The name she had uttered was not just known—it was feared.
Her father’s reaction had been instinctive, visceral. The very mention of the Emperor’s name sent a ripple of fear through the room. Layla saw the way the disciples stiffened, the way her mother turned away, as if shielding herself from an unseen threat. Even her father, a man who carried the weight of a dying sect upon his shoulders, had trembled.
This was not the man she had known in her past life. Something had changed.
She lowered her gaze, schooling her expression into one of innocence. “Forgive me,” she murmured, forcing hesitation into her tone. “I did not know his name carried such weight.”
Her father hesitated, then let out a heavy sigh. “It is not your fault,” he said at last. “You have been asleep for so long... There are many things that have changed since you last walked among us.”
Layla tilted her head. “Then,” she asked carefully, “what has not changed?”
A shadow crossed his face, but he did not avoid her question. “The world still belongs to the strong,” he said. “And those without strength are destined to be swept aside.”
Layla let the words settle, then, after a pause, asked, "And what of my siblings?"
Her mother flinched. Her father’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as if weighing whether to speak the truth or conceal it. "They..." He hesitated. "They have carved their own paths."
Layla’s fingers curled slightly. "And what paths are those?"
Her father let out a long sigh, standing from his seat and walking to the window. The lantern light flickered, casting elongated shadows along the wooden walls. Outside, the sect’s courtyard stretched before them, a relic of better days. The training grounds, once filled with eager disciples, now lay barren, save for a few determined students practicing stances beneath the cold moonlight. Cracked stone pillars, moss creeping along their bases, whispered of a time when this place had been respected.
Finally, he spoke. "Your elder brother, Jian, serves within the Imperial Court. He has pledged himself to the Emperor."
Layla kept her expression neutral, but inside, her mind churned. "A court official?"
Her mother’s voice was quiet, almost pleading. "It was the only way for him to survive. After the war, after... everything, he had no choice."
Her father’s lips thinned. "Perhaps he saw it as a way to preserve what little we had left. Or perhaps he simply saw no other road but to kneel."
Layla remained silent. Her elder brother, Jian, had once spoken of honor and dignity. To think that he now stood in service of the man whose name struck fear into even the elders of the sect—it was almost laughable.
"And my younger sister?" she asked at last.
This time, the answer did not come immediately. Her mother glanced away, while her father’s grip tightened around the wooden frame of the window. "No one knows where she is," he admitted. "She left years ago, refusing to accept our decline. Some say she sought refuge in another sect. Others whisper that she turned to the Demonic Cults."
Layla narrowed her eyes. "And you? What do you believe?"
Her father’s shoulders slumped, as though the weight of his years had doubled. "I believe she is alive. But whether she is the same girl you once knew... that, I cannot say."
The room felt colder. Layla let the silence stretch, absorbing the revelations. Her siblings—one in servitude to a tyrant, the other vanished into the unknown. Once, they had been family. Now, they were nothing but pieces in a grander game.
She exhaled softly and looked up at her father. "Then it seems I have much to learn. If I am to reclaim what was lost, I must understand the power that rules this world."” he said. “And those without strength are destined to be swept aside.”
1. Qi Cultivation
“Qi is the foundation of all power,” he said. “It flows through our bodies in energy circuits known as meridians. Through meditation, refinement, and tempering, one can expand their internal reserves and strengthen their core.”
Layla absorbed this carefully. “Is qi something one is born with?”
“Yes and no,” her father said. “All beings have qi, but some are born with a greater affinity. However, talent is not absolute. A dedicated cultivator with determination can surpass a genius who lacks discipline.”
Layla filed that information away. So, like in my past life, hard work could overcome birthright.
“The ranks of Qi Cultivation are as follows:” He lifted his fingers, marking each stage as he spoke.
Foundation Establishment – The beginning of all cultivators. The stage of refining and stabilizing the body’s connection to qi.
Qi Condensation – The first step toward true strength. The cultivator compresses qi into a denser, more potent form.
Core Formation – The cultivator forms a golden core within themselves, a source of boundless energy.
