The Emberfall Mountains burned red under the dying sun, their craggy peaks jagged as broken blades against the sky. Ash drifted on the wind, carrying the faint heat of distant volcanoes that birthed the Southern Flame region's fierce martial arts. Lin Jue stood on a narrow ledge, his black robes snapping like a war banner, silver eyes cutting through the haze. At eighteen—or so his face claimed—he was a vision of deadly beauty: sharp cheekbones, jet-black hair tied high, and a presence that could silence a room or spark a duel. But his gaze held the weight of centuries, a storm of battles and betrayals no youth should know.
Moonshadow, his sword, rested at his hip, its rune-etched blade humming faintly with qi. Three hundred years ago, Lin Jue had stumbled into a hidden cave and found the Cycle of Eternity, a forbidden art that tethered his soul to the world's energy, keeping him young but demanding endless cultivation. Without it, his body would crumble to dust. He'd roamed the Tianwu continent since, a phantom in the murim world, mastering every martial art he encountered, toppling foes, and chasing secrets to hold his fragile immortality together.
A sharp cry pierced the valley below. Lin Jue's eyes flicked downward. A lone figure in red robes danced through a knot of bandits, her sword flashing like a tongue of flame. Her qi flared in bursts of heat, raw but unpolished, as she fended off crude sabers. Outnumbered, she fought with the desperation of a cornered beast. Lin Jue could turn away—murim's law was clear: the weak perished, and he owed no one. Yet a ghost of memory stirred: a village ablaze, a girl's lifeless hand reaching for him. His fingers tightened on Moonshadow's hilt.
He moved, body light as a shadow, qi guiding his leap like a hawk's dive. He landed amidst the bandits, Moonshadow singing free in a silver arc. The first bandit's throat opened before he could scream, blood spraying like ink on the wind. The second swung a rusted saber, only for Lin Jue's blade to shear through steel and bone in one clean stroke. The third stumbled back, eyes wide, but a flick of Lin Jue's wrist sent a qi needle through his heart. Three bodies hit the dirt in as many breaths.
The girl in red froze, her sword still raised, chest heaving. She was young, maybe twenty, with fierce eyes like burning coals and hair singed at the edges, tied in a warrior's knot. Her qi pulsed with potential, but her stance was all wrong—too stiff, too open. "Who are you?" she demanded, voice sharp despite her trembling grip.
"Lin Jue," he said, sliding Moonshadow back into its sheath. "You're welcome."
Her eyes narrowed, pride flaring like her qi. "I didn't need saving."
He leaned against a boulder, smirking. "Sure. Your footwork's a disaster, and you hold that sword like it's a cooking knife. Another minute, and you'd be dead."
Her face flushed, but before she could snap back, the ground trembled with approaching hooves. Lin Jue's senses sharpened, qi flooding his meridians, muscles coiling like a panther's. The girl, oblivious, stepped forward, brandishing her blade. "I'm Mei Ling of the Southern Flame Sect," she declared. "If you're some rogue, I don't need your charity."
"Southern Flame?" Lin Jue's brow arched. The sect was renowned for its fire-based arts, powerful but bound by rigid tradition. "You're a long way from your elders, little ember. And you've got more company coming."
Mei Ling spun, finally hearing the riders. Her qi surged, a wave of heat rippling outward, scorching the dry grass. Lin Jue sighed. She had fire in her, but fire alone wouldn't survive the murim's fangs. He'd seen too many like her—bold, bright, and broken.
Ten riders burst into the clearing, their armor marked with the black lotus of the Iron Fang Gang. Their leader, a hulking man with a scarred face and a halberd, grinned like a wolf. "A sect girl and a pretty boy," he growled. "Hand over your treasures, and we might let you limp away."
Lin Jue's smile was a blade's edge. "You talk too much."
He vanished, a streak of black and silver. Moonshadow flashed, and two riders fell, their throats slit before they could blink. The leader's halberd swung, heavy with qi, but Lin Jue flowed around it like water, his palm striking the man's chest. The Heaven's Pulse Palm erupted, a shockwave of qi bursting the brute's heart. The remaining riders charged, but Lin Jue was a storm—each step precise, each slash a death. In moments, the clearing was a graveyard, the air thick with blood and ash.
Mei Ling stared, her sword forgotten. "How… how are you that fast?" she whispered.
"Practice," Lin Jue said, flicking blood from his blade. "You should try it."
She bristled, sheathing her sword with a huff. "I'm not some novice. I'm on a mission. The Flame Sovereign Scripture—it's been stolen. I'm tracking it."
Lin Jue's eyes sharpened. The Flame Sovereign Scripture was no mere manual. It held the secrets of fire's ultimate mastery, a treasure that could stabilize his faltering Cycle of Eternity. Pains had begun to spike through his meridians, a warning his immortality was fraying. He'd come to these mountains chasing rumors of the scripture's trail. This girl might be his key.
"Stolen?" he said, crossing his arms. "By who?"
Mei Ling hesitated, then met his gaze. "The Shadow Pavilion. They're selling it at the Black Lotus Auction in three days."
The Shadow Pavilion—assassins who thrived in the murim's underbelly. Lin Jue knew their kind too well. "Interesting," he murmured. "Fine. I'll come with you. But don't expect me to babysit."
"I didn't ask you to!" Mei Ling snapped, but her eyes betrayed relief. She was out of her depth, and she knew it.
Lin Jue turned, striding toward the valley's edge. "Keep up, little ember, or you'll be left behind."
Mei Ling scowled but followed, muttering curses. The sun sank, casting long shadows across the Emberfall Mountains. Far away, in a hidden pavilion, a cloaked figure watched through a jade orb, their voice a venomous whisper. "Lin Jue, the Heaven-Defying Blade. You cannot run forever."