Chapter Thirty-Two: Curse of the Divine Beast
The roar tore through the sky, a sound so fierce and all-consuming it seemed to challenge the very heavens, a curse hurled from the depths of the Azure Mountains. It carried with it an unrestrained fury, an ancient anguish that had simmered within the divine beast for centuries, now released in a single, devastating cry. The sheer force of it rolled across the land like a storm given voice, leaving devastation in its wake as it surged outward, a wave of pure, unyielding energy that swept over the Eastern Continent.
In the heart of the Azure Mountains, the roar's impact was immediate. Trees shuddered as though struck by a gale, their roots ripping free from the earth, branches bending and breaking under the pressure. Leaves were torn from their stems, spiraling upward before being scattered like ashes in the wind. Streams that trickled quietly through the mountain valleys surged into wild torrents, their waters frothing and churning as though possessed, carving new paths through the rocks. The earth itself seemed to tremble, cracks appearing along its surface, splitting the ground open in jagged lines as if in response to the Kirin's wrath.
The roar swept past the mountains, reaching beyond their rugged expanse and spilling into the distant regions of the Eastern Continent. It crossed valleys, forests, and rivers with unrelenting speed, a relentless tide of sound that carried the Kirin's power and fury. In the south, within the mist-shrouded reaches of Thousand Poison Valley, the roar was like an invisible weight pressing down on the land. The poisonous mist that hung thick over the valley quivered, thinning briefly before swirling into chaotic eddies. Cultivators and herbalists who had dedicated themselves to mastering the valley's toxic arts stilled, their faces pale as they felt the ancient presence rippling through their Qi. The valley's twisted flora, plants that thrived in the dark mists and venomous soil, shrank back, their leaves trembling as though touched by a frost.
Northward, where the Heavenly Blade Pavilion stood tall among the craggy cliffs and stone halls, a young disciple named Han Shuang staggered, clutching at her chest as the roar struck her like a physical blow. She had been practicing her sword forms, each movement sharp and precise, but the moment the sound reached her, her blade slipped from her grip, clattering to the ground. Her heart pounded, a strange fear twisting through her, as if the roar had carried with it a memory of something primal, something that lay beyond her understanding. The air around her grew thick, stifling, the pressure bearing down on her like an unseen hand, her vision blurring as she tried to steady herself against the onslaught. She raised her head, her gaze fixed southward, toward the Azure Mountains, where she could feel the source of the curse-like roar, its power a distant yet inescapable force.
But it was the Eastern regions, closer to the mountains, where the roar's impact was most keenly felt. Here, near the territories where Kunlun's influence held sway, the disciples and elders stationed on the outer edges of the sect paused in their training, their movements halting as the reverberations of the roar rolled over them. The ground beneath them trembled, a low rumble that grew in intensity, sending pebbles skittering across the stone pathways and the leaves on the trees shivering in a soundless response. Even the most seasoned cultivators among them felt the weight of the roar pressing down on their spirits, a reminder of the frailty of mortal strength before a force as old as the land itself.
In the midst of them stood Ji Yuan, a young prodigy whose path in cultivation had been marked by both talent and struggle. His form was slender yet strong, his presence both quiet and intense, as if he carried within him a storm that he kept restrained by sheer force of will. His eyes, a sharp and discerning gray, reflected both intelligence and a guarded strength that few could match. Ji Yuan's hand drifted to his sword, his fingers brushing against the hilt, his gaze narrowing as the roar's force struck him. The weight of it settled over his shoulders, pressing down on him like an invisible mantle of power, challenging him to withstand its fury.
Ji Yuan's expression remained impassive, yet the tension in his stance betrayed the unease roiling beneath the surface. He had heard tales of ancient beasts, divine creatures that held sway over lands and commanded the respect of the very elements, but this…this was beyond anything he had experienced. The roar carried not just power, but a feeling—a sense of despair and defiance intertwined, as though the creature that had released it was raging not only against the world but against its own shackles. A strange feeling twisted in Ji Yuan's chest, a mixture of awe and something unnameable, as he felt the echoes of the Kirin's pain ripple through his own Qi.