Nascent Soul – The core evolves into a soul-bound entity, giving the cultivator deeper control over energy and thought.
Spirit Ascension – The cultivator sheds their previous limitations, becoming a force that can influence reality itself.
Divine Manifestation – A realm beyond mortals, where a cultivator’s will can shape the world itself.
Her father paused, then continued, his tone heavy with reverence.
“Many have walked these paths before you,” he said. “Some rose to greatness, their names etched into history as paragons of cultivation. Others... succumbed to the allure of power, their legacies drowned in blood and madness.”
He lifted his gaze to meet Layla’s. “Let me tell you of them.”
Famous Cultivators
“There was Zhao Wujin, the Jade Dragon Immortal. They say he reached Divine Manifestation at the age of thirty, his golden core so dense with qi that he could reshape entire landscapes with a flick of his sleeve. He was a man of wisdom, one who sought to uplift weaker cultivators instead of crushing them beneath his feet. His greatest feat? Holding back the collapse of the Eastern Celestial Mountains by weaving qi into the very air, creating an unshatterable equilibrium that still holds to this day.”
“Then there was Lady Xuanyin of the White Lotus, who pioneered the art of dual-core cultivation, allowing her to wield both Yin and Yang qi in harmony. With her mastery, she could heal the gravest wounds or unleash destruction in equal measure. It was said that during the Warring Sects Era, entire battlefields fell silent at her arrival, knowing that either salvation or annihilation would soon follow.”
Layla listened intently, committing their names to memory. But then her father’s expression darkened.
Infamous Cultivators
“But not all who reach the pinnacle of cultivation remain just. Some fall into ruin, consumed by their own ambitions.”
He exhaled, then spoke the first name in a whisper. “Hei Long, the Abyssal Tyrant.”
Layla frowned. She had never heard the name before, but the weight of it in the air was enough to send a chill down her spine.
“Once a prodigy, once a hero,” her father said bitterly. “They say he was the first to reach Spirit Ascension in an era where others barely touched Nascent Soul. He sought absolute control over the flow of qi in others, turning warriors into lifeless puppets. When he attacked the Holy Monasteries, he enslaved thousands, using their very life force to sustain his own. The heavens struck him down in the end, or so the legends say. But there are whispers... whispers that his techniques did not die with him.”
Layla remained silent as her father continued.
“And then, there was Mo Cheng the Devourer. He did not cultivate qi—he stole it. His techniques drained others, siphoning years of hard work in an instant. He fed upon the meridians of weaker cultivators, draining them to fuel his own power. He became so feared that entire sects abandoned their lands rather than risk being his prey.”
Layla exhaled slowly. For every legend of honor and wisdom, there were those of terror and ruin.
Her father studied her face carefully. “Power does not make a person just, Meilin. Remember that.”
2. Martial Techniques
“Qi alone does not make one powerful,” her father continued. “Without refinement, it is like possessing an ocean but lacking the ability to wield a sword.”
Layla nodded. Discipline and technique over raw strength.
“There are three primary combat styles:”
Pure Martialists – Those who refine their bodies through relentless training, capable of splitting mountains without ever using qi.
Qi Warriors – Those who blend martial arts with qi, using enhanced techniques to perform supernatural feats.
Dao Seekers – Those who dedicate themselves to the understanding of the world’s principles, wielding reality itself as a weapon.
“The strongest warriors walk multiple paths,” her father said. “One who refines only their qi will fall against a master of combat. One who hones only their body will break against true power. Balance is the key.”
Famous Martial Artists
“There have been many who stood at the pinnacle of martial arts,” he continued. “Legends who shaped the world not with raw qi, but with technique honed to perfection.”
“Shen Tian, the Heavenly Spear, was a warrior so refined in spear arts that his strikes could pierce through reality itself. It is said that at his peak, his spear could travel beyond space, striking down enemies before they even realized they had been attacked. He never relied on overwhelming qi, but on precision, footwork, and mastery of angles.”
