After finishing his work, after finally getting Xueyao to forgive him, and after spending an entire quiet day with his daughter and Yuelan, Kaelan once again seals himself inside his cultivation room.
The heavy stone door closes.
The outside world fades.
Silence settles.
Inside the chamber, arrays hum softly, isolating space, light, and sound. Kaelan sits at the centre, cross-legged, his back straight, his breathing slow and even. His mind is calm, but not idle. What he is about to do leaves no room for distraction.
He has not yet completed the construction of the full magic circuit.
That work is far more complex and cannot be rushed.
But the first step—the foundation—can no longer be delayed.
Engraving.
Not on stone.
Not on metal.
On himself.
Kaelan sinks his consciousness inward, past muscle, past blood, until his perception narrows to the microscopic scale. Cells come into view, countless and alive, each pulsing with faint vitality. To others, this level of perception would be impossible. To him, it is merely another layer of reality.
He chooses his right arm.
It is deliberate.
The right side bears his dominant pathways, the place where force, control, and intent naturally converge. If something goes wrong, he will know immediately.
His spirit condenses.
Sharp.
Precise.
And then he begins.
One line at a time.
A filament of will presses against the surface of a single cell, carving an impossibly fine groove. It is not physical damage. It is a structural redefinition, altering how the cell receives, stores, and circulates energy.
The pain is distant, muted by his focus.
Minutes stretch into hours.
Hours into days.
Kaelan does not move.
He engraves, rests, stabilises, and engraves again. Each cell must be perfectly aligned with the next. A single inconsistency would cause rejection, backlash, or collapse when the circuit is later activated.
Outside the chamber, days pass.
Ten days go by while Kaelan remains in retreat.
—
Far away, in Heavenly City, the war grinds on.
Heavenly City stands well behind the front line, but it is the heart that keeps the war alive. Supplies flow through it like blood through arteries. Troops rotate in and out. Wounded are treated, reinforced, and sent back.
The city is vast.
Hundreds of towers rise like spears toward the sky, each designed for flight, surveillance, or rapid deployment. The Twilight Race dominates the skyline, their winged figures constantly lifting off toward the battlefield or descending back from it, armour scarred, eyes sharp.
On the streets below, life moves with grim purpose.
Human martial artists stride past weapon stalls, checking blades and armour. Qi refiners negotiate for pills, talismans, and healing herbs. Some walk with bandages, others with fresh scars still glowing faintly with residual energy.
Demon Beasts walk among them.
Some remain in humanoid form, tall and imposing, their beastly traits barely concealed. Others shrink their primal bodies, massive creatures compressed into controlled shapes, their presence heavy and oppressive.
Despite the war, Heavenly City feels alive.
It has become a sanctuary.
As the wind of the wizard path spreads through human territory, more and more spiritual nodes are transformed into magic nodes. Martial artists and Qi refiners cannot survive in those regions. Their foundations weaken. Their cultivation paths become unstable.
So they leave.
And Heavenly City receives them.
Here, only a handful of wizard stations exist. Not enough to alter the nodes. Not enough to suffocate the old paths. For now, this city remains a refuge.
On this day, however, the sky darkens.
Shadows fall over the city.
People pause mid-step.
Heads tilt upward.
Flying boats.
Dozens of them.
Their hulls gleam with runes pulsing with steady light. Around them circle giant crows, wings spread wide, eyes glowing with intelligence far beyond beasts.
Wizards have arrived.
The Twilight Race reacts first.
There is excitement, approval, and relief. Another force means more pressure on the Night Dynasty. More strength on the battlefield.
The Demon Race remains indifferent. Power is power. Allies today, rivals tomorrow.
But among the human martial artists and Qi refiners, a chill spreads.
They know what this means.
Another sanctuary is being encroached upon.
From the largest flying boat, Chen Qi and Li Wen descend, robes immaculate, expressions composed. They are escorted directly to the central tower, where Mengyue, the city lord of Heavenly City, awaits them.
The meeting is brief.
Formal.
Polite.
Afterwards, Chen Qi and Li Wen depart, heading westward toward the active front.
The news spreads quickly.
The wizards have committed troops.
Whispers ripple through the camps, the towers, the fortresses along the line.
—
In a forward fortress closer to the front, Song Yan stands inside a stone chamber carved with battle marks and scorched lines.
Two others stand with him.
Lin Sen.
Zhuang Xu.
Three sword holders.
Three paths.
Song Yan's presence radiates heat, his aura like molten rock barely contained. Lin Sen stands calm, his energy deep and steady, like roots gripping the earth. Zhuang Xu leans casually against a pillar, but the air around him ripples faintly, as if the sky itself bends in his presence.
