A Song For The Ages

Deep within the cliffs behind the Saint Spirit Sect's outer boundary, tucked into a narrow ravine choked with moss and mist, a passage barely wide enough for one man twisted into shadow. At its end lay a cave cloaked in old formations, long faded to subtle flickers of warmth. Few knew of this place, and fewer still could find it without guidance. It was here that Zhou Rui, master of the Saint Alchemy Branch, had made his sanctuary, a refuge and a workshop.

He called it the Forgotten Flame.

A steady glow emanated from deep within, pulsing like the breath of a slumbering beast. Inside, intricate formations of metal, wood, and crystal intertwined along the walls and ceiling. Glass tubes channeled spiritual liquids while reservoirs of essence stones pulsed faintly across copper inlaid workbenches. Fire danced beneath an artifact furnace. Above it, a slowly rotating orb cast rings of shifting light, reacting to the resonance of Zhou Rui's essence qi.

He stood in front of the furnace, shirtless to the waist. Scars etched his wiry form, but his body thrummed with stability. His essence qi, infused with wood, fire, and metal, flowed like an elegant symphony, tempered with both yin's form and yang's breath.

Before him lay a coiled whip of serpent-spine silk, half-submerged in a vat of essence-infused dew iron. The artifact was alive, resonating with Zhou's oscillations as he guided it through the advanced sevenfold alchemical process.

Zhou's breath moved in tandem with the pulse of the artifact furnace, each inhale guided by years of tempered mastery. He stood poised, hands hovering above the vat where the half-formed whip lay submerged, its serpent-spine silk twitching with restrained potential.

First came the fire. His fire-aspect qi slipped into the whip's threads; not to ignite, but to cleanse. Impurities evaporated as black steam coiled into the air, yet the silk remained pristine. This was Purification, and in his hands, it was more than a step; it was a conversation with the material.

Next, the whisper of metal. Zhou guided fine strands of metal-aspect qi into the whip's inner lattice. They searched, coaxed, unraveled, and drew out ancient residue embedded deep in the fabric. Dark violet essence pooled into a flask beside him. This was Extraction; the unmaking of memory.

Then he turned to wood. Essence laced with the vitality of old roots spiraled down his arms. It seeped into the empty channels of the whip, rebuilding from within. Fresh potential stirred where dead pathways had once lain dormant. Refinement had begun, and with it came rebirth.

He gestured. A tri-aspect formation activated beneath the floating whip. Sky-iron and beast-bone veins aligned with the silk, merging through elegant spirals of qi. They became one. No seam remained. This was Fusion, and it sang with resonance.

As the essence within stabilized, he pressed his palms together and formed a duality seal. Yin and yang danced; cold descending, heat rising. The whip convulsed once, then stilled, its form perfectly preserved. This was Solidification, where harmony granted permanence.

Yet Zhou's eyes narrowed.

He wasn't finished.

With a smooth transition, he released a hybrid stream; wood entwined with fire, life entwined with power. He bathed the weapon in this blend. Small thorns of jade crept along the handle. The weapon pulsed deeper, its resonance now layered. Growth had begun.

Lastly came the true forge: Transformation. He extended both arms and released essence infused with wood, fire, metal, and bound with the dual tempering of yin and yang. The furnace blazed. The whip trembled, the coalescing essence within awakening. At the hilt, silk unraveled into the shape of a serpent's skull. Jade eyes seemed to open while the air hissed in response.

Zhou exhaled.

"Not bad, but still not the same," he murmured, gently setting the whip into a jade-lined cradle.

He moved to the back table. Notes lay scattered across the surface; treatises on refinement, seal-breaking theory, and materials stress diagrams. One scroll bore Feiyin's signature seal. Another held neat annotations in Mu Shen's hand. Zhou poured himself tea and sat down, rubbing the back of his neck.

"These two…" he muttered, gazing at the flickering diagrams. "One's bold enough to break a sect's spine. The other's silent, but steady."

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A sudden flare from his spatial ring made Zhou freeze. He reached into his sleeve, pulling out a talisman etched in lacquered bone.

It glowed crimson.

Zhou's expression turned grim. "The Sect Master…"

The symbol pulsed again. No words. Just that suffocating, familiar pressure.

He stood, secured the whip into a sealed case, and departed.