“Then there was Jiang Yue, the Flowing Moon, a woman whose swordplay was like water—impossible to predict, yet endlessly adaptable. She defeated entire sects without ever being touched, flowing between their attacks like a phantom. Even when faced with cultivators wielding immense qi, her blade always found the gap between their defenses, striking where no amount of energy could protect them.”
Layla listened, intrigued. These were not cultivators who relied on sheer power. They turned martial techniques into an art, a philosophy.
Infamous Martial Artists
Her father’s expression darkened.
“But not all who perfect their techniques use them for honor.”
“Wu Xun, the Thousand Hands Executioner, was said to have mastered every form of hand-to-hand combat, his strikes so fast that he could tear through armor like paper. But instead of becoming a protector of the weak, he became a butcher. He sold his skills to the highest bidder, wiping out entire clans in a single night. Some say his techniques still live on, hidden within the underworld, passed down among assassins.”
“And then there was Bao Shuren, the Laughing Demon, whose fists could break mountains, but whose mind was even more terrifying. He believed that suffering created strength, and so he crushed countless challengers just to watch them rise again. He left behind no students, only ruins. Some say his spirit lingers in cursed battlefields, whispering forbidden secrets to those desperate enough to listen.”
Layla exhaled slowly. To master martial techniques was to walk a path of discipline and refinement, but it was also a path that could lead to unchecked destruction.
Her father studied her carefully. “Strength is not defined by power alone, Meilin. It is defined by how it is used.”
3. Dao Comprehension
“And then,” he said, his voice quieting, “there is the Dao.”
Layla frowned. “The Dao?”
“The Way of All Things.”
Unlike qi and martial techniques, which could be measured and practiced, Dao Comprehension was enlightenment itself.
“To understand the Dao is to understand existence,” her father explained. “Each cultivator seeks a different truth. Some comprehend the Dao of Fire and wield flame as an extension of their will. Some follow the Dao of the Sword, making their blade an unbreakable law of the universe. Others follow the Dao of Nothingness, fading into oblivion beyond the reach of time.”
Layla considered this carefully. The Dao was not just power. It was the philosophy of the world itself.
Famous Dao Seekers
“Many have glimpsed the true nature of reality,” her father continued. “But only a few have ever dared to embody it fully.”
“Master Tianlu, the Whispering Wind, understood the Dao of Emptiness. He could erase his presence from existence so completely that even the heavens could not record his presence. It is said that he walked between battlefields unseen, his enemies falling as if struck by fate itself.”
“Then there was Lady Yunqing, the Ocean’s Reflection, whose mastery of the Dao of Mirrors allowed her to create infinite reflections of herself. Each was as real as the original, indistinguishable and deadly. She once fought an entire sect alone, her illusions turning every enemy against each other, until none remained standing but herself.”
Infamous Dao Seekers
His expression grew grim.
“But not all who seek enlightenment use it for wisdom.”
“The Black Sage, Xu Mo, followed the Dao of Decay, believing that all things must return to nothingness. He did not fight wars—he simply touched cities, and they crumbled. He whispered words, and entire bloodlines withered. Even now, the ruins of his passage are places where no life dares to grow.”
“And then, there was Gao Lan, the Thousand Truths, a man who glimpsed the fundamental laws of existence. But instead of guiding others, he sought to reshape reality itself. His Dao of Dominion allowed him to impose his will upon the world, twisting nature to obey his thoughts. When he was finally defeated, it took seven Grandmasters and the sacrifice of an entire sect to bind his existence into an eternal prison.”
Layla exhaled. The Dao was not just strength—it was knowledge. And knowledge could be the greatest weapon of all.
Her father watched her carefully. “To walk the Dao is to glimpse the truth behind the illusion of power. It is to wield the fabric of reality itself.”
She tilted her head slightly, feigning uncertainty. "If all cultivators must progress through the known stages, and if even the strongest can fall, then where do I stand? What level have I reached?"
Her father exhaled, studying her carefully. "You have been in an unwakeable slumber for weeks, Meilin. Your meridians should have withered, your qi should have stagnated."
