The Kingdom's Ruler
Jinhai lounged in his chamber, legs crossed, swirling a cup of wine idly in one hand. The faint glow of candlelight flickered over his papers, stacks of reports detailing minor disputes, trade fluctuations, and military skirmishes. His kingdom ran efficiently, as it always did. That was the way he had built it—a machine, not a monarchy.
A light knock at the door.
"Enter."
A messenger stepped in, bowing deeply before setting a stack of fresh reports onto his desk. "My lord, the situation with the Silver Lotus Sect has escalated. Master Lin Wuye and Shen Mu are set to clash at midnight."
Jinhai's fingers paused against the rim of his wine cup.
Lin Wuye.
For the first time in years, that name stirred something in him—not as a ruler, but as a man who once had a past.
He had known Lin Wuye long before they had become what they were now—before Jinhai was a sovereign, before Lin Wuye had taken his path as a scholar. Once, they had been two boys caught between the expectations of their lineage and the boundless ambitions of their youth. They had studied under the same masters, debated philosophy under moonlight, and once even vowed that if they ever held power, they would reshape the world together.
But that was lifetimes ago.
The man Lin Wuye had become was not the boy Jinhai once knew. And Jinhai… Jinhai had long abandoned those youthful dreams. Ideals did not build empires. Ruthlessness did.
His grip on the cup tightened for a fraction of a second. Then, his expression smoothed over like glass, and when he finally spoke, his voice was devoid of anything but cold indifference.
Jinhai barely glanced up. "A sect dispute? Why are you wasting my time with this?"
"The region may destabilize if—"
"If they tear themselves apart, it is of no concern to me." He took a slow sip of his wine, waving a hand dismissively. "Tell the border generals to tighten control of the region. If it collapses, we will pick through the rubble at our leisure."
The messenger hesitated. "And the situation regarding the merchant request?"
Jinhai sighed. "Which one? I get this lowly merchants who wants to open sweet shops, weapon shops and even a casino. None of them is exciting and can be put on hold"
His messenger sterned and said "A merchant named Atlas seeks permission to establish a trade outpost and workshop within our territory. His credentials are impressive, and he claims to bring innovations that could revolutionize production." he hands him over his paperwork and credentials research done on Atlas.
Jinhai leaned forward slightly, finally looking interested. "Let him set up a shop. Innovation breeds power. But watch him. If he is lying, ensure his disappearance is swift and untraceable."
The messenger nodded. "And lastly, my lord, your intelligence division has requested guidance. They have received your orders to investigate Yasmina's death and are seeking leads on her most loyal follower. However, there is little to go on."
Jinhai tapped a finger against the armrest of his chair, his mind already knew this could've happened. "If information is scarce, we pull from a different source. Have my best spies make contact with the Underworld Queen."
The messenger stiffened at the name. "Are you certain, my lord? She is... unpredictable."
Jinhai smirked. "Yes, she is. But she is also the most well-connected figure in the underworld. If anyone knows who Yasmina's devoted follower was, it is her. Tell our men to offer whatever she wants in return for that information."
As the messenger left, Jinhai exhaled sharply, staring at the flickering candlelight.
How ironic.
Here he was, seeking information from a shadowed figure he had never met. And yet, unbeknownst to him, the infamous Underworld Queen was already closer than he realized.
A Scholar's Dilemma
The room smelled of herbs and ink, a strange combination of medicine and industry. Emery sat beside the cot where Zafira lay unconscious, her chest rising and falling steadily, though her face was still pale.
His fingers worked tirelessly, scribbling notes on parchment while his other hand idly ground a medicinal root with a mortar and pestle. Even injured, even after nearly losing her, he could not sit still. His mind needed to work. His hands needed to build. His leg was taken care of by Callum, a rare thing as Emery despises physical touch but allows it from him.
Across the room, Callum stood frozen, staring at his master nursing a woman with far too much care for someone who supposedly only cared about science.
Emery sighed, not even looking up as he reached out and yanked Callum's ear.
"Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it."
"I—I wasn't thinking anything!" Callum yelped, rubbing his ear. "I just—well, you don't exactly do this for everyone, Master Emery. I mean, you made me treat my own wounds the last time I got injured!"
"You tripped over a bucket. That's not an injury. That's natural selection trying to do its job."
Callum scowled, but before he could argue, Emery waved a hand. "Enough. Have you gotten any updates about the law of continuity request I had you put out into the network?"
Callum blinked, then quickly dug into his satchel and pulled out a collection of letters. "Right! So, I worded it carefully to attract only serious scholars. I asked for anyone with knowledge on theoretical mechanics and the progression of forces without external interference."
