure Qingshan and his men had fought so bitterly to guard.

  He traced the walls again, fingertips brushing the cold stone, pausing at every mark and seam. Each was empty of meaning. At last, certainty settled into his chest. Either the hoard lay deeper, locked behind a mechanism unseen, or Qingshan alone had carried its key.

  Crossing back to the corpse, Xiao Lei searched with unhurried precision. Sweat and blood clung damp to the cloth, smearing his fingers as he moved through folds and seams. At first, nothing—then a single object, so dull it could have been mistaken for scrap: a brown, rusted ring. Unremarkable to any casual glance.

  But his eyes narrowed, then lit faintly with satisfaction.

  A storage ring.

  Not a trinket. A vessel that bent space, folding a pocket of reality within itself. The wealth of a sect could rest inside, unseen until summoned.

  He pressed his consciousness against it. Resistance flared at once, sharp and stubborn. Qingshan’s imprint, the last trace of ownership. The bandit’s will lingered, fierce in death as in life. Yet death severs all bonds. Xiao Lei’s intent sharpened to a blade. He pressed harder, eroding that lingering will until it cracked and dissolved. His own mark spread across the ring, clean and final. The space yielded.

  It opened before him.

  At first, rows of boxes: tall stacks, their seams spilling faint gleams of spirit coins. Then, bundles of manuals, neat and orderly, bindings still glowing faintly with protective seals. Beyond them, crates and jars, each holding materials that shimmered with stored qi. The chamber within was not vast, but it was dense, every inch filled with wealth.

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  For a heartbeat, Xiao Lei’s composure slipped. His breath caught, hand tightening around the ring. The so-called bait Qingshan had revealed earlier was nothing—barely a sliver. This was the true hoard, dwarfing it a dozen times over.

  A slow inhale steadied him. The greed that surged in his veins burned hot, but he forced it down. Discipline re-anchored him, cold and sure. With practiced restraint, he slipped the ring away.

  Still, he lingered. His gaze roamed the chamber one final time, measuring every shadow, every corner, searching for what might have been overlooked. Nothing stirred. Nothing yielded. Only stone and silence.

  At last he pressed the groove in the wall. Stone shuddered, grinding as the passage opened. He stepped through, and behind him the chamber sealed once more, its secrets buried.

  The trip had yielded far more than expected. The ninth stage no longer loomed distant—it waited within reach.

  As for the corpses, the shattered echoes, the vanished hoard—this place would remain a riddle. And if another someday stumbled into its silence, it would whisper nothing of him. Only the shadow he chose to leave behind.

  ?? — ? — ??

  Xiao Lei did not return to Stonebrook. The task was finished; lingering there would only draw questions. His steps bent instead toward the grove where he had buried the bait. Wealth swelled now at his fingertips, yet he refused to leave even a coin behind. Every piece of silver was a seed for cultivation, and Xiao Lei had no intention of wasting a single one.

  He swept them into the storage ring. Only then did he set out once more, slipping into the wilderness beneath a dark sky. His path angled toward the city he had passed earlier on his way from Jinling.

  Two weeks. That was all the time left before his return to the Academy. Enough, if pressed, to take that step forward—provided he gathered the pills and resources to shatter the barrier of the ninth stage. Silver weighed down his stride, and he moved with quiet certainty, a shadow cutting through the night.

  The road blurred into days. He travelled without pause, halting only when his body demanded breath. Dust clung to his throat, cold nights gnawed at his bones, yet he pressed on. Forests thinned to winding plains; rivers bled into ridges veined with stone. At last, spires lifted against the horizon, glinting beneath the veil of dawn.

  Lingbao City.

  Even from a distance its pulse was clear—the surge of caravans, banners snapping in layered winds, the muted roar of trade. Lingbao was famed across the borderlands for its auctions, where treasures too elusive for markets surfaced to spark bidding wars. Its nearness to Xihe Kingdom had turned it into a hive of merchants, wanderers, and cultivators all sniffing after fortune.