He reached out, pressing two fingers against her wrist. Layla braced herself, expecting to feel a surge of energy, a remnant of some hidden power.
Stolen story; please report.
But there was nothing. No hum of boundless strength, no comforting wave of qi flowing through her veins. Only the faintest flicker of energy, weak and dormant, like dying embers struggling to reignite.
Her father frowned, withdrawing his hand. "Your cultivation... it is not gone, but it is fragile. Whatever put you in that state has severed your progress. You will need to start again."
Layla let out a slow breath, pushing aside any lingering delusions of an easy return. If she had truly retained her strength, then why did she feel so... unrefined? Her body did not pulse with overwhelming energy, nor did she sense any newfound power coursing through her meridians.
She clenched her hands. If anything, she felt weak.
Her father watched her carefully before speaking again. "Regaining what was lost will take time. Effort."
Layla straightened, her voice firm. "Then I will train. I will restore what was lost and rebuild our sect."
The air in the room grew heavy. Her father looked away. Her mother, who had remained silent for most of the conversation, exhaled shakily. The few elders lingering in the background averted their gazes.
"Meilin..." her mother finally spoke, her voice tinged with sorrow. "There is nothing left to rebuild. The world has moved on. We are a dying sect."
Layla met her father’s eyes. "But not dead."
He hesitated. "Not yet. But we are hanging by a thread. Resources are scarce, our numbers dwindle, and the other sects do not see us as a threat."
"Then that is an advantage," Layla said immediately. "If they do not see us as a threat, they will not see us coming."
Her father sighed, rubbing his temples. "This is not just about strength, Meilin. It is about time, about resources, about whether those who remain have the will to fight. Tell me, do you think a starving man who has lost everything will have the strength to wield a sword again?"
Layla remained silent, but inwardly, her mind raced. She would find a way. She had to.
Her mind worked rapidly, calculating possibilities, drawing from her past life as a ruler. What does a fallen nation need to rise again?
First—stability. The people needed food, security, and a reason to believe in the sect again. A dying sect did not attract disciples, and without new blood, the Silver Lotus Sect would wither into obscurity.
Second—resources. If cultivation was the foundation of power, then herbs, weapons, and training grounds were the pillars supporting it. They had neither the land nor the backing of any major factions. Would trade be an option? Or would they have to seize what they needed?
Third—strength. A sect’s power was judged by its strongest warriors. She had none. If they were to survive, they needed cultivators who could stand against the tides of destruction.
Fourth—alliances. No kingdom, no empire, no sect survived alone. If the Silver Lotus Sect had no allies, then Layla would create them. By force or by persuasion.
Her fingers twitched slightly, the echoes of a past life guiding her instinctively. A dying kingdom and a dying sect… are they truly so different?
She turned to her father, ready to speak, when the doors to the hall burst open.
A figure staggered in, covered in blood, his robes torn, his face barely recognizable beneath the bruises and cuts. Gasps filled the room as disciples rushed forward, but the man—barely standing—forced himself to speak.
"Sect Leader…" he rasped. "They're coming. The Crimson Serpent Sect… they intend to annihilate us."
Silence fell, thick and suffocating. Layla swore internally, a sharp pulse of frustration running through her. Damn it. This changes everything. All her careful planning, her measured steps—it meant nothing if they didn’t survive the night. She had been strategizing a future, but now the present was threatening to erase them entirely.
She clenched her fists beneath the table, nails digging into her palms. Obsolescence was not an option. If she couldn’t act, if she couldn’t turn this around, then all her grand ideas were worthless. She would not be worthless.
Around her, the room was sinking into despair.
The elders exchanged grim glances, their shoulders heavy with resignation. One of them, an old man with hollowed-out cheeks, shook his head. "So it has come to this at last."
Her mother covered her mouth, her eyes glassy. "We cannot fight them. We barely have twenty capable disciples left. Even if we resist, it will only delay the inevitable."
Layla glanced at her father, searching for defiance, for something other than helplessness. But his face was unreadable, his silence more damning than words.