Emery gave him a flat stare. "That's what you wrote?"
"Yes? What's wrong with that?"
Emery groaned. "You should have phrased it like this—'Has anyone observed momentum that seemingly violates natural resistance? Has anyone proven this phenomenon exists?'
Callum blinked. "That's the same thing."
"No, it's not! You left it open-ended, which means I'll get every self-proclaimed 'scholar' with a half-baked theory instead of someone with actual results."
Callum crossed his arms. "Fine, fine. I'll make the correction. But if I end up attracting some insane philosopher who thinks the stars talk to him, I'm blaming you."
Emery sighed, but the banter eased the tension in his shoulders. He turned his gaze back to Zafira, watching her breathe. For a moment, the room fell quiet.
He told himself he was simply waiting for her to wake up.
Not that he was relieved she was still breathing.
The Scholar's Wrath
The battlefield was silent save for the flickering embers of torches and the distant groans of the wounded. Blood stained the earth, and standing amidst the chaos were two men—one a warlord who thrived in destruction, the other a scholar whose hands were left behind due to his own belief of pacifism.
Lin Wuye did not move like a traditional martial artist. His footwork was deliberate, each step measured with the precision of a man who had spent his life calculating outcomes. His qi was not wild and uncontrollable like Shen Mu's; it was sharp, refined, methodical.
Shen Mu scoffed, cracking his knuckles as his blood-soaked aura pulsed wildly around him. "So the scholar thinks he can fight? This should be amusing."
Lin Wuye said nothing. His stance was firm, unshaken. Then, with a single movement, he vanished.
The air split as he reappeared behind Shen Mu, fingers curled into a precise strike that slammed into the warlord's ribcage. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the battlefield, Shen Mu's body staggering as pain shot through him for the first time in the fight.
The warriors watching from the distance gasped. Lin Wuye was holding his own.
Shen Mu growled, his amusement fading into irritation. He retaliated with a devastating palm strike, but Lin Wuye redirected the force with a twist of his wrist, dissipating the impact entirely. Everytime they strike, winds of destruction would follow and the earth beneath them becomes unstable. His movements were effortless, as though he were reading Shen Mu's attacks before they landed.
"You rely too much on raw strength," Lin Wuye murmured, his voice laced with quiet disappointment. "Strength without control is a fire that burns its own wielder."
Shen Mu's eye twitched. He knew he is struggling against this scholar but then, without hesitation, he pulled a small black pill from his robes and crushed it between his teeth.
Immediately, his body contorted, veins turning black as his qi surged into something unnatural. A vile, corrupted energy bled from him, twisting his very form as his aura thickened into a suffocating presence.
"If strength is a fire, then I will become the inferno!" Shen Mu bellowed, lunging forward with inhuman speed.
For the first time, Lin Wuye faltered.
Shen Mu's attacks came faster, stronger, more erratic. Lin Wuye could feel his body straining under the onslaught, muscles screaming in protest as he deflected blow after blow. He could not keep this up—his body was reaching its limit. This was only going on for 4 minutes but the trees surrounding them started to fall and the earth beneath them made holes each time Shen Mu jumped.
Pain flared through his arm as one of Shen Mu's attacks broke through, slamming into his ribs and sending him skidding backward. His vision blurred, his breathing uneven. Qi poisoning. He had pushed himself beyond his natural limit, and his own energy was turning against him.
Shen Mu laughed, stepping forward, ready to finish him.
Then, just as Shen Mu prepared to strike the final blow, the air around them shifted.
A presence surged forth—a pressure so immense that even Shen Mu froze. From the shadows, a figure descended like a falling blade.
The current Qi Master had arrived.
A lone figure emerged from the shadows, his robes untouched by the chaos around him, his presence a quiet storm waiting to be unleashed. Master Daokan. The very man who had observed Meilin's strange qi before the battle, the one who had silently watched from the periphery, now stood at the heart of destruction.
His sharp eyes flickered between Shen Mu's contorted form and Lin Wuye's battered stance. He had seen many battles, but few men had fought as Lin Wuye just had—holding his ground against a warlord despite lacking formal training. Despite the sheer agony twisting his body, Lin Wuye had fought with discipline, strategy, and an unwavering willpower that even seasoned warriors lacked.
With practiced ease, the Qi Master sidestepped Shen Mu's corrupted onslaught. His movements were effortless, each step calculated, as if the battle had already been decided. In the blink of an eye, he was in front of Shen Mu, his palm hovering inches from the warlord's chest. A whisper of energy coiled around his fingers, so precise that it felt like the world itself held its breath.
