The stench of smoke and blood lay heavy over the bay.
Boats bobbed crookedly in the churning water, some half-burned, some already sinking. Nets were strewn across blackened sand, twisted together with shattered oars and fallen bodies. The cries of terrified villagers had long since died down into hoarse sobs and muffled whimpers.
Only the crackle of burning huts and the hiss of waves against rock remained.
High above the shallows, on a jagged outcropping of stone, a fisherman dangled in the grip of a black-robed man. The demonic cultivator's fingers were clamped around the old fisherman's throat, lifting him as easily as one might hold up a chicken.
True essence crawled under the man's skin like worms.
"This is the fate of those who get in Blood Sand Hall's way," the demonic cultivator said lazily, voice carrying over the water. "A fisherman who dares to cut our nets… who dares to protest when we collect tribute…"
A faint, choking sound scraped from the old man's throat.
Below them, on the rocky slope leading down to the bay, three figures stood side by side.
Murong Zi.
Bai Jingyun.
Qin Xingxuan.
Their robes fluttered in the sea wind, the hems snapping lightly around their boots. The salt air pulled at their hair—Murong Zi's ponytail, Bai Jingyun's smooth black tresses, Qin Xingxuan's simple bun. On the surface, their auras were calm: no oppressive pressure, no thick surges of true essence.
To any experienced eye, they were just girls who had barely finished tempering their bodies.
Altering Muscle. Bone Forging.
Far from Pulse Condensation, still a long road from Houtian.
The demonic cultivator holding the fisherman finally turned to look at them.
His gaze slid over Murong Zi's bright eyes and spear, over Bai Jingyun's sheathed sword, over Qin Xingxuan's quiet face. His lips curled in a sneer.
"Altering Muscle… Bone Forging?" he drawled. "Just a few little girls from the inner lands."
Behind him, his comrades laughed.
There were seven in total. Three early Pulse Condensation cultivators with roiling, foul true essence; two big Bone Forging brutes whose muscles bulged against their tattered robes; one late Pulse Condensation expert with a twisted aura that pulsed like rancid meat left too long in the sun; and the leader himself, also late Pulse Condensation, his true essence slick and greasy with demonic body modification.
To them, the three girls were nothing more than lambs who had wandered into a slaughterhouse.
Below, the villagers huddled near the blackened shore—kneeling, hands tied, some bleeding, some shaking. Their eyes flicked desperately between the demonic cultivators and the three young women on the rocks.
Hope warred with fear and lost. How could they believe?
The fisherman dangled, legs kicking weakly.
The leader shifted his grip, his fingers tightening around the old man's throat. True essence coiled around his arm like smoke, forming a faint dark-red halo around his hand.
"Run along," he said lazily. "This is Blood Sand Hall's business. If you kneel now, knock your heads on the ground, and offer your storage bags…"
He smiled, showing yellowed teeth.
"…this uncle might spare your—"
He didn't finish.
Because Murong Zi's spear moved.
There was no shout, no flourish, no warning.
One moment, her spear lay slanted across her shoulder, the faint glow of true essence still buried deep in her meridians. The next, the shaft hummed, cutting through the air in a straight, ruthless line—a streak of cold silver, moving too fast for the eye to catch.
Fire leapt.
Behind Murong Zi's back, a thin red-gold halo blossomed into existence, spokes of light whispering out like the first wheel of a nascent sun. Lines of Fire Martial Intent traced themselves into reality—a rune-wheel, spinning slowly, every line etched with the Concept of Burning Heat she had hammered into her bones day after day.
Within that halo's field, every trace of heat twisted.
The blood-scented air. The embers drifting from burning huts. The faint warmth of human bodies, of terrified hearts beating too fast. All of it shuddered and turned, drawn toward her like iron filings to a magnet.
Murong Zi's world narrowed.
Her spear. The man's wrist. The fisherman's throat.
Her heart pounded once.
The battlefield illusion Ren Ming had dragged her into days before—scorched earth, mad flames, a sky burning red—rose up behind her eyes. But this time, the fire was not wild. It did not roar everywhere at once.
