Ripples beneath the Heavenly Lotus
The lotus arenas floated high above the sacred mountains, suspended on arrays crafted by ancient founders, inscriptions so deep even time itself bowed before them. Dawnwind Valley had seen countless tournaments, witnessed the rise of peerless heroes and fallen prodigies.
But today, the valley held its breath for one man.
Haaron of the Sutra Flame Sect.
His name now wove through the crowd like incense smoke, lingering heavy, impossible to ignore. A cultivator who reshaped the rhythm of battle itself.
A man whose presence alone made blades falter and qi tremble.
And now, forces older than petty sect rivalries stirred from their slumber.
At the outer ring of the valley, in a floating pavilion embroidered with heavenly runes, a gathering of concealed figures watched the field with narrowed eyes.
Old voices murmured beneath their breath.
"This Sutra cultivator… is a flaw in the heavenly pattern."
"If left unchecked, he will alter the flow of the righteous path."
"Better to sever now, before he weaves himself into the heavens."
They did not argue, they decided. Tonight, a challenger would step forward.
Not a disciple, not an elder, something in between.
A blade hidden in the folds of ceremony.
Meanwhile, Haaron stood at the center of the arena, his glaive Vein Severance resting against his shoulder, robes fluttering lightly against the rising spiritual wind.
Around him, sect heirs whispered. Some bowed their heads in hidden respect. Others ground their teeth in resentment.
He ignored them all.
His eyes were closed—not in arrogance, but in listening. He could hear the ripples of intent above.
Killing intent. Thick as black oil, coiling from the pavilions of ancient families.
A trap was forming.
A challenge far beyond the petty duels of the early rounds.
He opened his eyes slowly and smiled.
A single bell rang from the judge's platform. A figure stepped onto the stage. Tall. Calm. Eyes like dying stars. Wearing the simple robes of a minor sect, but exuding an aura that no simple disciple could possess.
Mid Soul Formation Realm.
A realm no disciple should have reached yet.
A realm that could only be attained through secret refining, forbidden techniques, or sacrifice.
The judges said nothing. The audience fell into heavy silence.
This was no fair match. It was an execution.
But Haaron?
He only stepped forward and spoke two words.
"Show me."
The figure bowed stiffly, hand on the hilt of a broad, curved saber.
When the weapon left its sheath, the air split.
The saber wasn't ordinary—it was a Heaven Severing Relic, a weapon imbued with fallen star essence, designed to cut not flesh, but fate.
The crowd gasped.
"That's the Saber of Quietus!"
"How did a minor sect disciple get that?"
"They're violating the sacred pacts!"
But no one dared interfere.
To question was to draw the attention of the ancient pavilions—and few lived long after such folly.
The battle began with no sound.
Only motion.
The challenger struck in three folded movements—blinding speed, overwhelming intent, spiraling saber-light that aimed to sever Haaron's future itself.
Haaron's robe tore at the edge from the saber's pressure alone.
But Haaron did not retreat. He stepped into the strike. One breath, one pulse, one rotation of the Sutra. Vein Severance moved, not as a counter, not even as defense. But as a pivot—redirecting the fatal cut into emptiness, folding reality along with it.
The two figures clashed beneath the floating heavens.
Each strike from the saber drew howls from the valley winds.
Each movement of Haaron's glaive rewrote the rhythm of the battle.
He didn't meet power with power. He turned it, bent it, let it exhaust itself.
He fought as rivers fight stone. And soon the challenger's attacks grew ragged.
Their spirit faltered. The saber's luster dimmed.
Haaron stepped forward once. Vein Severance whirled in a low arc.
Not to kill but to break the foundation.
A single blow shattered the spiritual matrix holding the challenger together.
The masked elder dropped to his knees, coughing blood.
The arena shook. The judges rose to their feet, expressions grim.
But Haaron merely spun his glaive once and shouldered it again. He had no need for cruelty.
His victory was complete before the first blow ever landed.
He looked to the high pavilions, gaze calm and cutting.
And spoke a single line.
"Send stronger ones."
The silence that followed was absolute.
The masked elder collapsed in a heap. The broken remains of his spirit core fluttered around him like withered petals in the wind. His saber clattered uselessly against the stone, no longer a weapon, only dead weight.
In the stands, the highest sect elders kept their faces blank, their emotions buried behind centuries of political training.
But their knuckles whitened against their seats. Because Haaron had not only won. He had exposed them.
Publicly. Brutally. Without mercy.
The arena master descended, robes fluttering, expression taut. With rigid ceremony, he raised his hand.
"Victor: Haaron of the Sutra Flame Sect."
The declaration echoed off the valley walls.
A few outer court disciples cheered—hesitantly, quickly silenced.
Most remained still, fearful of drawing attention.
Yet deep beneath the enforced silence, a new current stirred:
Awe. Not hatred. Not resentment. Awe.
At the edge of the arena, Saintess Mei Xue leaned against a marble pillar, crimson eyes gleaming.
Her lips curled into a feral smile.
"This man," she murmured, voice too soft for anyone to hear, "is going to burn the world."
Behind her, several rogue cultivators who had once scorned Haaron now traded wary glances.
The Sutra Flame Sect was no longer an anomaly. It was a firestorm gaining momentum.
Back in the private quarters of the Sutra Flame contingent, Haaron sat cross-legged, Vein Severance resting beside him, its blade humming with stored battle essence.
His bonded flames gathered silently around him.
Yue Shilan, ever composed, spoke first.
"They will not stop."
"No," Haaron said simply.
"They will escalate."
"Good."
He opened his eyes, violet spirit light swirling within.
"Let them. I still haven't shown them the Sutra's true edge."
As night deepened, a messenger arrived under secret warding spells.
A jade scroll. An invitation.
Ancestral Divine Realm - Opening in Three Days.
An inheritance trial older than Dawnwind Valley itself.
Accessible only to the elite heirs of the major sects.
A chance to seize divine artifacts, lost techniques, forgotten power.
And also… a perfect place to dispose of dangerous variables without witnesses.
Haaron unrolled the scroll slowly.
He laughed once—a low, dark sound that rippled outward.
"They think to bury me," he said.
He rose to his feet, glaive in hand.
"They have forgotten—"
"I bury the heavens."