"No fire burns forever." he said while looking at Shen Mu indifferently.
A pulse of concentrated qi erupted from the Qi Master's hand. The mountains behind them split into half and the earth cracked into half from Shen Mu's direction. Shen Mu's body convulsed violently, his own corrupted energy turning against him. His muscles spasmed, veins darkening as cracks of energy burst from his skin. His breath hitched—for the first time, he felt the presence of death.
He had fought like a beast, relying on overwhelming brutality.
But in front of this master, he had never stood a chance.
With a final, silent gasp, his body collapsed inward, the energy within him spiraling into itself before violently extinguishing. His corpse hit the ground with a hollow thud. He choked, eyes wide with disbelief as blood gushed from his mouth.
The Master then said to him while squatting towards his face in pity "The fact your body didn't disintegrate when you came into my contact with my strike is proof you were strong. But you would've lost either way since you relied on forbidden power."
A moment later, he was dead.
Lin Wuye staggered, barely standing. His breath was ragged, his entire body trembling on the verge of collapse. He had survived—but not by victory. By endurance.
Before he could fall, a firm grip caught his shoulder, steadying him through stabilising his Qi. Lin Wuye barely turned his head before recognizing the figure beside him. Master Daokan. The elder cultivator regarded him with something between admiration and intrigue.
"To stand against a warlord with nothing but your own resolve and intellect," Daokan said, his voice measured, "is a feat even trained martial artists cannot claim. You did not win by power, but you proved that power alone does not dictate survival. Few in this world could have lasted as long as you did."
Lin Wuye let out a weak, breathless chuckle. "Flattery... won't keep me standing."
Daokan smirked slightly, tightening his hold to prevent him from collapsing entirely. "Then rest, Scholar. You've earned that much."
Lin Wuye had fought for survival.
The Qi Master had fought with dominance.
Layla, watching from the wreckage of her tower, was dumbfounded.
Her commander's mind, despite the pain wracking her body, registered everything in pure, unfiltered clarity.
I need that man's power!
She blinked, still trying to process what had just happened. She had fought, planned, manipulated outcomes with precision—and yet, this was a level of dominance she could not yet grasp nor do yet. Even through the haze of pain, something inside her stirred. How had he done that? How could she learn it?
A groan beside her pulled her out of her thoughts. Her gaze snapped to Bao's broken form lying nearby, his breath shallow, his wounds severe.
Her attention whipped back to the Qi Master, and before she could stop herself, she shouted through clenched teeth, her voice dripping with snark even in agony.
"Hey—mystical grandmaster or whatever you are—heal Bao first, then me!"
Master Daokan turned, arching a brow at her audacity. Even while battered and barely able to stand, she still barked orders.
A faint chuckle escaped his lips before he moved toward Bao, as commanded.
Lin Wuye let out a low groan, finally lowering himself onto a broken pillar for support. He turned toward Daokan, his voice hoarse but filled with gratitude. "I am in your debt, Master Daokan. Few would have intervened against a warlord of Shen Mu's caliber."
Daokan waved a hand dismissively. "Debts are heavy burdens, Scholar. Keep yours. I was merely ensuring the battlefield did not fall to complete ruin."
Around them, the battlefield was beginning to settle. The acrid scent of blood still lingered in the air, and bodies—both friend and foe—were strewn across the war-torn ground. Yet, despite the carnage, a strange calmness was creeping over the survivors.
The Silver Lotus Sect's warriors stood among the wreckage, exhaustion evident in their faces, but they were alive. The elders exchanged glances, murmuring words of disbelief and praise for Meilin's tactics.
"Every countermeasure was calculated," one elder whispered, shaking his head in amazement. "She accounted for every possibility. Without those strategies, we would have been slaughtered."
"To think she orchestrated this victory while barely able to stand," another muttered, surveying the battlefield. "And against an opponent like Shen Mu. The girl is terrifying."
Younger disciples, though battered, spoke with a mixture of reverence and humor.
"I thought we were dead, but Lady Meilin really had backup plans for her backup plans!"
"I actually feel bad for the enemy. They never stood a chance."
Despite the brutality of the battle, there was a shared, unspoken sentiment among them. They had survived the night.
Layla took in their words, watching the remnants of her forces regroup. Rebuilding.
For the first time since she had arrived in this world, she allowed herself a small, exhausted exhale. It was time to rebuild.
Bao, barely conscious, cracked open an eye as Daokan's hand hovered over him, a faint warmth spreading through his battered body. "So… we won, huh?" he rasped.