It flowed.
She exhaled, and the heat obeyed.
The spearpoint thrust straight at the demonic cultivator's wrist, wrapped in compressed red-gold flame. The world stretched in that instant: the glint of metal, the shimmer of firelight, the way the man's eyes widened too slow to match the spear's speed.
"You court—"
His words turned into a scream.
Her spearpoint struck his protective true essence and pierced it like a hot knife through fat. The demonic barrier shuddered, rippling once like a film of oil over water.
Then it cracked.
The flame compressed at Murong Zi's spear tip exploded inward, micro-threads of Fire Law weaving through the barrier's weak points. Demonic true essence boiled. Bones creaked.
There was a sharp crack.
His hand tore away at the wrist, flying into the air in a spray of black blood. For a heartbeat, the severed hand still clenched, fingers frozen around nothing, before it tumbled into the surf.
The fisherman dropped like a stone, slamming onto the rocks. He gasped, coughing, dragging air into crushed lungs.
For a single breath, the bay fell utterly silent.
The crackle of flames seemed distant. The sobs of villagers vanished. Even the sea breeze held itself still.
The demonic cultivator stared at the stump of his arm, black blood pouring out in an uglier, thicker stream than any human's. His eyes slowly lifted to Murong Zi—no longer lazily amused, but wide with a dawning, animal terror.
Then killing intent exploded.
"You little WHORE!"
The shout was a chorus—four, five voices overlapping in rage. Demonic auras flared like bloody suns, flooding the bay with suffocating pressure. Talismans tore open in their hands, spilling sickly red light. True essence twisted, demonic arts roaring to life.
A Bone Forging brute stamped forward, each step cracking the ground like a hammer blow. Another man's palms swelled with dark crimson energy, veins bulging under skin turned almost black. The late Pulse Condensation expert's eyes went bloodshot; a rancid field of demonic qi rippled from his body, making the air taste like rust and decay.
The fisherman flinched, stumbling back on hands and knees.
Qin Xingxuan stepped forward.
She did not shout.
She did not posture.
She set the butt of her spear against the stone and slowly exhaled.
Behind her, a small red-gold lantern ignited in the air—simple, no ornamentation, a glowing outline made of Fire Law lines and Martial Intent, born from a stubborn little flame once protected in a world of endless snow.
The lantern's light rippled softly.
The Fire Dao in the bay stirred. Embers drifting in the wind changed course. The heat radiating from burning roofs bent subtly around Qin Xingxuan, as if recognizing an old friend and moving closer to greet her.
Warmth rolled out in a quiet tide.
"Xingxuan." Murong Zi grinned, setting her spearpoint into a low guard, her own rune-wheel pulsing behind her shoulder. "Let's see whose fire burns hotter today."
"Don't be noisy," Bai Jingyun said softly.
Her hand closed around her sword hilt.
The blade left its sheath with a clear, ringing sound that cut through the demonic roars and the villagers' sobs alike. As the sword emerged, a thin line of red-gold traced itself along the edge—so sharp it seemed to slice the sunlight itself.
Fire Laws compressed into a line.
The Concept of Burning Heat condensed until it was nothing but a merciless, hair-thin arc clinging to her blade's edge.
A demonic cultivator sneered, thrusting out his palm. Black-red energy surged from his meridians, howling as it twisted into the shape of a claw, each finger formed from condensed demonic blood. The claw shivered in the air, radiating a cold and greasy killing intent.
"Break for me!"
He smashed the blood-claw down toward Murong Zi.
Murong Zi's shoulders loosened.
"Get lost."
Her spear rose, red-gold flame coiling along the shaft like a dragon waking from sleep. Her Fire Martial Intent rune-wheel spun faster, devouring the heat of the burning houses, the scorching sting of spilled blood, even the faint warmth of hatred itself. All that fire compressed into the spearhead.
Spear and blood-claw collided.
There was no earth-shaking explosion. No deafening thunder.
