The Auric Celestial Skyspire sliced through the vast skies of the Eastern Wilderness, a towering marvel of celestial craftsmanship that eclipsed the heavens with its grandeur. Its golden hull shimmered like a molten blade, parting clouds with graceful precision. The obsidian underbelly bristled with cannons—silent heralds of devastation, their barrels glinting with the latent promise of cataclysmic fire.
Within its labyrinthine depths, Qin Ting reclined in a sanctum of breathtaking opulence, its walls aglow with runes of beaten gold that pulsed like fiery veins. The starstone floor sparkled with flecks of cosmic dust, refracting the chamber's ethereal light. The air hummed with a sharp, metallic tang—ozone laced with the ancient power fueling the Skyspire's might.
At the sanctum's heart stood Qin Ting's throne, a jagged slab of starstone veined with captured galaxies, its edges sharp as a guillotine's blade. He lounged upon it with the languid menace of a predator at rest, one leg draped over the armrest. His presence was a quiet tempest, bending the air around him.
A faint, artificial breeze—born of the ship's arcane mechanisms—stirred his ink-black hair, revealing eyes that burned with cold, reptilian intensity, pupils narrowed to slits beneath heavy lids. To an outsider, he might have appeared a celestial sovereign, serene and untouchable amid the luxury of his airborne fortress. But beneath that polished facade churned a mind as cunning as it was ruthless.
His pale, slender fingers toyed with a weathered ring, rolling it with the absent precision of a hunter savoring his prize. The ring was unremarkable—its surface scarred and dulled by time, its edges worn smooth by countless hands. Yet it held Qin Ting's gaze with an almost hypnotic pull, its faint pulse of power tingling against his skin like a whispered secret.
Once, it had adorned Ye Qiu's finger, that brash upstart who'd blazed across the Eastern Wilderness like wildfire—too bright, too reckless. Qin Ting's lips curled into a faint smirk as memory flickered: the Blazing Valley, its air thick with the acrid sting of sulfur and ash. Molten rivers hissed through blackened stone, and Ye Qiu stood defiant amid the chaos, unaware of the shadow already closing in.
'Even then, I knew,' Qin Ting reflected, his inner voice a silken thread laced with malice. 'Your rise, Ye Qiu, stank of destiny—gaudy and cheap, like a trinket peddled by some gutter hawker. It was obvious your plot armor would hinge on either a rare artifact or a legendary power. And since you were utterly unremarkable, devoid of heavenly blessings or exceptional gifts, it could only ever be the former.'
The ring's muted thrum had caught his attention—not its lackluster shell, but the power buried within. Beneath its rust and ruin, a heartbeat pulsed, subdued yet undeniable. Ye Qiu's mastery of forgotten divine arts, his knack for cheating death—it reeked of the tired clichés Qin Ting had long since unraveled. A chosen hero, guided by some relic-bound sage. How utterly predictable.
His suspicion had solidified during his negotiation for the ring with the Crimson Pyre Warden, whose eyes gleamed with caution and greed. Their exchange was a taut dance of words, threaded with subtle threats. The Warden, too cunning to refuse yet too proud to grovel, surrendered the ring with a reluctant grunt. Its weight passed from his calloused palm into Qin Ting's waiting hand.
The moment it touched his skin, his Fortune Points flared, a mystic intuition roaring like a furnace in his mind. Within lay an ancient soul, its essence dim and coiled, bound by eons of silence.
'So, this is the burrow of an infamous Grandpa in the Ring,' Qin Ting mused, a wicked smirk curling his lips. 'What a miserable, suffocating prison for the ghost of an old monster. A hidden master orchestrating a Protagonist's fate... surely the chapters of your past conceal secrets begging to be uncovered.'
He extended a tendril of spiritual sense—a wisp of icy blue that slithered from his fingertip, curling around the ring like a serpent tasting the air. It sank into the metal's crevices, probing the slumbering presence within. Nothing stirred. The soul slept, its flicker as faint as a dying ember, worn thin by centuries of imprisonment and dimmed further by shielding its now-dead apprentice.
Qin Ting's eyes narrowed, his mind racing with calculations. The Skyspire's vast vaults—brimming with elixirs, relics, and weapons of cataclysmic power—offered no means to rouse such a being. Not yet. The possibilities unfurled before him, each more tantalizing than the last: to bind it, to break it, to twist its ancient wisdom into a tool of his own design.
But if the soul remained dormant forever, it mattered little. Qin Ting always claimed what he desired, one way or another.
A faint smile played on his lips, cold and unyielding. 'Remain as you are, or rise—it makes no difference. Either way, your power will serve me, one way or another.'
The sanctum's gilded doors parted with a crystalline chime, the sound echoing through the chamber's stillness. Nie You swept in, his dark robes flowing like spilled ink across the starstone floor, the hem whispering against its polished surface. He dropped to one knee with fluid grace, his head bowed just enough to convey deference without subservience. The air around him carried the faint scent of charred wood and iron.