The battered disciple coughed violently, blood staining his lips. "They gave us an ultimatum," he wheezed. "Surrender and dissolve the sect... or be slaughtered."
A sharp, rattling inhale filled the room. Someone stifled a sob. Another disciple sank to his knees, shaking his head as if he could will away the reality of their situation.
Fear spread like a disease. Layla could see it—fraying the last threads of resolve, wrapping around throats like an unseen noose.
Hopelessness.
She had seen this before, in another life. In the eyes of generals who realized the battle was lost. In the voices of rulers who knew their cities would burn.
But she had never let it stop her before.
And she wouldn’t now.
And she wouldn’t now.
Layla inhaled sharply, locking her emotions away. Panic is the enemy. Fear is the first defeat.
Her gaze snapped to the wounded disciple. "How much time do we have?" Her voice was steady, sharp.
The man swayed but forced himself to answer. "A day... two at most. Their vanguard was already moving when I escaped."
A day.
Layla's mind burned with calculations. Not enough time to mount a full defense. Not enough resources to hold a siege. Not enough warriors to fight head-on.
Layla hesitated for the briefest moment, considering the weight of what she was about to do. Should she take command? She was not the sect leader. Her father was. The elders had more experience. Yet, in this room filled with despairing faces, no one had stepped forward. No voice had risen in defiance.
She understood human nature—fear paralyzed, uncertainty killed before the enemy even arrived. They were waiting. For someone, for anyone to tell them they were not doomed.
If no one else would take that role, then she must.
But by doing so, she would reveal something else entirely. Something unsettling.
They would see her not as Meilin, the daughter they had known, but as something else. Someone else.
Then they wouldn’t.
She turned sharply, barking orders without hesitation. "Get him to the infirmary—now. Clean his wounds, apply a pain suppressant, and make sure he lives. We will not lose another soul today."
The room jolted, startled by the authority in her voice. Even her parents looked momentarily stunned.
This was not their Meilin. The quiet, obedient daughter who had once hesitated behind their protection was gone. In her place stood something else entirely—a ruler, forged in fire.
And yet, as her voice rang through the hall, something darker stirred within the room.
The way she spoke, the raw command, the sharpness of her words—it was too reminiscent of him.
Her father’s fingers tensed at his sides. The elders exchanged wary glances, unease creeping into their gazes. They had heard this kind of authority before, this kind of unyielding will. And it had come from the very man they feared.
The tyrant.
Jinhai.
For a fleeting second, doubt flickered in her mother’s eyes. Not recognition—no, not yet—but something that made her look at Layla as if she were seeing a stranger wearing their daughter’s skin.
Layla felt her chest tighten, her body still weak from her slumber, but she pushed through it, stepping forward. "Those who are uninjured, gather what supplies we have! Rations, medicine, weapons—anything usable. We do not have the luxury of waste!"
No one moved. The weight of despair still clung to the room, suffocating, paralyzing. They had already accepted death.
Layla gritted her teeth. Fine. If they would not move, then she would force them to.
She took a deep breath, and then she shouted.
"DO YOU WISH TO DIE AS CATTLE, OR AS WARRIORS?"
Her voice was raw, powerful, tearing through the air like a war drum. Pain lanced through her throat, her weakened body screaming in protest, but she did not stop.
"THE CRIMSON SERPENT SECT THINKS WE ARE NOTHING! THEY THINK WE WILL KNEEL, THAT WE WILL WAIT FOR THE EXECUTIONER’S BLADE! BUT I TELL YOU NOW—THEY ARE WRONG!"
The torches flickered. Something shifted.
Disciples who had slumped in despair now sat straighter. The elders, once filled with silent resignation, looked uncertain. Even her parents—who had seen her as nothing more than their daughter—stared at her with something unreadable in their eyes.
Layla pressed on, forcing her voice to hold firm. A commander does not waver. A leader does not break.
"We have one day before the Crimson Serpent Sect arrives. One day to decide whether we kneel and wait for slaughter or rise and carve our own path!"
