Xiao Lei’s thoughts pressed sharp against the silence. Can you mask my aura?

  The little pup tilted its head, still savouring the fading pulse of the Black Heart. Its eyes glimmered with mocking amusement. Mask it? Unless you stand nose to nose with them, none here will catch a breath of you.

  Relief stirred in Xiao Lei’s chest—immediately chained before it could soften his focus. Good. The reply was clipped, final. His body blurred.

  The air rippled as though bent by sudden heat. In the next instant, Xiao Lei was gone. One heartbeat later, he was among the crowd spilling from the auction hall, a shadow stitched into their restless tide.

  Behind him, confusion stirred. Two men stood rigid, scanning the empty space with widening eyes. Sharper still was the change beside Xun Chen: a middle-aged man, lids closed as if in meditation, suddenly snapped them open. The calm surface of his gaze had fractured.

  Xun Chen leaned toward him at once. “What is it?”

  The man’s eyes swept the hall, lingering on nothing. His voice was low, weighted with unease. “We misjudged him. His presence is gone—I cannot sense the faintest trace.”

  Xun Chen’s breath hitched. “Impossible…” The word broke flat against the shock pounding through him. The one at his side was no ordinary guard but a Core Formation cultivator, a man whose perception could peel shadows from light. For someone beneath Foundation Establishment to slip past such sight—it should not be.

  “I cannot explain it,” the man admitted, frown deepening. “Not even artifact work should veil so cleanly. Either way, he is no ordinary one. Best not to provoke him lightly.”

  The warning cut clean. Xun Chen’s jaw tightened, pride flaring before caution forced a stiff nod.

  Elsewhere in the upper chambers, the same ripple of unease spread. Those who had fixed their senses on Xiao Lei now grasped at nothing but the empty stir of the crowd.

  Princess Xiuyue rose in a sweep of silk, her expression carved in ice. “Hmph. How loathsome.” Her voice rang sharp as she swept away, her entourage flowing after her like shadows.

  From another balcony, Ming Sen remained seated, fingers resting lightly against the carved rail. His gaze lingered on the lower stands where Xiao Lei had once sat cloaked in silence. The corner of his mouth curved faintly.

  “Interesting,” he murmured, lids narrowing until his stare cut like a blade toward the floor below.

  Outside, Xiao Lei shed the wide bamboo hat and robes that had cloaked him in the auction hall. The evening air pressed cool against his skin as he slipped into the narrow streets, turning without rhythm, each detour another strand in his weave of caution.

  His steps carried him through lantern-lit alleys, past market stalls shuttered for the night. Only when silence stretched behind him—no tail, no lingering presence—did he angle back toward the inn.

  Within the stillness of his room, he laid the day’s spoils upon the table. Four items, their quiet weight filling the small space. His gaze skimmed them in order, quick yet deliberate, until it halted on the most unassuming of them all—a dull, weathered tile.

  He lifted it, turning the slab beneath the lamplight. Its surface yielded no secrets: no inscription, no trace of power. Yet beneath his ribs, the Black Heart stirred. A faint thrum, steady and deliberate. Each beat seemed to echo against the tile, as though it recognized what his eyes could not.

  Lungs eased, the tightness in his chest uncoiling as he turned the tile again, scrutinizing every mark, every chip. Nothing. His expression did not waver, but his fingers tightened slightly on the stone. At last he drew a needle across his fingertip and let a drop of blood fall. It sank into the stone without ripple, without light, without reply.

  Silence pressed close. The pup tilted its head, ears flicking, tail giving an impatient twitch—curiosity restless but unanswered.

  Xiao Lei stilled it with words. Calm, clipped, he spoke of what had transpired after it had fallen asleep. His tone betrayed nothing, yet the act of sharing carried weight.

  Two reasons guided him. If he sank, the pup would be dragged with him, and betrayal was impossible—for now. And perhaps its inherited memory might reach where his sight could not, naming the tile, or recalling fragments of the Godkiller’s scattered remains.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  But the pup only blinked, blank and unknowing.

  Disappointment cooled through him, measured and brief. Xiao Lei set the tile aside. Some truths would not be forced open; patience alone could pry them free. For now, cultivation demanded more than riddles. The Vanishing Valley’s opening drew closer with each day, and he could not step into it unprepared.

  One by one, the items vanished into the quiet depth of his storage ring—save for a single herb.

  The Soul-Searing Grass lay in his palm. Its stalks were black as cooled iron, yet faint tendrils of heat unfurled from it, brushing his skin like phantom fire. Xiao Lei steadied his breath, letting the warmth wash across his chest, across the restless rhythm of the Black Heart.

  The pup’s chatter continued, quick and eager, but he let it fade into nothing. His focus narrowed. Mind calm. Spirit sharp. Every part of him bent toward the coming threshold—toward the breakthrough he would seize, no matter the cost.

