Temple of Eternal Silence (Daylight Mountain Sect)

Swoosh! A whirlwind of dust and debris exploded outwards as Han Zhou gracefully descended from above. He meticulously maneuvered himself, ensuring not even a speck of dust sullied his cherished robe, a lesson learned from countless past misadventures that resulted in a junior disciple spending over thirty painstaking hours on cleaning to restore its impeccable condition.

As Han Zhou's gaze swept over the five towering black pillars marking the entrance to the Temple of Eternal Silence, one might ponder the practicality of donning such attire. After all, a mere brush with dust could render it unwearable for two whole days. Yet, for Han Zhou, the answer lay in a single word: presentation. The robe, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, shimmered with indescribable beauty under the sunlight, its silk fabric not only a feast for the eyes but a balm for his sensitive skin.

In his twenty-five years in the Xia realm, Han Zhou had deciphered the formula to becoming the ultimate genius, a simple yet profound equation where 90% relied on presentation, 10% on luck, and the remaining slice on sheer talent. In the world of cultivation, after all, appearances transcended mere vanity to become crucial to one’s reputation and influence.

Casually licking the last traces of wine from his lips, for there were no rules against drinking and flying, though perhaps there ought to be, Han Zhou straightened his posture. With a demeanor that struck the perfect balance between urgency and leisure, he made his way towards the Temple of Eternal Silence, its jet-black facade standing solemn and imposing, a stark monument amidst the hustle and bustle of sect life.

The parting the crowd of disciples with his gaze, Han Zhou strolled through the crowd which was gathered outside the temple waiting in line to enter. Despite its foreboding name, the Temple of Silence was abuzz with chatter, as disciples animatedly exchanged insights into the path of cultivation. After all, the 'silence' of the temple was not about muting the physical world but achieving a tranquil state within the soul. Within its walls, the rooms available for rent offered disciples a unique experience which allows their souls to experience a serenity unparalleled elsewhere, fostering a deeper connection to the heaven and earth.

However, Han Zhou, with his unparalleled talent, saw no value in the so-called 'silence of the soul.' All that was just mystic crap used to extort the gullible masses to giving away there spirt stone. Someone as smart as Han Zhou would never fall for such an obvious scam. He had deigned to visit the temple only on three occasions, each visit cloaked under the guise of seeking advice from three lesser disciples who foolishly believed they could match possibly be his match. These deluded souls had earned the privilege to use the room of self-examination, a revered chamber allotted only to those who had made significant contributions to the sect, allowing them to engage in solitary cultivation for an entire day. Assuming the role of a responsible and magnanimous senior brother, Han Zhou felt compelled to take time out of his hectic schedule to enlighten these so-called 'rivals' about the sheer magnitude of difference between heaven and earth. After all, how could one truly grasp the vast chasm between heaven and earth without venturing beyond the confines of the familiar sky?

Approaching the counter at the center of the crowd, Han Zhou cupped his fists in a traditional gesture of respect and addressed the elder on duty, "Disciple Han Zhou here to see the Sect Leader on important business." The elder looked up from his ledger, fixing Han Zhou with a scrutinizing gaze. "You're late," he said, his voice carrying a blend of disappointment and reprimand. "The other disciples have already arrived and are with the sect master now." Han Zhou's brows knitted in a brief frown. "It was beyond my control," he retorted with a hint of irritation. "A fellow disciple failed to inform me in a timely manner. May I know which disciples the sect master summoned?"

The elder maintained his unwavering gaze, not moved by Han Zhou's display of irritation. "While punctuality is a virtue, so is accountability," he remarked, his tone imbued with an implicit admonition. "It is easy to blame others, but it is wiser to reflect on how we can prevent such situations in the future."

He adjusted his spectacles, then added, "And regarding the disciple you mentioned, the matter will be looked into. However, your immediate concern should be the meeting with the Sect Master."

Pausing for a moment to let the words sink in, he then continued, "As for your inquiry, the Sect Master has summoned San Fang and Lu Bai. They have been waiting for some time now."

Han Zhou's lips curled into a disdainful smirk. 'Of course, those two,' he thought, hardly surprised by the names. He had intuited such a response from the elder considering San Fang and Lu Bai are his most persistent, if unremarkable, challengers.

Noticing the shift in Han Zhou's demeanor, the elder sighed and reached beneath the counter, retrieving a small, circular black token. The token gleamed in the light, revealing the intricate carving of a golden tree on its surface. "This," he said, extending the token towards Han Zhou, "is your access token. The Sect Master awaits you in the room of self-examination."