Her body trembled from the exertion. Damn this weakness. Damn this body for failing her. But she planted her feet, straightened her back, and lifted her chin.
She had been a ruler once. She would be one again.
She turned to her father, her voice quieter now but no less powerful. "Give me one day. One day to prepare, to rally, to turn this battlefield into our advantage. If by nightfall tomorrow we are still standing, then you will see what the Silver Lotus Sect is truly capable of."
A heavy silence. Then her father exhaled slowly. "One day."
The decision had been made. Layla clenched her fist at her side. Now, let’s see if I can make them believe it.
Unnoticed by her, her mother turned slightly, whispering to her father, "Meilin… she’s never spoken like this before."
Her father did not respond. He only watched his daughter, a shadow of unreadable thoughts behind his gaze.
Crimson Serpent Sect
The chamber was suffocating with the mingling scents of blood, incense, and damp stone. Torches flickered against the cavernous walls, casting grotesque shadows that danced with the dying embers of the fire pit at the center. Above it all, seated atop an obsidian throne adorned with serpent motifs, Shen Mu observed his captive with a lazy, almost indifferent gaze.
The half-dead disciple of the Silver Lotus Sect hung from iron chains, his face battered beyond recognition, his body bearing the cruel artistry of meticulous torture. His breaths were ragged, but he still lived—for now.
"You made it far," Shen Mu murmured, swirling a goblet of spiced wine in his hand. His tone was almost admiring, but laced with mockery. "But not far enough."
The disciple coughed weakly, blood splattering onto the stone floor.
Shen Mu leaned forward. "You know why we are coming, don’t you? It is not just for land, not just for resources."
He crouched, gripping the disciple’s chin between his fingers, forcing their gazes to meet. "It is because your sect harbors something far more dangerous than weakness. Hope."
He stood, his voice carrying across the chamber. "Hope is a disease. It spreads like wildfire, infecting even the most broken of people. It convinces the weak that they can defy the strong. That is why we must eradicate them."
He turned to his trusted lieutenants, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "But let’s not pretend this is merely about philosophy." His gaze darkened. "Your sect leader—Lin Wuye—he cost me dearly years ago. He was a thorn in my father’s side before I tore that old bastard’s heart out myself. I will not suffer the same mistakes. The Silver Lotus Sect should have been wiped from history long ago, but the old man refused to die. Now I will correct that."
A messenger entered, bowing low. "My Lord, our spies report movement in the Silver Lotus Sect. They have not fled. They are preparing to fight."
Shen Mu smirked. "Oh? How unexpected. Perhaps they have found their courage after all. No matter. We will teach them what happens when the weak mistake desperation for strength."
He turned to a hooded figure standing near the edge of the chamber—silent, unmoving. "Ensure the message reaches our informants. Let it be known that the Silver Lotus Sect is resisting. And ensure the Underlord of the West receives this… personally."
The figure did not bow. Did not speak. He simply turned and vanished into the darkness.
Zafira, Underlord of the West
Beyond the endless dunes and jagged ridges of the western frontier lay a bastion of steel and ambition—a hidden outpost standing at the edge of civilization. A place of trade, refuge, and unseen dealings.
This was no grand city, no gilded empire of courts and politics. It was a waystation of necessity, a lawless borderland where gold and power spoke louder than names. Merchants came to barter. Mercenaries sought employment. Smugglers whispered secrets behind closed doors. And above it all, deep within its fortified heart, the great engine was being built.
From the worn stone paths leading to its gates to the towering scaffolds surrounding its core, the outpost thrived in organized chaos. Every brick, every beam of steel was another step toward something greater—a machine unlike any the world had seen before. A creation that would either forge a new era or be lost to the sands of time.
And at its center, seated within a dimly lit chamber lined with maps and ledgers, Zafira al-Rahim ruled.
No deal was made, no caravan moved, no war erupted without her knowing. Her spies were not merely paid informants—they were merchants, beggars, scholars, soldiers. They were everyone and no one.
