Hair like a river of molten silver. Eyes like ice-blue crystals. A presence that commanded without needing to raise his voice.
That was the first impression Sun had of Mo Zenith, the man who would change his life forever.
Even as a child, Sun had already stood apart from others. The slums where he was born held nothing for him, the people within them bound by their limitations. But he had never been like them.
He was faster. Sharper. More determined.
And at ten years old, he had already reached Yellow stage, an achievement that had caught Mo's attention.
"Yellow stage at the age of ten, huh," Mo muttered under his breath, his piercing gaze studying the boy standing before him.
Sun stared back, unflinching.
"Child," Mo said at last, "Would you like to come with me?"
Sun's fingers twitched. "Come with you?"
"Yes," Mo repeated, his tone measured, offering neither comfort nor demand. "Come with me. I'll show you a new scenery."
There was no hesitation. No second thought.
Sun nodded.
And with that one decision, he stepped into a world that was never meant for him.
The moment Sun arrived at Mount Hua, he realized what true greatness looked like.
A sect above the clouds, its spires piercing the sky, its warriors moving like storms. The people here weren't just strong—they were legends in the making.
But even among them, there was one who stood apart.
A girl, four years younger than him, with the same silver hair and crystal-blue eyes as Mo.
Seraphina Zenith.
She had the blood of the Sect Leader. The true heir of Mount Hua.
And the moment Sun laid eyes on her, he felt something foreign settle in his chest.
Jealousy.
She was four years younger. But everyone already whispered about her. The prodigy of Mount Hua. Mo Zenith's daughter. A child blessed with talent and lineage.
Sun trained harder.
Day and night, he honed his swordsmanship, pushing himself beyond his limits, proving his worth over and over again.
But no matter how high he climbed, one thing never changed.
He wasn't Mo's blood.
He wasn't truly the heir of Mount Hua.
And the whispers never let him forget it.
As years passed, Mo remained blinded by his own ambitions.
He wasn't looking at Sun.
He wasn't looking at Seraphina.
He was looking at Magnus Draykar.
The Martial King had long been Mo's greatest obsession, the shadow he couldn't escape, the legend he wanted to surpass.
And in that obsession, Mo failed to see what was happening right before him.
Sun saw the cracks in his authority.
The more Mo chased an impossible dream, the easier it became to pull the sect away from him—slowly, carefully.
It began subtly.
A word here. A suggestion there. Encouraging the elders to make decisions without consulting Mo directly. Shifting allegiances.
The more Mo focused on his own growth, the more Sun rose in influence.
Even if Mo was the King of the East, even if Seraphina was his true daughter, they were no longer the ones holding Mount Hua together.
It was him.
The boy who had been adopted, the orphan who had been brought in.
The one who would bury them both.
However, things soon changed.
Mo began to pay attention again.
The obsession that had blinded him, that had made him chase Magnus Draykar's shadow, faded just enough for him to turn his gaze back toward the sect—back toward Seraphina.
And Seraphina rose.
Her talent, already formidable, awakened into something even greater. She wasn't just the heir to Mount Hua. She surpassed Sun's growth, shattering every expectation placed upon her.
Sun had always been ahead.
Until he wasn't.
Until Seraphina overtook him—effortlessly, naturally, inevitably.
And now, even after reaching Radiant-rank, Sun had failed to achieve what he truly wanted.
He wanted to hurt Seraphina.
He wanted to tear her down, to hurl her from her place as the true-blooded daughter of Mo Zenith, to erase the fact that he was just an orphan taken in.
But there was someone else who stood in his way now.
Arthur Nightingale.
A talent that made even Sun envious.
Sun's grip on his sword tightened, his breath steadying as he locked eyes with Arthur. He was done talking. There was only the blade now.
Both of them stepped forward at the same time, swords raised, energy surging through their bodies.
The first movement of the Violet Mist Divine Art exploded between them, the air rippling with raw power.
Violet Sunset: Genesis.
Plum blossoms flourished into existence, blooming at the tips of their swords before bursting forward, the petals carrying the sheer force of their intent.
Their swords clashed, the collision shaking the air, sending violet petals scattering in every direction.
Sun shifted his stance immediately, stepping forward as his sword twisted into the next technique.
Fan of the Scattering Pearls.
A sweeping motion, elegant yet deadly, the petals of the previous strike splintering into countless smaller cuts, forming an array of piercing strikes too numerous to count.
Arthur's blade whirled in response, adapting instantly. He didn't just counter—he matched Sun's tempo, his sword cutting through the storm, flowing like water, untouched by the chaos.
Sun grit his teeth, frustration flickering through him. He pushed harder, breaking past hesitation as he unleashed the third movement.
Crimson Sunset.
Violet mist shattered, the air turning red as his energy surged. His blade carved through space, a single, precise strike that burned with the rage of a setting sun, a technique that had once earned him undisputed superiority over every disciple in Mount Hua.
But Arthur didn't move to block it.
Instead, his eyes gleamed with a knowing light.
He used it too.
Their Crimson Sunsets collided, the force of the impact sending tremors through the battlefield, a crimson glow consuming the surroundings as their wills clashed head-on.
Sun staggered slightly, the realization hitting him with more weight than the force of the impact itself.
Arthur had learned everything.
And then he moved into the final technique.
Natural Paradox.
Sun barely had time to react before the world around him shifted, the technique twisting space, disrupting flow, reversing momentum. His sword, mid-strike, was redirected against his own will, as if he had lost control of his own technique.
Arthur's blade descended.
And for the first time in years, Sun felt powerless.