Clasping the cold hard service of the token, Han Zhou took some time to examine the center piece, as it was not just a symbol of enlightenment and growth within the sect but also an intricate array that will allow access to the highest levels of the Temple of Eternal Silence.

Tucking the token securely into his robe and nodding to the elder, Han Zhou turned on his heel, his steps quickening as he made his way towards the stairs, slicing through the crowd of disciples like a hot knife through butter. The murmurs and bustling of the disciples faded into the background as he began the arduous task of climbing eleven floors to the room of self-examination. Of course, he could have flown up like a normal person, but flying was strictly prohibited within the temple precincts to avoid disturbing the Qi in the area. This rule forced Han Zhou, much to his chagrin, to use the same stairs as any other disciple.

After ten minutes and countless friendly greetings to fellow disciples going up and down the stairs, greetings that ranged from "Get out of the way!" to "If you were any rounder, you'd roll down these stairs," and the classic "No need to hurry on my account," Han Zhou finally arrived outside the door to the room of self-examination.

Placing the entrance token against the sturdy, yet weathered wooden doors, Han Zhou observed as the ancient timber began an enchanting transformation. The doors once unyielding, seamlessly morphed and folded into the walls, as if they were mere illusions of the mind, revealing a passage shrouded in mystery.

Stepping through the newly formed entryway, Han Zhou entered a room where reality itself seemed to unravel. A thick, ethereal mist caressed his ankles, moving with an otherworldly grace that defied the laws of the mundane world. looking around space

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The room was a realm unto itself, a place where the fabric of space appeared to dissolve into an infinite void. The boundaries were indefinable, giving the impression at any moment an unaware disciple could fall out into the void with one wrong step. The mist swirled and danced, parting only to reveal the silhouettes of his two fellow disciples, who were kneeling in an act of solemn reverence.

At the center of this surreal expanse, with his back to them, stood Sect Master San Chou. He stood straight and commanding, while the mist twirled around his figure, as if trying to offer him a loving embrace akin to that of a caring mother or a long-lost friend. His gaze was intensely locked onto a beautifully seamless silver mirror that hovered in the void just three feet in front of him. The mirror, devoid of any apparent support, floated effortlessly, serving as a silent sentinel amidst the vast emptiness. It reflected nothing and everything simultaneously, its surface shimmering with an ethereal glow that cast an otherworldly light, further enhancing the mystique enveloping the room. The entire scene seemed to serve as a conduit, bridging the tangible world with the unfathomable depths of the spiritual realm.

Without turning, Sect Master San Chou's voice filled the void, "Ah, Han Zhou, you have finally arrived."

"Leave us, disciples. I have matters to discuss with your senior brother alone."

The first to rise was San Fang, the Sect Master's distinguished great-great-niece. She moved with an understated grace that mirrored the serene yet authoritative presence of San Chou himself. Her heritage was proudly displayed through her long, black hair, which flowed down her shoulders like a silent, dark cascade, a symbol of her noble lineage. Her beauty was of a kind that didn’t demand immediate attention but rather grew on one gradually, underpinned by the depth of her cultivator's poise and the subtle yet piercing intensity of her gaze.

Beneath her calm exterior, San Fang possessed traits that, to Han Zhou, the most illustrious disciple in the annals of their history, were downright maddening. Her tendency to support the sect's weakest and least intelligent members was, in his eyes, a blatant violation of the natural order, a direct affront to a world governed by the supremacy of the strong. Her interference, especially when it came to mitigating the punishment of disciples who had disappointed Han Zhou, seemed to him a betrayal not just of his authority but of the sect's very principles. In Han Zhou's philosophy, where harshness was akin to kindness, sparing the rod was nothing short of aiding the enemy.

Yet, this misguided compassion paled next to what Han Zhou considered the ultimate offense. San Fang's brazenness in reprimanding him was insufferable. She wielded their slight familial connection like a weapon, assuming a right to criticize that Han Zhou found ludicrous. Her boldness in challenging him shattered any semblance of respect he might have harbored.

Never in his life had Han Zhou felt such disdain for another person as he did for San Fang.

Rising just moments after San Fang, Lu Bai displayed a hint of hesitation in his movements, a stark contrast to San Fang's unwavering confidence. His attire, though tidy, was of a simple, earthy tone that mirrored the color of his unassuming brown hair. Han Zhou couldn't help but observe, with a certain smug satisfaction, how Lu Bai's humble appearance paled in comparison to his own superior and meticulously chosen garb.