By the time he arrived at the main peak, the other five Branch Masters were already gathered within the Master's Hall. High, vaulted ceilings loomed above them, lined with black jade columns.

They stood in a half-circle, tense and silent.

Then, with the sound of warping air, a dark pressure filled the room.

He appeared.

Atop a throne of blood-forged stone hovered the Sect Master. He appeared young, no more than his early thirties, yet something about him was fundamentally wrong. His snow-white hair cascaded over his shoulders, framing skin pale as moonlight and eyes red as freshly spilled blood. Though no breeze stirred the air, his crimson robe shifted with slow, unnatural ripples. His presence bore down on the world like a storm shackled by force of will alone.

Qi Condensation Phase Nine. Just beneath Ascension.

But weakened.

Zhou Rui could feel it, his spirit was fractured, still recovering. Yet no one dared to glance for too long.

Still dangerous.

The Sect Master's voice was smooth and empty. "Report."

The first to speak was Elder Nian, head of the Saint Body Branch. A giant of a man, with arms like tree trunks and skin tanned from decades of martial training under the open sky, he stood with stoic discipline. "The eastern campaigns continue," he rumbled. "Resistance has slowed. We've drained two provinces already. Blood collecting disciples report sufficient harvests."

The Sect Master gave no sign of emotion.

Next came Ruan Shi, Master of the Saint Blood Branch, a pale, narrow-eyed cultivator with sharp features reminiscent of the man on the throne. The resemblance was faint, but undeniable. Ruan Shi's voice was eager, almost sycophantic. "The new generation of inner disciples have begun their missions. The Warring States region is primed. We estimate the conflict will continue for the long term, enough to slow their growth and let us collect blood."

The Sect Master turned his blood-red eyes to Zhou Rui. "And the alchemical stockpiles?"

Zhou stepped forward calmly. "We've surpassed expectations. Tier 1 to Tier 4 pills and weapons, all produced with refined precision and consistent purity. The amounts and quality of materials exceed what was projected."

At that, the Sect Master's expression shifted. His lips twitched faintly, almost forming a smile.

From his sleeve, he drew a coiled whip; jade-handled, with faint, pulsing emerald veins running along its length. The same whip Zhou had refined years prior. The artifact quivered faintly in his grasp, alive with dormant intent.

"Have you made anything like this since?" the Sect Master asked, voice almost curious.

Zhou hesitated, then bowed low. "No, Sect Master. Not yet."

The smile vanished. The Sect Master turned his gaze aside, disinterested again.

"Then continue your efforts."

Next, he gestured toward Elder Hui, a reedy figure in blue and white, head of the Saint Spirit Branch. "I want your branch to produce more formation plates. Large-scale blood harvest arrays. Distribute them to the disciples, both outer and inner. Make them efficient."

Elder Hui bowed. "As you command."

The Sect Master's voice grew colder. "We are accelerating the pace. Expand the collection zones. Increase blood collection. I feel like I will have a chance to recover soon, so make sure to do it properly."

One of the other elders, a scantily clad woman from the Joyful Union Branch, dared to speak. "My lord, if we expand too rapidly, the other giants on the continent may take notice. We risk war with powers from the Central or Northen reaches—"

With a flick of his finger, a wave of silent force struck her chest. Her knees buckled, and she clutched her robe, gasping. The parasite within her activated. feeding pain through her meridians.

"Do not lecture me on risk," the Sect Master said softly. "Remember who you serve."

He extended a hand. One by one, the branch masters brought forth their blood beads; marble-sized spheres pulsing with condensed crimson essence. These were no ordinary relics; they were formed from the harvested blood of battlefields, collected through arrays deployed by disciples in conflict zones. The blood, siphoned through sigil formation plates, was refined and compacted until each bead throbbed with dense vitality. With a single sweep of his sleeve, the Sect Master drew them in, their glow vanishing into his robe like drops returning to an ocean.

"Continue your work," he said, turning his back on them. "I will reach Ascension. No matter the cost."

With that, his body vanished, leaving only the thick scent of blood and a faint pressure that made the air feel thinner.

The Hall fell into silence once more.

Zhou Rui stood stiff, sweat beading down his back. He bowed once, then turned and left the hall. Only when he reached the mountain path did he dare breathe again.

He looked up at the sky.

Boy, you have to move quickly. The Devil is waking.