“A map written in a lost language, believed to lead to an ancient cultivator ruin.”

  Bai Ning leaned forward, interest sharpening as Ming Changge announced the next item in a weary, beaten voice. Beside her, Mo Jian finally looked up from the flurry of voice transmission talismans he had been fielding, his eyes drawn to the stage.

  A sealed scroll, battered and brown, rested on a silver plate atop the pedestal. It looked entirely ordinary—if not for the faint qi radiating from it, Bai Ning might have mistaken it for a mortal trinket. Yet she barely had time to examine it before, as expected—

  “The Song clan will bid ten spirit stones, and no more.”

  No one was surprised. There wasn’t even fear anymore. The scene had repeated itself too many times for that. The audience wasn’t relaxed, but a kind of numb exhaustion had settled over the hall. Everyone was simply waiting for the auction to end, so they could leave and pretend this day had never happened.

  Only Ming Changge, looking like a man who had watched everything he ever loved turn to ash, and the lady from the Song family spoke. One would present the item; the other would make a laughably low bid and win it. The same hollow ritual had already played out a hundred times.

  The scroll vanished, and the next item was brought forth. “A drop of blood from a True Phoenix Bloodline.”

  Bai Ning stopped listening. Again.

  Instead, she watched her master crush a voice transmission talisman to dust and flick another into his storage pouch. The rest he let go, and they darted silently out of their private box, joining dozens of others exchanging messages across the auction hall.

  When the first talisman had arrived, both she and Mo Jian had tensed, half-expecting Han Wenqing to take offense and strike them down. But the man and his mistress had turned a blind eye as Core Formation cultivators sent messages back and forth. The only time they had stirred was when a bold cultivator, mistaking their tolerance for permission, had tried to leave. Han Wenqing had raised a single hand, and an overwhelming pressure had crushed down upon the hall.

  After that, no one dared to move.

  Still, the silent exchange of messages continued. Her master had received half a dozen and sent out as many. Now he looked up, face grim and voice low.

  “Liu Hong is with us, as is Monk Chanakya. Matriarch Lian intends to leave with her sisters and a few trusted allies from other sects, so we can’t rely on her. Unfortunately, Fan Mei isn’t in attendance—otherwise, we could have counted on her for support. In general, though, everyone agrees. As soon as this farce of an auction concludes, we escape. The Song clan can’t risk slaughtering so many representatives from powerful factions—not if they intend to establish a branch in the Thousand Shattered Islands.”

  “And the sect members?” Bai Ning asked softly. She meant the inner disciples of the Greater Dharma Sect who had also come to Jadeflame Island. Her parents would never have let such a grand event pass without sending a delegation.

  Mo Jian frowned. “They’ll have to fend for themselves. It sounds callous, I know, but as Qi Condensation cultivators, they won’t draw attention. They’re not even in the main hall. If we manage to escape, so can they. And if it comes to a fight…” He hesitated, then shook his head. “I won’t be able to protect them anyway.”

  Bai Ning wanted to argue, but she swallowed her words. Her master was right—and she knew her parents would have told her the same. Their lives were hanging by a thread. Thinking of the sect first would only get them all killed.

  It was wrong. It felt like betrayal. But in the face of overwhelming power, what else could they do but bow their heads and survive?

  She clenched her fists at her sides, silent resolve burning behind her eyes. Never again. Never again did she want to be this powerless, this small.

  The bidding droned on, one treasure after another passing into the Song clan’s possession, until at last the final item arrived. The air in the hall seemed to thicken as the end drew near.

  “The final item…” Ming Changge’s throat worked, the words barely escaping. “A fragment of the Celestial Furnace—the natal artifact of Grand Cultivator Cai Cao.”

  A pulse rolled through the hall as the item was placed on the pedestal. For an instant, Bai Ning thought she saw a great molten sun flicker before her eyes, then vanish. The fragment itself was a small, unassuming piece of shattered metal—except for how impossibly dense it was with qi.

