Darkness cloaked the chamber like a second skin. It wasn't natural—it was made. Thick. Stagnant. Suffocating. There were no torches, no candles. No windows. Only voices drifting through shadow, voices worn with age, tempered with power, and sharpened by ambition.
A rough voice shattered the silence.
"Your nephew didn't manage to retrieve it?"
A scoff followed, sharp and bitter.
"Tsk. That useless brat died in that cursed hole." It was the elder from the Divine Sword Sect who spoke. His voice simmered with fury. "Can you imagine? A talent like that—dead in some barren, collapsing ruin. What a waste."
Laughter echoed from somewhere in the dark—dry, mocking.
"Hah. You should've gotten an award out there. All that acting in front of the other sects—so grief-stricken, so tragic. Even I thought you were mourning."
The elder from the Divine Sword Sect chuckled coldly.
"Him? Don't make me laugh. As long as that brat lived, my daughter's path to succession was blocked. Now?" A pause, then a smirk in his voice. "Now things are wide open. I just can't tell if I should be angry that the treasure's lost… or pleased that the obstacle's gone."
"Ambition over blood, is that it?"
"Every time."
Then another voice cut in, colder and quieter.
"What about the sect leader of your sect? How did he react?"
The elder clicked his tongue.
"Like a statue. Straight face. Didn't flinch. Not even when they confirmed his son was dead."
A low laugh followed.
"But I know my brother. He's grieving, of course he is. That bastard's heart was cracked open—but not because his son died." His tone darkened, cruel and knowing. "No. What hurt him wasn't the loss of his offspring—it was the disrespect."
"Disrespect?"
"The moment the Marquis faction acted out—when their girl stole all that attention, when the survivors broke the script—it wasn't just chaos. It was humiliation. Public and sharp. And when someone disrespects the Divine Sword Sect…"
"…they're spitting in the sect leader's face."
The elder chuckled again.
"And that man? He's built from pride and legacy. Losing face in front of everyone? That'll haunt him more than a hundred dead sons ever could."
The shadows shifted as the mood thickened. Someone leaned forward, voice turning back to business.
"Regardless, the treasure is still unaccounted for. Are we sure it didn't fall into the hands of that girl from the Gentle Breeze Sect?"
"She was the only one who came out clean," another murmured. "Not a scratch on her. Unlike the Marquis girl—she looked like she barely survived."
"Or pretended to." A scoff followed. "I wouldn't put it past her to fake a mental collapse. It's a clever way to avoid suspicion."
A new voice entered, tinged with grim amusement.
"If she really faked that in front of Rank 3 elders and walked away untouched… I wouldn't be angry."
"Same." Another chuckle, thoughtful. "That's not cowardice. That's brilliance. Acting like a shattered child while clutching something priceless? That takes nerve."
"Or madness."
"Or both."
For a moment, the chamber fell silent again. But it wasn't peace that hung in the air—it was calculation.
Schemes shifted in the dark.
Lines were being drawn.
And every one of them knew: the secret realm may have closed… but the real game had just begun.
….
Amidst their laughter, ambition, and veiled manipulations, far to the north—beyond the reach of records, memory, or myth—lay a paradise the world had never known. It wasn't lost to time; it had simply never been found. No map marked its mountains. No history whispered its name. Hidden among clouds that never parted and peaks no mortal had tread, it existed in silence, untouched and unseen.
At the highest point of that secluded land sat a man.
He hadn't moved for hours. Perhaps longer. His posture was relaxed, but not idle—more like a beast conserving strength. His long, obsidian hair draped over one shoulder, smooth as flowing ink. He looked young, yet the air around him felt ancient, as though time bent itself quietly around his presence.
His face held a kind of detached elegance—too sharp to be merely beautiful, too calm to be read. He looked like a figure born from forgotten legend: the kind of man who would wear a crown he didn't ask for and wield a sword he didn't need to draw. He seemed a warrior, but one who killed with silence, not fury. Regal, restrained, and quietly dangerous.
Beside him stood two old men, plain in appearance, their eyes lowered, their presence so still they might have been statues. But the ground beneath them dared not shift, and the air itself carried the weight of reverence.
No one spoke. The man didn't open his eyes.
…
Hours had passed. The mountain winds came and went, but nothing stirred at the terrace. Not until now.
From the far end of the marble path, a figure finally emerged—walking with measured steps toward the three motionless figures at the summit.
He looked to be a middle-aged man, his hair streaked with silver and tied back neatly. His robes were elegant, but not extravagant—practical in design, worn like someone used to responsibility rather than status. He moved with the ease of someone familiar with this place, yet carried a restraint that bordered on reverence.
Beside him walked a woman. Younger, silent, and dressed in soft green robes. Her posture was straight, her hands folded before her, and though her features were graceful, there was no illusion about her role—she was a maid. Her presence was polite, precise, and easily forgettable. Just as a proper maid should be.
The middle aged man spoke "I managed to break through. Tell me—where is he?"
The long-haired man seated atop the throne didn't stir. For a few moments, he might as well have been carved from stone. Then, slowly, one eye opened—half-lidded, gleaming with mild curiosity.
"Hmm. So you finally broke through." His voice was low, smooth, and completely unmoved. "That entitles you to know about almost every secret in the world… including his location."
He paused.