Layla, still sprawled in pain but ever the strategist, scoffed. "We won because that mystical grandmaster obliterated the enemy like swatting a fly. Otherwise, you'd be fertilizer by now."
Bao groaned. "Can't argue with that."
Layla then said with sincerity, "Thank you for saving me Bao, if you didn't become a punching bag for me..I probably would've died"
Bao just gave an approval of her sincerity as if it was the most natural thing for him to do. Layla observes this and thought to herself, he probably would've died for me if it came to it.
Daokan's fingers pulsed as he finished stabilizing Bao before moving to Meilin. "You, however," he said, turning to her, "have an unnatural way of grasping things beyond your understanding."
His tone was flat, but the snark in his words was unmistakable. It wasn't spoken like a compliment—it was the kind of remark an old master would throw at a particularly bold student who thought they had it all figured out. The slight tilt of his head, the measured pause before he spoke, the almost lazy way he assessed her injuries—it all screamed of a man who had seen too much and had the patience for very little.
Layla, still in pain, scowled. Was this old man mocking her? Layla arched a brow despite the pain. "Oh? You say that like you know me."
Daokan's lips curled slightly. "I do. I've been observing you for some time."
Layla's curiosity spiked, but before she could demand an explanation, Daokan continued whispering to only her, his voice carrying weight. "You show signs of something... unique. Something not entirely of this world's natural cultivation methods."
And then he said it loudly. His name. "I am Daokan of the Shrouded Peaks."
Meilin froze.
Wait. Wait. Wait.
The gears in her mind turned, clicking into place with horrifying speed. Memories of this body—its lessons, its history—came rushing forward.
Shrouded Peaks. The sect that trained only the most monstrous prodigies, the untouchables of martial society.
Daokan. A name spoken in whispers by scholars and warriors alike. The man rumored to be both a ghost and a legend.
Her expression shifted instantly. Without thinking—without hesitation—Meilin forced her aching body forward, threw herself onto the ground, and performed a perfect, pain-ridden dogeza.
A deep bow, forehead pressed to the dirt, despite her wounds screaming in protest. "Master Daokan! Please teach me!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Lin Wuye pinched the bridge of his nose. Bao's jaw dropped. The surrounding warriors, despite their injuries, all burst into laughter. Even Daokan raised a bemused brow.
"You're injured, and yet you throw yourself to the ground?" he mused.
Layla, her face still firmly against the dirt, grit her teeth through the pain. "If you saw what I saw tonight, you'd be doing the same. I need that kind of power. I need you."
Daokan exhaled, shaking his head. "Hmph. You certainly are persistent. But power is not given freely."
Layla peeked up, hopeful. "So you're saying there's a chance?"
More laughter erupted around her, but Daokan only smiled faintly. "Rest first, ambitious one. Then we'll see."
As Layla slowly lifted her head, pain rippled through every fiber of her body, but that didn't matter—not now. Her mind was already working, already planning.
This was an opportunity she couldn't afford to lose. A man of Daokan's caliber wasn't just a powerful fighter—he was a force of nature. If she wanted true power, she needed him. No, she needed to bind him to her side, ensure he had no choice but to teach her. If it required selling her soul to the devil itself, then so be it.
As her mind spun with strategies, the battlefield finally began to settle. Exhausted warriors sank to the ground where they stood, some tending to their wounded comrades, others simply basking in the realization that they were still breathing. The night, which once carried the thick tension of looming death, now felt lighter, as if the very air had been purged of its suffocating dread.
Daokan remained awake while the others succumbed to exhaustion. The battlefield, once alive with chaos, had quieted into stillness. The scent of blood still clung to the air, mingling with the faint smoke of dying embers. Bodies of foe, littered the ground—a testament to the brutality of the night.
The warriors of the Silver Lotus Sect had collapsed into whatever rest they could find, their breath steady but their minds undoubtedly haunted by what had transpired. They had survived, but survival was merely the beginning. The true test would come with the dawn. The test of rebuilding.
Daokan stood at the edge of it all, his arms crossed, his gaze settling once more on Meilin. There was an unreadable weight behind his eyes, a thought left unspoken. He had watched her fight, watched her refuse to surrender even when she should have. Even without cultivation, even while broken, she had fought like a warrior hardened by countless battles.
It was an observation that did not sit easily with him.
He exhaled, almost as if speaking to himself. "The question is not whether I can teach you... but whether I can control what you are going to become."
Without another word, his form flickered—then vanished into the night, leaving only the rustling of the wind in his wake.
The wind carried his words away before Layla could hear them.