To the east, where Kunlun's territories extended, other disciples and elders exchanged anxious glances, their faces pale as they felt the ancient force reverberating through the spiritual currents around them. The sect's masters, cultivators who had trained for decades, fell silent as they listened to the roar, their minds racing to comprehend the significance of what they had just heard. For even the most seasoned among them, this was a reminder of the forces that lay beyond the boundaries of their control, of powers that had slumbered for generations, now stirring once more.
Across the Eastern Continent, from the snow-capped mountains of the Heavenly Blade Pavilion to the shadowed depths of Thousand Poison Valley, the Kirin's roar resonated like a call to war. Those sensitive to Qi felt it as a primal pressure, a force that demanded submission, that laid bare their own vulnerabilities in the face of something vast and timeless. The very air grew heavy, charged with an electric tension that pressed against them, forcing even the strongest to acknowledge the ancient power that had awakened.
For a brief moment, every creature across the continent seemed to still, as if caught in the thrall of the Kirin's fury. Birds took to the skies in panicked flocks, their wings a frantic blur against the gray clouds. Beasts in the forests lowered their heads, ears flattened, as they sought shelter from the invisible storm. Rivers and streams overflowed their banks, the water churning in frenzied eddies, as if the very land was reacting to the divine beast's rage.
And in the silence that followed, a sense of foreboding lingered in the hearts of all who had heard the roar, a feeling that this was only the beginning—that whatever curse the Kirin had hurled toward the heavens would not go unanswered.
The sky darkened with a suddenness that felt unnatural, as though a veil had been drawn over the heavens in answer to the Kirin's curse. Clouds gathered in thick, brooding masses, churning and folding upon themselves, spreading across the sky like ink spilled over water. Where moments before, the light had pierced through the trees and mountains, now there was only a shroud of gray and black, dense and heavy, pressing down upon the earth with an intensity that felt almost suffocating. The very air seemed to grow colder, a chill that seeped into bones and hearts alike, as if the heavens had drawn their breath and held it, anticipating something ominous.
A low rumble began to reverberate across the land, not quite thunder but a deep, resonant sound that seemed to come from within the clouds themselves, as though the heavens were grumbling in response to the Kirin's roar. Lightning flickered in the distance, flashing through the thick clouds in jagged, irregular patterns, illuminating the dark sky in bursts of white and violet. Each flash tore through the gloom, casting brief, stark shadows over the mountains and valleys, like skeletal fingers clawing at the ground.
Then came the rain. Not a gentle shower or even a steady downpour, but a torrent that fell with unrestrained fury, as if the heavens themselves were weeping or raging in response to the ancient beast's call. The raindrops were large, heavy, and cold, striking the earth with a force that sent plumes of dirt and leaves scattering. They hammered against the stone, soaked into the soil, and drenched the forest in a matter of moments. The ground turned slick, puddles forming in hollows, streams swelling into rushing rivers as the rain intensified, drowning out all other sounds with its relentless patter.
The wind picked up, howling through the trees like a living creature, bending the branches and rattling the leaves. It whipped through the mountain passes and valleys, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and moss, mingling with the fresh tang of the storm. The gusts grew fiercer, gusting and swirling in unpredictable eddies, lifting leaves and debris and casting them into the air, where they were swept away by the unyielding current. The trees groaned and creaked under the assault, their trunks bending, their roots clinging desperately to the rain-soaked ground.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder crashed, a deafening boom that rolled through the mountains, echoing off cliffs and ravines with an intensity that seemed to shake the very foundation of the land. It was as though the heavens themselves were answering the Kirin's rage, the thunder a voice that matched the divine beast's roar in both power and fury. Each clap reverberated through the sky and earth, rattling stones and unsettling creatures who cowered in their dens, their instinctive fear heightened by the elemental chaos surrounding them.
The sky remained dark, a relentless canopy of clouds that blotted out the sun and moon alike, leaving the land bathed in an eerie, dim light that barely penetrated the storm. Every flash of lightning illuminated the landscape in stark relief, casting twisted shadows and harsh contrasts, revealing glimpses of the mountains and forests before plunging them back into near darkness. The world had transformed, an unfamiliar landscape of shadow and fury, as if the very essence of the storm carried with it the Kirin's ancient anger and sorrow, spreading its curse across the land.
It was not just a storm but an answer, a response from the heavens to the divine beast's defiance, a reminder that the forces of nature would not be overlooked. In that moment, the storm felt alive, a force with a will of its own, mirroring the emotions that had driven the Kirin to unleash its power.
