The wind carried the scent of pine and distant ash as Qin Ting rose, his purple robes brushing softly against the stone platform. He clasped his hands behind his back, a gesture as instinctive as breathing, and stepped forward with the measured grace of a resting predator.
An unshakable calm radiated from him, steady as the ancient peaks of the Lian Yun Mountains, his presence bending the air with quiet force. Spiritual energy hummed around him, a subtle vibration that stirred the bones of those nearby, hinting at the immense power coiled beneath his tranquil surface, like a river poised to overflow.
Behind him, hurried footsteps broke the stillness. Zhou Pingyue, Elder Liu, Nie You, and a few lesser disciples rushed to his side, their faces marked by unease. Zhou Pingyue's delicate brow furrowed, her eyes scanning the horizon as she gripped her embroidered gown, knuckles pale against the silk.
Elder Liu's gnarled hands trembled slightly, revealing the years that had worn down his once-firm grip, while Nie You's sharp gaze darted nervously, his broad frame tense as a drawn bowstring. Yet one glance at Qin Ting's serene expression steadied their rising panic.
He stood like a pillar in a gathering storm, an anchor against the swelling chaos. 'With him unperturbed, what could we fear?' they thought.
"Junior Brother Qin," Zhou Pingyue said softly, her voice tinged with hesitation, "did you sense it too?"
He tilted his head slightly, a subtle motion easily missed by those less attuned. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the sky shimmered with an unnatural haze. "The air reeks of malice," he said, his tone cool and deliberate, like a whisper fading into silence. "Something ancient stirs."
Before anyone could respond, the world shuddered. A surge of demonic energy erupted, like a wound torn in the heavens, flooding the Lian Yun Mountains with suffocating weight. The air grew thick and oppressive, as if the breath of countless forgotten graves pressed down.
The crowd—disciples in flowing robes, stern-faced elders, and weathered rogue cultivators—froze, their breaths catching. A primal shiver rippled through them, instinct clawing at their spines.
"What's happening?" a young disciple cried, his voice breaking as he stumbled back, his sandal catching on a jagged stone. His wide eyes mirrored the crimson-streaked sky, a boy thrust into a nightmare.
"By the heavens, this demonic energy—it's overwhelming!" another gasped, a wiry youth clutching a talisman that flared gold before crumbling to ash in his trembling hands, its power snuffed out like a candle in a gale.
"This power… it's a Demon of terrifying strength!" an older cultivator stammered, his weathered face paling as he leaned on his staff, its tip sinking into the soft earth. His voice carried the weight of experience and the chill of recognition.
Fear gripped them, a suffocating dread sinking into their hearts like a shadow of doom. To cultivators, demonic powerhouses were whispered nightmares—capricious entities who killed without reason, their presence a harbinger of death. Worse, demonic arts granted unnatural strength, defying the slow path of righteous cultivation.
In the Eastern Wilderness, tales of such beings wove through history, told to frighten novices and temper the reckless. Now, those tales seemed to claw into reality.
Chaos erupted across the mountains. Countless figures took to the skies, their silhouettes darting like startled birds against the darkening heavens. Sword lights streaked, leaving trails of silver and blue, while protective talismans flared in desperate bursts as sects mobilized for survival.
Qin Ting watched the turmoil with icy detachment, his expression a mask of indifference, untouched by emotion. His sapphire eyes glimmered, twin depths of cunning reflecting the chaos below.
Then, his brow twitched—slight, almost imperceptible, but sharp as a blade to Zhou Pingyue, who caught it like a hawk. "Junior Brother, what are your orders?" she asked, stepping closer, her voice a whisper. Fear quivered beneath her words, raw and unguarded, cracking her usual composure.
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze lifted as a fiery red calamity cloud streaked across the sky, swift as lightning, tearing through the heavens. In an instant, it loomed above, its edges crackling with crimson sparks that hissed like venom. From its roiling depths emerged a figure—a red-haired old man, his presence a blight upon the world.
His face was a grotesque mockery of humanity, twisted into an eerie grimace. Skin like cracked parchment stretched over jagged bones, his mouth curled into a snarl baring dagger-sharp teeth that glinted predatory. His eyes blazed with feral fury, twin embers unbound from the abyss.
Crimson tendrils of malevolent energy unfurled, igniting peaks and forests with unnatural flames. The fire devoured the landscape, turning lush greenery into a blazing inferno—a vision of purgatory unleashed.
Elder Liu's body shook as he whispered, "The Crimson Pyre Warden! It's truly him!" His voice cracked with awe and dread, as if naming the Demon might draw its wrath.
Qin Ting's expression hardened at the name, a faint shadow crossing his features like a cloud over a still lake. He turned slightly, his voice low and deliberate. "So, the old monster still lives."
The Crimson Pyre Warden was a name steeped in blood, a Divine Palace Realm titan whose legend terrorized the Eastern Wilderness centuries ago. Rivers of blood had flowed in his wake, mountains of corpses piled as monuments to his fury. Then, he vanished—some said he perished in meditation, others that he ascended. Yet now, for reasons unknown, he had returned, his power blazing like a storm.
"Who is that?!" a trembling voice called from below, barely audible over the crackling flames, its owner a young cultivator clutching rattling prayer beads.
