The silence that followed the Divine Sword Sect elder's explosion was suffocating, a void none dared to fill.
And then—he broke it himself.
His shoulders trembled, breath ragged. His hand dropped slowly from the air, clenched into a tight, quivering fist.
"…Yun. Linglong," he growled, each name spat like venom. "I swear to my name—I will tear both of you apart. Let you die, both of you, so that my nephew doesn't rot alone!"
The Cloudveil elder's eyes widened, appalled. "What the fuck are you saying?!" he barked, stepping forward. "If some spy hears that and carries it to the other sects, they'll demand war. Are you deluded just because your nephew died?!"
The Divine Sword elder's face twisted, eyes bloodshot. He lunged toward the other man, gripping his own shoulder as if the agony there could ground him. "Just my nephew?!"
The Cloudveil elder didn't back down. His voice was sharp, but his tone held an edge of cold restraint. "The heir of my sect is dead too. And instead of screaming threats like an idiot, maybe try to act like a leader for once!"
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Do you even realize what you're doing? A threat like that could ignite a war. You're not scaring anyone—you're just feeding the fire. That woman—the Marquis elder—if she hears this, she will retaliate."
The Divine Sword elder's breathing hitched. His rage, once burning so hot it threatened to consume everything around him, now wavered. The other elder stepped closer, his voice low but firm.
"We need to fix this. Not throw tantrums. You should be rallying your sect, not tearing down the fragile balance we've got left. Go back. Report this to your Sect Master. Propose an alliance, not revenge."
A beat passed.
Then another.
The Divine Sword elder stared blankly at the ground, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his grief.
Slowly, that fury faded—bit by bit—replaced with something quieter. Still painful. Still sharp. But no longer wild.
"…You're right," he muttered at last, voice hoarse.
His hand dropped to his side.
A grim nod.
No more words followed.
Only the quiet sound of footsteps as he turned and walked away, cloak dragging across the cracked stone.
And in that moment, even the Cloudveil elder allowed himself a breath.
One moment of stillness—before the storm began again.
The Cloudveil elder exhaled, long and tired. His gaze swept across the remaining disciples—faces stained with fear, disbelief, and grief.
Then his voice rang out, steady but sharp, like a blade drawn in warning.
"Everyone, back to the boat. Now."
His disciples stiffened.
"We'll prepare. A war might break out at any moment. Go to the Resource Pavilion. Collect the necessary medicine—all of you. Every one of you better break through to Rank 2 as soon as possible."
He paused, letting the weight of his next words drop like a hammer.
"Anyone who fails… will be drafted to the first combat unit."
A cold silence followed.
And then—
Gasps. Eyes widened. Bodies flinched.
Even Yanwei's was shocked. But only for a second. After all he already expected it and the surprise looks in his ugly face is just an act.
As for the others, it was different. This wasn't just pressure. It was panic.
Everyone in the sect knew what it meant to be in the first wave. The "first combat unit" was never a badge of honor—it was a death sentence. Cannon fodder. A shield to test the enemy's strength.
Many of them had clawed their way out of the secret realm, survived the brutal competition and bloodshed inside. They weren't saints. They weren't fragile. But they hadn't fought to escape hell just to be thrown into another one.
Some bit their lips until they bled. Others stared blankly ahead, jaws clenched, eyes glassy with the weight of an unspoken terror.
But none of them protested.
Because they couldn't.
The elder had made it clear: break through… or be the first to die.
At last, every sect had departed.
They had come with ambition in their eyes and greed in their hearts—disciples hungry for resources, elders drunk on the scent of potential glory. Wagers were made, bold and arrogant, as if fate could be bent by sheer will alone.
But in the end, it was fruitless.
Hundreds had entered. Fewer returned. And those who didn't?
No one mourned them.
Their names would not be remembered. Their bones would rot in a forsaken corner of the secret realm, buried in blood and silence. No tombstones. No eulogies. No legacy.
They came in shining robes, bearing the weight of their sects' expectations.
And died like animals, alone and forgotten.
Glory brought them here.
But in the end, they died a shitty death—in a place that didn't even deserve to be named.
….
It felt like a long war had ended.
Not the kind fought with armies and banners, but something quieter. Uglier. A war of blood-soaked steps and silence stretched too thin. A war where the battlefield was inside your head, and survival meant carrying the weight of everything you saw—and everything you did—alone.
Yanwei returned to the Cloudveil Sect in silence.
He didn't speak to anyone. Didn't look at anyone.
The moment his feet touched sect grounds, he didn't wait—not even for a second.
He walked straight back to his cave.
That shitty, barren hole carved into the side of the mountain. No flags. No formations. No luxuries. Just stone, cold and cracked, walls still damp from the last rain. The same dirt floor. The same faint smell of dust and iron.
Nothing had changed.
But he didn't care.
He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, letting the silence press in.
No one came to greet him. No one asked him what he saw. No one offered him comfort.
And he preferred it that way.
Because deep down, he knew—he didn't return unscathed. Not truly. Not with what he saw. Not with what he did.
And right now, all he needed was this.
This cave.
This silence.
This shitty little place where, for once, he didn't have to wear a face.