"Young Master," he intoned, his voice smooth yet edged with subtle readiness.
Qin Ting's gaze lifted from the ring, his expression smoothing into a mask of cool detachment—a facade as flawless as carved ice. "Speak," he commanded, his tone a velvet blade, soft yet laced with unspoken menace.
Nie You rose, his dark eyes glinting with cold calculation—a faint echo of his master's shrewd demeanor. A subtle thrill colored his voice as he glanced sidelong at Qin Ting. "My lord, we're crossing over the Kingdom of Fuguo as we speak."
A spark of interest flickered beneath Qin Ting's icy calm, though his expression remained unreadable. "Oh?" he murmured, his voice lifting with a soft, teasing lilt that seemed to draw others in.
Nie You gave a sharp nod, his face impassive, a loyal soldier awaiting orders. "Ye Qiu's old stomping ground, isn't it?" Qin Ting continued, his tone airy, almost idle, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
"Precisely, my lord," Nie You replied, dipping his head in a curt gesture of obedience. "The Ye Family—his blood—has clawed its way to the top in Qingcheng province. They've got the whole place under their thumb now, lounging fat and unrivaled."
Silence cloaked the sanctum, heavy as a funeral shroud, broken only by the distant, resonant growl of the Skyspire's engines—a deep, bone-rattling hum that pulsed through the hull and up through the starstone throne. Qin Ting reclined in its imposing embrace, the throne's sharp edges casting a stark silhouette against the flickering rune light. His fingers curled around the ring, its icy surface pressing into his skin, a subtle whisper of its power. Light danced across its contours, casting fleeting shadows over his unwavering expression.
Nie You stood rigid, his face a mask devoid of warmth or malice. His voice, steady and precise, carried no trace of emotion. "Young Master…" he said, each word measured. "Surely you're not contemplating…" His cold eyes reflected quiet obedience.
Qin Ting's gaze met Nie You's, a flicker of grim understanding passing between them like a shadow over still water. Then, his voice emerged, a chilling whisper: "Of course I am. To destroy the weed, one must rip it from the earth—every twisted root, every buried seed, torn out and crushed."
His words, deliberate and heavy, pressed against the air with unshaken authority. Nie You's face remained impassive, the dim light casting a cold sheen across his features. Qin Ting dismissed him with a lazy flick of his wrist, his eyes returning to the ring as he traced its worn edges with a fingertip, as if the order he'd just given was of no consequence.
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Far below the Skyspire's ominous shadow, the town of Qingcheng sprawled beneath a sky streaked with the golden hues of late afternoon, its streets alive with ambition and energy. Though called a town, Qingcheng was vast, teeming with hundreds of thousands of inhabitants—yet smaller than official cities like Backridge City. Once a dusty speck in the Eastern Wilderness, it had grown into a thriving hub.
The air carried the delicate scent of lotus blossoms from winding canals, mingled with the sharp bite of smoke from tireless forges. Cobblestone paths buzzed with merchants, their voices hawking wares—silks shimmering like liquid moonlight, jade carved into mythical beasts. The clatter of cartwheels and the shrill cries of barefoot children wove a chaotic symphony.
At the city's heart rose the Ye Mansion, a stern fortress of black stone crowned with crimson tiles, its walls etched with faint, weathered glyphs from older days. It loomed over Qingcheng like a silent monarch, its shadow stretching long and dark across the rooftops. Ye Qiu's legend had forged this transformation.
His triumph in Fucheng's grand competition—a clash of titans beneath a sky ablaze with ceremonial fireworks—had outshone the scions of Fuguo's noblest houses. His name had echoed through the capital's streets, carried like a battle cry, until even Emperor Fukang took notice, his stern gaze softening with rare approval.
Whispers spoke of Fu Yue, the emperor's third son, kneeling before Ye Qiu in a moonlit grove, their oaths of brotherhood sealed with blood and wine. By contrast, Fu Zeng, the former crown prince, had challenged Ye Qiu with venomous pride—a mistake that saw him stripped of his title, his once-proud figure now a ghost haunting his ancestral estates.
In Qingcheng, Ye Qiu's tale was gospel, and the Ye Family had ridden its crest, rising from obscurity to become the city's undisputed titan. The Ye Mansion stood as their crown, its iron gates flanked by guards in lacquered armor, their breastplates gleaming like beetle shells in the fading sun. Spears rested in their hands, tips honed to a wicked shine, their eyes scanning the streets with the puffed-chest arrogance of men secure in their power.
Passersby slowed, their steps faltering as they craned their necks to stare at the mansion's imposing silhouette—its eaves curling upward like a dragon's wings, its windows dark and watchful. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, a mix of reverence and unease, as if the very stones whispered of the might within.