  Wisps of qi lifted from the Soul-Searing Grass like threads of smoke, seeping into Xiao Lei’s body with quiet inevitability. The first surge struck his mind like a needle—sharp, burning, gone as quickly as it came. He barely flinched. Such stings were nothing more than echoes; what mattered was the power flowing in.

  His body answered at once. Qi channels flared open—thirty-six paths coiling through him, devouring each drifting wisp like starving beasts. Their hunger matched his own: swift, merciless, insatiable.

  For most cultivators, refining such a herb demanded two days of patience and pain. For Xiao Lei, it would be a fraction. Already the stalk dulled in his palm, its heat fading from ember to ash.

  Time slipped past in silence. Breath by breath, the grass withered, lost its luster, and finally crumbled into dust. Still he did not stir. Eyes shut, focus locked, he pressed inward to the storm gathering within.

  Inside, the new qi raged like wild horses loosed on open plains. They tore along his channels, faster, harder—until they slammed into something unseen. A faint sound shivered through his bones, the whisper of a barrier cracking.

  His body jolted as an internal seam split. Qi shot upward—raw, jagged, breaking the old bounds. The eighth stage yawned open, but the push did not stop; pressure pressed on, relentless as a river forcing through bedrock.

  He tightened his will. Qi surged. Meridians strained, pulling wider, dragging in breath after breath of the world’s energy. Each thread fused into him, swelling the tide.

  Thirty-six channels thundered, widening to gulp the world’s energy. Threads braided into him, swelling the tide until the final crest drew near.

  The rise slowed. Inch by inch, then less. Each inhale felt like hauling a boulder. He knew the danger. The Dragon Breath Resin was no option, marrow-cleansing lotus or not. His path was this alone: break through—or burn out.

  Teeth clenched, he drew a ragged draft that burned his throat. His channels screaming in silence as they drank still more. His pulse hammered in rhythm with the Black Heart in his chest, each beat a heavy counter to his desperation.

  At last the tension snapped.

  Xiao Lei’s eyes flew open. For an instant, exhaustion glazed them—the hollow look of one who had walked too close to collapse. Then the surge struck: raw vitality flooding his limbs, spirit, gaze. Weariness fell away. In its place, sharp clarity returned.

  When the last obstacle broke, the surge smoothed into order—vast and contained, like a storm a captain finally reins in.

  He sat motionless in the silence, sweat cooling against his skin, strength thrumming through him like a second heartbeat.

  Not bad, kid.

  The pup snorted—half smug, half impatient—like a kid daring him to do more. But Xiao Lei gave no reply. His focus stayed inward, tracing the strength newly carved into his veins. Power thrummed through his body like a bowstring drawn taut, eager to be loosed.

  For a fleeting moment, his thoughts turned to Qingshan and the bandits. Before, he had used everything—even summoned his Primordial Echo. Now? He felt certain—too certain—that none of them would survive a single strike. Their deaths would come as simply as a man turning his hand.

  The thought lingered, unchallenged, then fell still. There was no time for indulgence. His path pulled him forward.

  Light spilled through the window, golden and heavy, its angle telling him what the clock had not: afternoon had already deepened. A quiet frown tugged at his brow. Delay meant wasted chances, and he could not afford them.

  He rose, movements brisk. The basin water chilled his skin as he washed, but the cold only sharpened his focus. One by one, his belongings vanished into the quiet depth of his storage ring. Each motion steadied him, ritual binding thought into discipline.

  A quick meal followed, eaten without savour. Hunger was a burden he would not carry onto the road.

  The street air carried the scents of roasted chestnuts and horse dung, the low rumble of carts filling the dusk. But Xiao Lei’s eyes did not linger on the crowd. His thoughts pressed ahead, toward Jingling City.

  The journey mattered. Each step drew him not only closer in distance, but closer to the brink of Foundation Establishment. And he would not settle for common ground. His gaze fixed beyond mediocrity—toward a sky-grade foundation, rare, coveted, feared. With such a base, his strength would not merely rise; it would multiply, carving a future without ceiling.

  In time, even the main Lei clan would turn its eye toward him—not with condescension, but with the respect owed to one who could not be ignored.

  Sky-grade Lightning Qi—an impossibility to most, a wager others muttered about. To him it was decided. Not hubris. Not a boast. A promise he’d signed with his blood and steps.

  He adjusted his robes, breath steadying. The city awaited, the academy awaited—and beyond them, the foundation of his future. Power gathered beneath his skin, eager for the trials ahead. Sunlight caught in his eyes—bright, unwavering, unyielding.

  Favourite button, drop a rating, write a review, and leave a comment—I read them all (even the unhinged ones). Your support fuels my writing, and hey… maybe the protagonist will suffer slightly less if you do. No guarantees though! ??

  [Click here to head to the main page!]

  Destiny Reckoning. It’s set in the same universe, and you definitely don’t want to miss it, because the stories will eventually crossover.