"Such might… it can only be a Great Demon of the Divine Palace Realm!" another answered, a scarred rogue cultivator with a half-drawn sword, his words nearly lost to panic.
Across the Lian Yun Mountains, cultivators stared upward, faces pale with awe and terror, as if witnessing the heavens' wrath. A grizzled elder from a minor sect, robes singed, clutched a jade tablet and muttered prayers.
"That's… the Crimson Pyre Warden!" a wiry scholar shouted, clutching a tattered scroll detailing the realm's dark histories. "The scourge of the Eastern Wilderness, returned!"
Gasps spread like wildfire, despair painting every face. Though centuries had passed, his legend endured—a dark stain time could not erase.
The Crimson Pyre Warden towered above, his glare a tempest of fury and insanity. His crimson hair lashed like wild flames, each strand glowing like molten iron, bathing his contorted features in unearthly light. The heat from him warped the air, twisting his silhouette into a grotesque specter of rage.
Centuries ago, he had roamed these lands, a solitary force of destruction, until he found a treasure in the Lian Yun Mountains: the Mystic Sun Dragon Fruit. To him, it was priceless—an artifact pulsing with spiritual essence. If refined, it could propel him beyond the Divine Palace Realm, perhaps to the Manifest God Realm. For centuries, he guarded it as it ripened beneath the earth, his patience unyielding, his obsession absolute.
Recently, strange omens stirred the mountains—tremors, whispers of a hidden rift. Just yesterday, he had descended into caverns where the air thrummed and walls gleamed with crystal. He left his treasure briefly, confident his wards would deter intruders. A single day. That was all it took.
Upon returning, he found the cavern empty, wards shattered, and a faint, unfamiliar spiritual energy lingering. Centuries of anticipation, gone. How could he not descend into madness?
"Who dares?!" His voice thundered, a growl dripping with murderous intent, echoing through the mountains, shattering stone and splintering trees. "Who stole my Mystic Sun Dragon Fruit? Show yourself! If you don't, I'll slaughter every soul in this forsaken place—step forward now!"
Unleashing demonic arts, the Crimson Pyre Warden tore through thousands of cultivators with each strike, as if they were ants. Those watching from afar stood frozen, too stunned to flee. Panic erupted, screams blending with the roar of flames as people scattered.
"Flee!" a young woman in tattered robes screamed, stumbling, her hair singed by an ember.
"Run for your lives!" an elder echoed, dragging a wounded disciple, the boy's arm bloodied.
"Who did this? Come forward! Do you mean to doom us all?" a gaunt cultivator pleaded, clutching a broken spear.
Countless figures fled, sword lights flaring as cultivators pushed their techniques to the limit, some collapsing mid-flight, their energy drained. The Warden's roar shook the heavens. Blood-red demonic energy surged, coalescing into molten lava raining down. The sky blackened with ash, the earth groaning. The lava burned unquenchably, consuming all.
In an instant, the Lian Yun Mountains became a graveyard. Cultivators perished in droves, their screams swallowed by the inferno. The outskirts suffered most: rogue cultivators and lesser sects, lacking defenses, were incinerated. Holy lands raised golden barriers, flickering under the relentless assault.
At the Qianyuan Sect's encampment, Mu Qingyi turned to Ye Qiu, her voice steady despite trembling hands. Her silver hair glinted under crimson light, her eyes resolute. "Brother Ye, stay close when we flee. Our sect is a holy land—surely the Crimson Pyre Warden won't dare wipe us out entirely."
Ye Qiu's expression flickered with guilt and regret. His hand hovered near his chest, where a faint bulge pressed against his robe—a secret buried beneath denial. 'What have I done?' he thought. Still, he forced a tight smile. "Qingyi, don't worry. I'll follow you."
"Look!" a disciple shouted, pointing skyward, voice incredulous. "It's Young Master Qin Ting of the Xuantian Sect!"
All eyes turned. Qin Ting ascended, robes billowing, hands clasped behind him. Each step rippled the void, a mastery few could wield. He advanced toward the demon, undaunted, cutting through chaos like a blade through silk. Flames parted before him, recoiling from his presence.
Zhou Pingyue gasped softly, her voice reverent. "He's… facing the Warden alone?"
Nie You clenched his fists, pride glinting in his eyes. "Fearless to the end."
Elder Liu muttered, "Fearless or reckless, we'll see…" His words faded into the wind.
The Crimson Pyre Warden fixed wild, slitted eyes on Qin Ting, a predatory gleam within. "You!" he growled, his voice a jagged scrape. "Do you reek of my treasure, boy?"
Qin Ting met the demon's stare, lips curling into a subtle, taunting smirk. "Your treasure?" he countered, voice sleek as honed jade, laced with insolence. "Not yours anymore, I'd wager. Maybe you should've kept a tighter grip on it, hmm?"
The Warden's roar shattered the air, sending fissures through the stone. The mountains trembled, flames surging higher, threatening to swallow the sky. Yet Qin Ting stood unmoved, his silhouette framed against the fiery abyss, a lone figure against a Divine Palace demon.
That moment—his stand against a titan—etched itself into the minds of all who saw it, a vision of brilliance they would carry forever.