Despite the whispers and rumors positioning him as the next potential Grand Elder, Lu Bai's demeanor remained marked by a distinct timidity. This modesty, whether genuine or not, stood in stark contrast to the assertive, almost domineering aura that Han Zhou naturally exuded. In the intricate hierarchy and competitive atmosphere of the sect, Lu Bai's reserved nature did not go unnoticed, especially by Han Zhou.

In Han Zhou's eyes, Lu Bai's greatest virtue was his apparent lack of opposing opinions. Unlike the confrontational San Fang, Lu Bai seemed to navigate the sect's politics with a cautious neutrality. This, in the complex web of sect dynamics, made him tolerable, perhaps even mildly respectable, to Han Zhou. Among the younger generation, Lu Bai stood out as the sole individual who managed to garner a sliver of approval from the sect's most brilliant disciple. In a world where allies were rare and flattery was abundant, Lu Bai's silent, unobtrusive existence was, in a strange way, refreshing to Han Zhou.

After the two disciples had silently exited the room, Sect Master San Chou, still with his back turned to Han Zhou, beckoned him forward with a subtle gesture. In response, Han Zhou pushed through the swirling mist and made his way to the sect master's side. He positioned himself shoulder to shoulder with San Chou, an act that would normally be deemed disrespectful in the eyes of any other elder, for a junior was expected to stand behind, not besides, their elders.

However, San Chou showed no reaction to this apparent breach of protocol. His eyes remained glued to the enigmatic mirror in front of him. The Sect Master's stillness could have been interpreted as an implicit acceptance of Han Zhou's boldness, or perhaps, it was a sign of his deep contemplation, rendering him indifferent to the disciple's unconventional positioning.

"Tell me, disciple," San Chou finally spoke, his voice resonating with a depth that seemed to touch the very truths of the world, "what do you see?"

Looking into the mirror, Han Zhou saw nothing beyond the ordinary—merely his own reflection staring back at him. There was no sign of San Chou beside him, only the solitary figure of himself: a young man with strikingly black hair, an angular face, and deep brown eyes that seemed to pierce through the mist of the ordinary. The reflection also revealed the lean muscles that adorned his body, a silent testament to the countless hours spent wielding a sword, each shaped by the relentless pursuit of perfection. These vague outlines of strength, visible beneath the fabric of his clothing, spoke of discipline and power, elements that defined Han Zhou not just as a cultivator, but as one of the most formidable disciples of his generation.

Speaking up, Han Zhou responded without the hint of arrogance he usually carried, "Of course, what I see is my own reflection. Is there, perhaps, a deeper meaning or lesson that you wish for me to discern from this, Master San Chou."

"Forgive me, disciple, but what I meant to ask is, what are you truly? If you were to describe your entire existence in words, what would they be?" responded San Chou.

Oblivious to the philosophical depth sought by San Chou, Han Zhou confidently declared, "I am Han Zhou, not merely a disciple, but the pivotal axis upon which all realms spin. My birth made the heavens halt, compelling the stars to align into a new constellation, heralding my destiny, a spectacle unseen since the cosmos's inception. At the tender age of 25, I shattered the annals of cultivation history by becoming the youngest Nascent Soul cultivator ever recorded, surpassing even the most ancient and revered legends.

Upon my arrival on the battlefield, the demonic sects crumble, they sense their inevitable defeat and fail to mount any resistance against my blade. My fortune transcends the mere concept of fate, positioning me as the very epitome of what destiny strives to emulate. In trials and challenges, I stand unrivaled and alone, for all obstacles disintegrate before they can even approach me. A billion years from now, the realm will still remember my name. If there is one among this generation to achieve true immortality, it will undoubtedly be me."

Pausing, a flicker of curiosity broke through his otherwise unyielding facade. Turning to face the Sect Master, he posed his question with a hint of genuine interest, "And what about you, Sect Master? How would you describe yourself?"

At the mention of immortality, a fleeting spark of intense desire ignited within San Chou's eyes, a rare glimpse into the depths of his usually inscrutable soul. But as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, replaced by the calm, unfathomable stillness that was his norm. Taking a deep slow breath San Chou replied with one word, "Fleeting," the word hanging in the air for what seemed like an eternity, a stark contrast to the lofty self-proclamations of Han Zhou.

San Chou then shifted the conversation away from the philosophical depths they briefly skirted. "Anyway, I have called you here, Han Zhou, to talk about the upcoming Divine Tournament for this tournament will not be like any tribulation you have ever experienced before," says San Chou.