  Xiao Lei’s pace did not slacken. He paid the gate fee without a word and slipped into the city’s current of hooves and voices, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and hot iron. His first stop was information—word of the next auction. The answer came swiftly, whispered with anticipation: tomorrow.

  An inn gave him the stillness he craved. He collapsed into sleep as though struck, the ache of endless travel unwinding at last. Daylight drained unnoticed. Hunger pried his eyes open; he washed, descended the narrow stairs, and claimed a corner table.

  Food arrived in waves. He ate with ruthless efficiency, devouring not only meat and wine but the exhaustion clinging to his limbs. Plates emptied; the bite of liquor sharpened his gaze once more.

  Tomorrow. The auction would be held under the banner of Stonegold Pavilion. Their reach was vast, ambitious, rooted in every major city. He had crossed paths with their people before—clashed even with Lian Ruo—but branches differed as widely as stars.

  Still, his Royal Academy name would secure entry. That was enough. Tomorrow, he would trade silver for strength—and if anyone blocked his path, they would pay the rest.

  Morning broke softly over Lingbao City, pale light threading through drifting mist. Yet within the walls, quiet found no place. The city already stirred, voices rising in layers, footsteps thick as a tide pushing toward a single destination.

  Auctions here were common enough. One could find items up for bidding every few days—but on rare occasions, a particular auction carried weight, its offerings whispered to be rarities that could bend destinies. Today was such a day.

  Xiao Lei joined the stream of cultivators, merchants, and nobles funnelling toward the Stonegold Pavilion’s gates. His identity had secured him entry, but he took no risks in displaying it. The grey Academy robes remained folded in his storage ring. Instead, he walked in plain black cloth, loose and unremarkable, a bamboo hat veiling half his face. Better to pass like a shadow than invite recognition.

  The line crept forward with stubborn patience. Xiao Lei allowed it, his gaze drifting without rest. Every detail mattered—the flicker of a conversation, the tilt of a rival’s chin, the subtle tremor of envy when wealth passed too near. Not far ahead, a side gate caught the morning light. Two guards in polished armour flanked it, but neither drew the eye so much as the girl who stood between them.

  She smiled as though sunlight itself had chosen her, each gesture effortless, yet carefully honed. This was the entrance for those who prized coin above time, a path reserved for wealthy guests. Xiao Lei could have stepped there with a mere handful of spirit coins, yet he did not. Waste bred attention. Discretion was worth far more.

  Carriages came and went, lacquered wood and gilt fittings flashing as servants hurried to open doors. Young masters descended with smug pride, young madams with rehearsed grace. Each arrival stirred the line, murmurs swelling, envy prickling like thorns in the air. Xiao Lei did not shift.

  Then—another carriage.

  This one drew a hush. No whispers, no mocking envy.

  On the lacquered frame, the crest burned into every gaze: a silver crescent moon, delicate yet unyielding, cradling a single orchid in bloom.

  The Royal Family.

  Eyes narrowed. Bodies leaned forward, hoping proximity alone might catch fortune’s shadow. Beneath the brim of his hat, Xiao Lei’s gaze hardened, weighing the moment like a blade’s edge.

  The curtain lifted. A girl descended.

  Her beauty bore the polish of bloodline, refined features set with quiet authority. Yet something in that face halted Xiao Lei’s breath for half a beat. Not recognition, but resemblance. The arch of the brows. The curve of her lips. It echoed someone he knew. Xinyue.

  But he had never seen her in the capital.

  Murmurs rose at last, faint as falling ash.

  “Princess Xiuyue…”

  The name slipped through the crowd, hushed, reverent.

  And Xiao Lei’s gaze, veiled beneath his bamboo hat, did not waver.

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  Destiny Reckoning. It’s set in the same universe, and you definitely don’t want to miss it, because the stories will eventually crossover.