"But too bad. He doesn't exist anymore. You're quite late."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Not that you'd have won, even if you weren't. In fact, I'm a little relieved. At least now I won't be forced to imprison you just to keep you from running off to die."
Beside him, the two old men gave a slight nod, their faces unreadable.
"Congratulations," they said in unison, as if the word itself had lost all meaning.
The maid remained still. The wind whispered against the cold stone. And the mountain watched, silent and eternal.
The words settled like dust, cold and final.
But the middle-aged man's expression cracked. His eyes widened, veins flaring beneath the surface of his skin. "Stop lying to me!" he barked, voice rough, almost feral. "That guy was an anomaly! He can't die—not unless it's by my hands!"
He took a sharp step forward, fists clenched. "You just want to stop him, like you said before, didn't you?! Goddamn it, give me his location!"
His voice strained, raw with desperation. His eyes gleamed unnaturally red, fury and something deeper—grief, obsession—twisting behind them.
Then he moved.
In a blink, he was gone from where he stood—a streak of raw force splitting the air, dashing forward faster than any sound, a blur of power that ignored space itself. His hand reached forward, stretched toward the long-haired man, fingers trembling not with fear, but with the sheer weight of emotion.
He didn't make it far.
With a blur just as sudden, both of the old men moved—neither shouting nor flinching. In perfect sync, they caught his arms mid-lunge, twisted them back in a flash, and drove him to his knees.
The force of it cracked the stone beneath him.
He gasped, more from rage than pain, but couldn't rise. Their grip was absolute.
"Tsk tsk," one of them said, shaking his head, his tone dripping with mockery. "You're a rank nine cultivator, yet you act like some barbarian who only knows how to swing fists."
"Indeed," the other added coolly. "It seems your inner demon isn't completely resolved after all."
The middle-aged man gritted his teeth, kneeling before the one who remained seated, unmoved, serene.
The long-haired man opened his other eye at last, the faintest trace of amusement flickering behind his lashes.
The long-haired man exhaled softly, both eyes now open, his gaze sharp yet bored—as if the commotion unfolding before him was little more than a minor inconvenience.
"See?" he said, voice smooth, almost indulgent. "You can't even get past them… let alone him. That demon."
Then, with quiet grace, he rose from his seat. No dramatic flourish. No forceful presence. Just a simple motion—and yet it shifted the very air around them. With a flick of his fingers—no louder than a breath—he signaled.
The two old men released their hold and stepped back without a word.
The middle-aged man slumped forward, gasping, but only for a second.
Then he moved again—not with thought, not even emotion, but instinct. His body lunged like a beast unchained. Gone was the noble posture, the composed exterior. What surged forward now was something raw—desperate. A man stripped of control, moving like a starving dog thrown into blood.
He didn't get far.
The beautiful man didn't brace, didn't dodge. He simply raised one hand mid-step, as though parting a curtain.
And with that single hand, he caught the middle-aged man's head.
The impact didn't shake the ground. It didn't thunder. But it stopped him cold.
One palm pressed against his forehead, holding him in place as effortlessly as someone pausing mid-walk to brush off a leaf. The man's legs kicked, his arms flailed—yet it was like struggling beneath an ocean.
A quiet scoff left the long-haired man's lips.
"You should resolve your issues before that era comes," he said with a smirk, tone half-amused, half-dismissive. "I'm expecting a lot from you."
His eyes narrowed faintly. "As for the information…"
He leaned in slightly, just enough for his words to land like blades.
"I'll send it straight to your head."
The moment he said it, something invaded.
The middle-aged man's body jolted violently. His mouth opened in a ragged scream—no words, only raw sound. Saliva sprayed as his throat twisted into agony. His eyes rolled, veins bulged, and his entire frame convulsed under the weight of whatever was being forced into him.
The scream echoed through the mountain air.
It didn't sound human.
The long-haired man let go. The middle-aged cultivator collapsed to the floor—his body spasming, his breathing ragged, mouth half-open with drool streaking down his chin. He wasn't screaming anymore. Only the echo of pain clung to him now, hollow and trembling.
The man who sat above cast a glance down, expression unreadable.
"Throw him out," he said softly, already turning away. "Let him resolve his own demons. We have our own."
The two old men stepped forward without question. But just before lifting him, one of them paused. His voice was quiet—hesitant, almost reverent.
"…He'll go mad. Once your words finally sink in, he'll tear himself apart. You know how long he's worked—how much he's sacrificed—just to kill Reverie."
The long-haired man didn't turn. He smiled faintly, not in joy, not in pity—but in something distant. Something cold.
"Who cares?" he said, his tone like silk laid over steel. "At most, he'll slaughter a billion. Human or otherwise. Just another necessary offering. As long as he's satisfied, that's enough for us."
The wind blew gently across the terrace. Silence settled. Until the long-haired man spoke again.
"…And you just called it Reverie, didn't you?"
He chuckled, almost to himself.
"Seems you're not so afraid of that title anymore."
Before the old man could respond, the long-haired figure moved once more—returning to his stone throne like the weight of the world didn't exist. He reclined slightly, lashes lowering.
"Don't bother me again."
And with that, his eyes closed. Sleep claimed him instantly, as if even reality bent to his command.
The two old men looked at each other in silence.
One let out a long, resigned sigh. The other gave a solemn nod.
Then they turned to carry out the order—dragging the broken cultivator away, leaving only the wind, the stone, and the man who ruled above it all.