The latest reports lay before her, scattered across a worn oak table. Prices of rare alchemical reagents fluctuating in the east. A war brewing between two sects in the north threatening trade routes. A noble family in the empire purchasing vast quantities of refined steel. The emperor’s scholars seeking rare metals for something undisclosed.
And then, the most curious report of all—the Silver Lotus Sect had chosen to resist.
Zafira's eyes flickered with interest. The Silver Lotus Sect, a name that once commanded respect, had been a crumbling relic for decades. Its disciples were few, its resources dwindling, and worst of all—it had no successor worthy of its name.
Lin Wuye, the current sect leader, was a man respected for his wisdom, not his strength. A father before a warrior, a teacher before a ruler. He had spent more time nurturing his disciples' minds than sharpening their blades. His decision to lead with compassion rather than fear had left the sect vulnerable, a lamb amongst wolves.
For years, their decline had been predictable, their fate seemingly sealed. But now… resistance? Why?
Zafira tapped a finger against the parchment. This was not the behavior of a dying sect. Something—or someone—had changed the equation.
The emergence of a new leader? A secret alliance? A weapon, perhaps? No, too sudden. There had to be a catalyst, a shift that had reignited the embers of defiance in a sect that had long been written off.
A calculated smile curled her lips. "Interesting."
She traced a gloved finger over the parchment, reading it once, twice. A slow, calculating smile curled upon her lips. "Interesting."
A figure knelt before her, head bowed low. "The message was delivered as requested."
Zafira leaned back in her chair, eyes half-lidded. "And the one who sent it?"
The spy hesitated. "Unknown. The message changed hands several times before reaching us."
Zafira’s smile thinned. Clever. Someone didn’t want her knowing who pulled the strings.
"And yet," she mused, tapping a finger against the parchment, "it still found its way to me. How very considerate."
She let the thought settle, filing it away. If someone wished to obscure their involvement, that meant there was more at play than a simple sect extermination.
But she would uncover the truth in time. She always did.
She shifted her attention back to the table, where a second report lay—a list of materials requested by Emery Voss. Sulfur, saltpeter, refined steel, precision instruments. The foundation of something grander than war, if his theories held.
From the far end of the chamber, beyond the columns draped in silk and reinforced steel, Emery was hunched over a workbench, etching calculations into papers and his quill. His brow furrowed as he muttered under his breath, adjusting his sketches—schematics of a weapon unlike anything this world had seen before.
"Your materials are being arranged," Zafira called to him without looking up.
Emery barely acknowledged her, his focus unwavering. "Good. The refining process will take time. Precision is everything."
She glanced at him, amused. "I thought you only concerned yourself with discovery. Since when did you care about precision in war?"
Emery finally turned, adjusting his spectacles. "Discovery without precision is nothing but wasted potential. Besides…" His eyes flickered to the discarded message on her table. "If war is inevitable, I’d rather not let brutes like Shen Mu dictate how it unfolds."
Zafira tilted her head slightly. He had heard. He observed me through the smallest movement. He was always listening, always thinking. Always putting pieces together.
She smiled. "So tell me, scholar. If Shen Mu is playing his game, and the Silver Lotus Sect refuses to fall… what do you think happens next?"
Emery exhaled, glancing back at his notes. "That depends," he murmured. "On who truly holds the pieces."
His fingers drummed against the wooden surface of his workbench as his mind began weaving through the possibilities. Why now?
The Silver Lotus Sect had been in decline for years. A failing sect with no prodigal successors and no great warriors to their name. Their leader, Lin Wuye, was no tactician, no warlord—merely a scholar who had clung to old ideals for far too long. If Shen Mu’s forces had already been pressuring them, then logically, surrender or retreat would have been their best options. And yet… they resisted.
Was there an outside influence? Another faction backing them? No, the sect had been isolated for too long, with no known allies willing to stake their own standing for a dying cause. A new benefactor? Possible, but unlikely. A sudden breakthrough in cultivation? No, power did not come overnight.
Which meant—something changed internally.
His mind cycled through the possible catalysts.