The storm that followed the Kirin's roar lingered in the heavens like an omen, casting the continent in a strange, unrelenting shadow. Thunder rumbled through the skies, a sound so deep and continuous it felt as though the world itself were groaning under the weight of the beast's fury. Lightning slashed through the clouds with wild, erratic precision, illuminating the land in flickering flashes of blinding white, turning night into an uneasy, restless twilight.
The clouds themselves seemed more than mere vapor—they were dense, rolling masses that churned and writhed as if alive, their dark, inky depths swirling in a turmoil that mirrored the anguish of the divine beast. Rain poured in torrents, sheets of water hammering down, flooding rivers and carving fresh channels through fields, erasing paths as though the heavens sought to reshape the very face of the earth in response to the Kirin's curse.
In villages scattered across the Eastern Continent, people huddled indoors, their faces lit only by the dim glow of candles as they listened to the storm with growing dread. Every crash of thunder rattled windows and sent shudders through walls, the ferocity of the storm stripping away any illusion of safety. Farmers stared in despair as fields transformed into rivers, crops drowning beneath the unyielding downpour. Children clung to their parents, eyes wide with fear, the roar of the Kirin's voice still echoing in their minds like a ghostly wail, reminding them that this was no ordinary tempest.
In the northern reaches, the Heavenly Blade Pavilion lay blanketed in a fierce chill, as though winter had fallen overnight. Its disciples, known for their resilience, found themselves forced to take shelter, their usual routines abandoned as the storm's violence intensified. Shao Tian, one of their most promising young cultivators, stood by a window in the high halls, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, fingers twitching with anticipation as he sensed the undercurrent of something vast and ancient within the storm. There was no mistaking it—this was not a mere outburst of nature. This was something greater, something that demanded reverence and fear in equal measure. Shao Tian's thoughts raced, his usual composure tested as he wrestled with the realization that a force capable of commanding the heavens had stirred, and he wondered if even the Heavenly Blade Pavilion's strength would be enough to withstand what was to come.
In the south, the disciples of Thousand Poison Valley watched the rainfall with a mixture of intrigue and unease. The valley, usually shrouded in its own mists and shadows, had darkened further, as if the heavens themselves sought to swallow the hidden valley whole. Elder Chen Mei, a master of poisons and the valley's formidable leader, peered through the thick veil of rain from her study, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She had felt the pulse of something powerful and old, a beast's call that lingered in the air like venom spreading through blood. Though isolated from much of the world, she sensed that whatever had caused the storm held the potential to alter even her secluded realm, and that thought alone disturbed her, unsettling her more than any rival ever had.
Nearer to the Azure Mountains, Ji Yuan of the Kunlun Sect stood alone on a high ledge overlooking the forest, his robes flapping in the storm's relentless winds. The rain struck his face, icy and biting, but he remained motionless, his gaze locked on the shadowed peaks of the mountains. His expression was stoic, but his eyes burned with an intensity that seemed to match the storm itself, a reflection of his own inner turmoil. Memories of his harsh childhood, his ruthless training, and his drive to prove his worth flickered through his mind, but this storm felt like something far beyond the trials he had known.
The Kirin's roar echoed in his memory, a sound that seemed to call forth every buried ambition and hidden wound within him, forcing him to confront his own limitations. He clenched his fists, feeling the weight of his destiny pressing on his shoulders like the very storm that now surrounded him. This was not just a disturbance in the heavens—it was a challenge, a reminder that forces far older and more powerful than his sect's influence still shaped the world. And in that moment, Ji Yuan resolved that he would be ready, that he would rise to meet whatever test awaited him in the wake of the storm.
Even farther east, the Kunlun Sect itself lay draped under the storm's oppressive shadow, its towering spires nearly obscured by the relentless sheets of rain. Disciples hurried to secure the ancient scrolls and artifacts within the sect's vast libraries, the storm's wrath filling even the most seasoned cultivators with a gnawing sense of unease. First Elder Wu Gongfu, one of the sect's most respected leaders, gazed out over the rain-lashed courtyards with narrowed eyes, his mind racing as he weighed the implications of the Kirin's call. Kunlun prided itself on its mastery over order and law, but this storm, this fury that defied their control, felt like a grim reminder of the chaos that lay beyond even their grasp.