  Song Shaoyue did not hesitate. “Only a fragment? One spirit stone, and no more.”

  The entire hall drew in a collective breath.

  Cai Cao had been a famed Nascent Soul cultivator, a figure who had dominated the Thousand Shattered Islands centuries ago. A fragment of his natal artifact would be a priceless treasure even to Nascent Soul experts, let alone the Core Formation cultivators gathered here. To offer one spirit stone for such a relic was unthinkable.

  Yet, it happened.

  Ming Changge bowed his head, completely resigned to his fate. “That concludes the auction,” he said quietly.

  The great doors at the front of the hall creaked open. For a heartbeat, no one moved—then the hesitation shattered.

  Every cultivator in the hall fled as fast as they could.

  The Core Formation cultivators were, naturally, the first to vanish. From the private boxes, streaks of powerful qi tore through the air, leaving trails of light as they darted through the doors and into the night. Some rode their natal artifacts, others summoned spirit beasts or conjured flying tools. One woman unfurled radiant wings and vanished in bursts of light; another man dissolved into a silk banner that streamed away as a cloud.

  Below them, the lesser cultivators scrambled in their wake. Some fled on foot, some on flying swords, and one group transformed a stream of water into a serpentine current that carried them through the air. All of them fled.

  Only Song Shaoyue and her companion, Han Wenqing, remained seated—utterly still amid the chaos. On the stage, Ming Changge also did not move, nor did the remaining members of the Ming family. They likely knew that escape was impossible, and waited with what little dignity they still possessed.

  Song Shaoyue’s lips curved slightly. It was almost admirable, especially after how pitiful Ming Taishou had been in his final moments.

  “Mistress,” Han Wenqing said quietly, his tone respectful as ever. “Shall I mop up the remnants of the Ming family for you?”

  She shook her head, rising gracefully as the hall emptied. Han Wenqing mirrored her movement, though his eyes lingered on her with faint concern.

  “No need, my friend,” she said, her voice smooth and faintly amused. “I’ll deal with these people myself. Why don’t you step outside and make sure those fools fleeing the island don’t leave with the wrong impression of us? I would hate for anyone to forget their respect.”

  He hesitated, torn between obedience and the impropriety of contradicting her.

  Song Shaoyue’s eyes softened. “Truly, go. I can take care of myself. There were a few of that old fool Ming Taishou’s agents among those trying to escape. Chase them down and deal with the troublesome ones. It’s better to end them here than hunt them later.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Mistress, we already dealt with most of them,” Han Wenqing protested. “They were sent on meaningless errands, wasting their time. Barely any of them know anything.”

  “But not all of them,” she countered. “A few were loyal, not merely bought. Better to deal with them now than risk them crawling back out of the shadows later.” Her tone hardened slightly. “Now go. Enough worrying about me.”

  Han Wenqing sighed but clasped his hands together in salute. “As you command.”

  He turned and strode toward the doors, pausing only to cast a final glare at Ming Changge—a silent reminder that he was still being watched. Then he stepped out and rose into the air.

  Below him, Jadeflame Island had descended into pandemonium. Cultivators flooded the streets and the skies alike, fleeing in every direction as fast as their qi could carry them. In the distance, his spiritual sense still brushed against the stronger auras of the Core Formation cultivators, not yet out of range.

  He could discern their forms with ease—some riding flying boats or other treasures, others burning life force through dangerous escape techniques, and a few channeling their natal artifacts to flee with every shred of power they possessed.

  Han Wenqing snorted softly. Pathetic. This region truly was impoverished. Any half-trained cultivator from the mainland knew that relying on anything other than one’s natal artifact past Core Formation risked diluting their eventual Dao. Yet these people, so backward and ignorant, seemed unaware of even that simple truth.

  It was pitiable.