"The wizards have sent troops," Song Yan says.
Lin Sen nods once. "It was inevitable."
Song Yan's eyes narrow. "If we let them act freely, they'll think they're the leaders of the human forces here, too."
Silence follows.
None of them likes this.
But they understand the stakes.
Their long-term plan cannot survive wizard domination.
Zhuang Xu straightens. "What do you propose?"
Song Yan smiles, cold and sharp. "We don't fight them."
"We feed their movements to the Night Dynasty."
The two exchange glances.
Then they nod.
One by one, they leave the chamber.
Song Yan remains behind for a moment.
His hand tightens.
His mind drifts back to the moment of defeat—Kong Wuya standing above him, unshaken, unreachable.
"I will defeat you," Song Yan murmurs.
With that vow burning in his chest, he turns and strides out, heading toward the battlefield.
Tonight, the puppets of the Night Dynasty will bear the weight of his anger.
—
Night falls.
The flying boats descend from the darkened sky, their hulls glowing faintly as they land in precise formation. Giant crows circle once, then settle around them, folding wings that blot out starlight for a heartbeat before stillness returns. Within moments, a camp forms—efficient, practised, disciplined.
Arrays hum softly.
Tents rise like clockwork.
At the centre of the camp, a massive command tent glows with steady magical light.
Inside, Chen Qi stands with several Gold-realm wizards. Their robes shimmer faintly with runes, their expressions focused and severe. A massive map of the frontline is spread across a long table, weighted at the corners with crystal anchors. Lines of control, movement routes, supply paths, and enemy strongholds crisscross its surface.
They argue.
They calculate.
They simulate.
Contingency after contingency is raised, tested, discarded, or refined. Hours pass as the night deepens, the air thick with tension and concentration. Eventually, their gazes converge on one location.
A fortress built into a rocky plateau.
Aran Desert.
Enemy-controlled.
Remote.
Isolated.
And strategically dangerous.
When dawn comes, decisions have been made.
The flying boats lift as one, rising above the clouds. The giant crows follow, their silhouettes merging with the morning sky as the formation turns south-west.
Three days later, the desert stretches before them.
Endless sand.
Broken rock.
Heat that lingers even after sunset.
The army enters cautiously, formations tightening as night falls. Camp is established swiftly, arrays embedded into the ground, flying boats positioned with geometric precision.
Then, hours later, the wind changes.
Sand begins to move.
A wall of darkness rises at the horizon.
A sandstorm.
The arrays on the flying boats flare instantly, lines of light snapping into place. Energy flows between vessels, linking them into a single structure. A translucent barrier forms around the camp just as the storm hits.
Sand slams into it like a living thing.
The barrier shudders.
Inside the command tent, Chen Qi watches the chaos through a projection array, eyes narrowed.
"This storm," he says quietly, "is not natural."
Beside him, Tian Ruyang's hand closes.
The Demon Sword of the Tian Family appears in his grip, its blade dark and restless, humming with suppressed hunger.
"I smell demon," Tian Ruyang says, voice low and eager.
Chen Qi nods. "They've started their attack."
There is no surprise.
Kaelan's warning still echoes in their minds—the Night Dynasty has eyes everywhere. This encounter was inevitable.
Tian Ruyang steps forward, unable to restrain himself.
His eyes burn with ambition.
He remembers the night his elder brother died—capital in chaos, blood on stone, the old paths collapsing. That night forged him. With Li Xueyao and Tang Luyan's support, he inherited the Demon Sword and the burden that came with it.
Lord Kong's words still linger in his thoughts.
Comprehend the Demon Sword, and one may step toward the Spiritual Wizard Realm.
May.
Not will.
Tian Ruyang refuses uncertainty.
He volunteered for this campaign for a reason.
Achievements.
Merit.
Resources.
Knowledge.
And perhaps—an audience with Lord Kong.
Even Lord Veena.
"Commander Chen," Tian Ruyang says, unable to hide his hunger for battle, "let me go. I'll teach them a lesson."
Chen Qi raises a hand, stopping him.
"This is their terrain," he says calmly. "Caution first."
He turns. "Li Wen."
"Yes."
"Tell Zhou An to take the sky."
Li Wen bows and leaves at once.
Moments later, the barrier opens briefly.
The giant crows surge upward, led by Zhou An. Their wings beat in unison, carving the air. Wind condenses, sharpens, and erupts outward.
Blades of compressed air tear into the sandstorm.
The storm shudders.
The sand cloud disperses.
And the battlefield begins to reveal itself.