A hidden expert resurfacing? Unlikely. There were no known grandmasters from the Silver Lotus Sect who had vanished rather than perished. A forbidden technique, a final gamble? That would be a desperate move, but not an impossible one. His mind, however, did not stop there. His thoughts drifted, shifting gears from war to something more fundamental—resources, sustainability. If war was inevitable, then supplies would be paramount. He glanced at the scattered parchments on his workbench, the cost calculations, the sheer amount of leather and silk being consumed for record-keeping alone.
His fingers tapped absently against the desk as he stared at the scattered parchments before him. The ink smudges on his fingers, the half-dried quill lying discarded at the edge of his workbench—it was inefficient, frustrating. Knowledge was meant to be recorded, refined, expanded upon. Yet here he was, confined by the limitations of ink and paper, constantly rewriting entire sections when a simple correction was needed.
"This is absurd," he muttered. "There has to be a better way."
Zafira, watching him with idle amusement, arched a brow. "Why the sudden fuss?."
Emery reached for a piece of charcoal, rolling it between his fingers. "Paper is fragile. Ink is permanent. Corrections are messy, and rewriting information over and over again is a waste of time and resources. What if there was a way to record knowledge temporarily—something reusable, something that doesn’t require endless stacks of parchment?"
He sketched a quick design on the table, his movements precise and calculated. "A slate board—coated in a fine layer of dust or mineral-based residue. Write with a chalk-like substance, erase with a simple cloth. It would allow for rapid note-taking, teaching, calculations—without the need for ink or wasted parchment."
Zafira’s fingers stilled against the parchment she had been idly tracing. Her business-minded intuition flared. "You mean to tell me that all this time, scholars have been wasting resources because no one has thought to use something temporary for writing?"
Emery smirked slightly. "No one has needed to. Until now. But if I can refine the process—find the right materials, ensure durability—it could change everything. Education, engineering, logistics... even military strategy."
Zafira leaned forward slightly, her gaze calculating. "And can you do it?"
Emery adjusted his glasses, his mind already spinning through the possibilities. "Given the right minerals and a stable surface? Of course. The only question is how long it will take to perfect."
Zafira exhaled, then let out a low, knowing chuckle. "And here I thought you were just a scholar obsessed with weapons. Turns out, you might be the most dangerous man in this room."
Emery said nothing, only smirking slightly as he returned to his sketches. The world was on the brink of war, and he was about to change it—not with swords or cultivation, but with the stroke of chalk on slate.
Emery's mind is always running and right now he is thinking again about the Silver Lotus situation.
The Silver Lotus Sect. A failing sect, a weak leader, a history of steady decline—none of it made sense. Why now? Why resist?
He exhaled sharply, adjusting his spectacles. Cultivation, as far as he was concerned, was little more than glorified mysticism. People claimed to refine 'qi' and comprehend the 'Dao,' but at the end of the day, strength was determined by the same rules governing everything else—biology, physics, strategy. The strongest warriors were the ones with discipline, knowledge, and the ability to adapt. No divine forces, no fate, just cause and effect.
And yet, here they were, dealing with a sect that should have already crumbled yet had chosen to stand its ground. The logical part of his mind rejected the idea of some 'miraculous resurgence.' There had to be something tangible behind it. Was it a last desperate act? Or had something truly changed?
His fingers tapped against the table as he considered the possibilities. A sudden shift in leadership was the most plausible. But leaders did not appear out of thin air, especially not in a sect on the verge of ruin. If someone had stepped forward, that meant they had power—not necessarily cultivation, but influence, intelligence, or the ability to make others believe in them.
A tactician? A war strategist? He scoffed at the notion. Such a mind would have been noticed long before now. Unless...
Unless they had been underestimated. Hidden in plain sight.
His smirk faded slightly. If that were the case, then the Crimson Serpent Sect might be walking into something far more dangerous than they anticipated.
Emery shook his head. "People don't change overnight. And sects don't rise from the ashes without reason. Keep an eye on them, Zafira. See who comes out on top. That will tell us everything we need to know."