  He wished—not for the first time—that he and his mistress were not here, that she had not been exiled to this forgotten corner of the world. If only…

  But such thoughts were useless. Soon enough, their presence would be discovered, and the great powers of this region would begin to investigate.

  Han Wenqing was not afraid of battle. Nascent Soul clashes rarely ended with a true victor—only with countless corpses littering the aftermath. None of the local Nascent Souls he had read about struck him as reckless enough to seek such a fight. No, their first act would be to contact the Song Clan’s southern branch, seeking guidance—and there they would learn the truth: that neither he nor his mistress held the clan’s favor anymore.

  Once that secret spread, they would have to rely entirely on their own strength—and whatever power they could wrest from others—to survive. It was why he had not protested when Song Shaoyue chose to target the Ming family. It made sense. Better to seize what they needed from another’s hands than arrive as disgraced exiles with nothing to their name.

  Now, as for the fleeing fools in front of him…

  They had scattered deliberately, hoping to divide his pursuit and improve their odds of escape.

  “Fools,” he muttered. He had no intention of harming most of them. Only those directly tied to the Ming family would die tonight. After all, he and his mistress intended to make these islands their home—for now. It would not do to start by alienating every local power.

  He raised his hand.

  A mote of green light floated from his palm, swelling into the shape of a miniature vase—pale jade threaded with delicate veins of gold. It grew until it stood as tall as he was, every inch of it webbed with fine cracks patched in shimmering gold and silver lacquer.

  The Urn of the Dead God.

  As always, a pang of nostalgia struck him at the sight.

  He remembered being a child—poor, foolish, and terrified—when he had broken this very vase while playing. His parents, humble potters, had crafted it for a wealthy client. His father’s fury had curdled into despair, certain they would be executed for the loss.

  But the Song clan had intervened. They had spared his family and recognized his talent, granting him the chance to cultivate.

  Even after entering the sect, Han Wenqing had learned his father’s craft in secret. He had repaired the vase himself, filling its fractures with powdered gold and silver, until the pattern gleamed with quiet strength—a symbol of endurance through imperfection. When he reached Core Formation, he had refined it into his natal artifact, and never once regretted the choice.

  Now, he activated it.

  The urn flared, bathing the night in soft jade light. Traceries of gold spread across Han Wenqing’s skin, mirroring the cracks upon the urn. His form shimmered—and split. One became two. Two became four. Four became sixteen. Sixteen became thirty-two. Until sixty-four copies of him hung in the sky, surrounding the urn in perfect symmetry. One remained beside the artifact, hovering serenely, while the other sixty-three shot off in all directions, streaking across the sky like falling stars in pursuit of the fleeing cultivators.

  ……………………………….

  Mo Jian cursed every deity he knew under his breath—and then moved on to cursing his own greed.

  He had known—had almost known—that something dangerous was bound to happen. And what had he done? Stayed. Like every idiot in a haunted house in a horror story.

  Where had his genre savviness gone? Why hadn’t he run the moment things started feeling wrong? Greed, of course. Always greed.

  If he survived this, he swore he would never let money blind him again.

  Right now, he and Bai Ning were enclosed within the blue barrier of his Heaven Enshrouding Ding, the cauldron carrying them through the sky as fast as it could toward a completely random point on the horizon. He had chosen the direction on a whim—the only thought in his head had been to put as much distance between himself and Jadeflame Island as possible.

  He wasn’t alone, either. On his left, Liu Hong rode his expanded Horsetail Whisk, and on his right, Monk Chanakya balanced serenely atop his Golden Alms Bowl. The three Core Formation cultivators had fled together, combining their qi into one reinforced barrier to shield against any attack as they sped away.

  They would part ways eventually. Their respective islands lay within a hundred li of one another, and all three were local powers in the same region. Mo Jian even knew Monk Chanakya reasonably well—the monk had visited their islands once or twice a year, begging for alms as part of his Buddhist cultivation. Despite his strength, he lived simply, donating all his wealth to mortals and wandering the seas with nothing but his bowl and staff.

  Mo Jian had always humored him, tossing a few spirit stones his way when he appeared. The last time, he had even made Bai Ning hand them over personally.

  In return, the monk had smiled, taught her a qi-restraining technique and a Buddhist sutra, patted her on the head, and left as abruptly as he came.

  Bai Ning had been baffled for the rest of the day.

  For a time, silence stretched between the three of them—only the roar of wind and the steady hum of their shared barrier filled the night. The seas below were dark and endless, reflecting the last embers of daylight as the sun sank beneath the waves.

  Mo Jian risked a glance backward. Jadeflame Island was already a dim ember on the horizon, half-shrouded by clouds. The lingering qi still made his skin prickle—but at least it was far. Far was good.

  Then Liu Hong spoke. “Do you think we made it?”

  Mo Jian snorted. “If you have to ask, the answer’s no.”

  Monk Chanakya chuckled softly, the sound incongruously calm for a man riding an oversized rice bowl. “Detachment, my friend. If fate decrees pursuit, we shall face it.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Mo Jian muttered. “Buddhists are everyone’s friends. You’re in the least danger of any of us.”

  “We could convert,” Liu Hong said, his beard whipping in the wind, tone dry with gallows humor. “What does it take, anyway? An alms bowl and chanting Amitabha?”

  Bai Ning caught on, looking halfway between exasperated and amused. “I even know a Buddhist sutra. That should count for something, right? Many thanks, Master Chanakya.”

  The monk harrumphed, giving them all a withering look. “You mock, but the Buddha accepts all and teaches truth to those who seek it. Still, I will welcome you gladly—and teach you well.” He paused, then added with a twinkle in his eye, “As long as you call me master, like junior Bai Ning.”

  Liu Hong chuckled while Mo Jian rolled his eyes. Bai Ning, however, just beamed.

  They sped on, and for a few precious breaths, it almost felt as if they might actually make it.

  Then Liu Hong stiffened. Mo Jian and Chanakya sensed it at the same time.

  “We’re being followed.”

  “Damn it.” Mo Jian bit the inside of his cheek. “They’re tracking our qi.”

  Liu Hong’s face paled. “We should split—make them choose!”

  He wasn’t wrong. There was only one pursuer, and together they were a beacon. Splitting up might scatter the trail long enough for at least one of them to survive.

  Mo Jian gave a quick nod. “Then let us drink together at my cave residence—if we survive this.”

  Liu Hong raised his whisk in salute; Monk Chanakya pressed his palms together and bowed. Then, without another word, the three cultivators split, each veering off in a different direction.

  Mo Jian took the left, pouring more qi into the Heaven Enshrouding Ding, hoping against hope that they could outrun whatever was behind them.

  It wasn’t to be.

  He sensed it before Bai Ning’s soft curse confirmed it—the pursuer hadn’t hesitated. The figure chasing them had picked their direction, ignoring the other two.

  Mo Jian set his jaw and focused on flight. If it was Han Wenqing, they were already dead. But if not…

  He was in the Final Stage of Core Formation. As long as it wasn’t a Nascent Soul cultivator, he could at least make it a fight.

  He cursed himself again. Of all things to pick for a natal artifact, why a ding? A sword would have been better for fighting. A boat, for fleeing. But no—he had chosen the conservative route.

  Not that it mattered. Against a Nascent Soul, he’d be helpless regardless.

  A thought flickered through his mind—Ye Chen’s technique, from the book, the one he’d used against Old Devil Fu. Mo Jian grimaced. He really should have studied it more. If he’d managed to recreate it, they might have stood a chance…

  Before he could finish berating himself, the ocean below shimmered gold. No—not the ocean. It was just a reflection. A golden light was descending from the sky.

  Mo Jian barely had time to reinforce the barrier and shove Bai Ning behind him before it slammed into them.