Instead, the blood-claw shuddered.
The demonic energy inside it began to twitch as if in fear. Thin filaments of red-gold slid through it, weaving in and out of the claw's structure like needles.
Then, from the inside out, the blood-claw ignited.
Flame burst along the demonic construct's veins, tearing through it like starving wolves. The black-red light shrank, collapsed, and then vanished, devoured in heartbeats by Murong Zi's fire.
Her spearpoint punched straight through the dying claw, continuing forward without losing a step.
The demonic cultivator's eyes widened.
His chest buckled.
The spearpoint rammed into him, red-gold flame erupting from its tip. His protective true essence—enough to easily crush any ordinary early Pulse Condensation martial artist—shredded like rotten paper under the compressed Laws.
"Impossi—"
The word never finished.
The spearhead burst out his back in a fountain of burning black blood. Fire spread across his meridians, racing along the paths his true essence usually flowed, turning everything it touched into ash.
He fell, body already beginning to burn from the inside.
On the other flank, two Bone Forging demonic cultivators hurtled forward with twin war cries, charging at Bai Jingyun and Qin Xingxuan.
One wielded a pair of heavy sabers, blades wrapped in rolling black mist that made the air around them dim and cold. The other's fists were completely concealed under jagged demonic bone armor; every flex of his fingers made the knuckles spark with black-red lightning.
"Two of them," Murong Zi called, already lunging toward another target, spear whipping around in a glowing arc. "Jingyun—"
"No need," Bai Jingyun said.
She stepped forward.
Her sword moved in a simple line. No ornament, no flourish. Just a single cut drawn through the air as if she were slicing through an invisible thread.
The red-gold filament along the edge pulsed once.
Fire Martial Intent and sword intent overlapped. The heat did not roar. It did not scatter. It compressed into a narrow, razor-thin band hugging her blade, guided by the calm, precise line of her will.
The saber-wielding demonic cultivator laughed.
"Such a thin sword light—"
His ridicule cut off.
Her sword passed his sabers.
He felt… nothing. No clash of steel. No heavy recoil.
Then, a thin red-gold line appeared near the base of both blades.
The sabers shattered.
Metal fragments exploded outward like a dust cloud. The demonic cultivator's arms jerked back instinctively—but he was already a beat too late.
The same red-gold line traced itself silently across his chest.
Blood sprayed.
He staggered, eyes dropping in disbelief to the line that had opened on his torso—so clean and fine it looked drawn with a brush. For a heartbeat, there was no pain at all.
Then fire erupted from the cut, racing through his body, devouring muscle and bone in one merciless sweep.
"How…" he rasped.
"Your flames were noisy," Bai Jingyun said quietly. "Mine… are not."
Her sword flicked once more.
His head left his shoulders in a clean, almost gentle arc, spiraling up, then dropping as the body collapsed.
The fist cultivator roared, features twisting into an ugly mask. His demonic bone armor flared, black-red lines glowing as if magma flowed beneath his skin.
He slammed his fists down toward Qin Xingxuan.
Shockwaves tore through the air, distorting it like ripples on water. The stone under his feet cracked and cratered; the very bay seemed to shiver.
Qin Xingxuan's gaze remained calm.
The lantern flame behind her pulsed once, its light deepening to a richer red-gold. Fire Law lines threaded quietly into her meridians, not in a wild rush but in steady, gentle streams.
She lifted her spear.
Her footing was simple. No fancy stance, no elaborate form. Just a firm, rooted step forward.
The first punch crashed down like a falling mountain.
Qin Xingxuan's spear twisted—just enough to let the fist graze past. The metal shaft scraped along the side of his bone-armored wrist, guiding the blow a finger-width away from her shoulder.
Flame wrapped around his fist like a thin band.
Flesh sizzled beneath the bone armor; the demonic cultivator snarled. Before he could adjust, Qin Xingxuan had already stepped in again, spear weaving small circles that drew his strikes away, diverting them into angles that seemed harmless—until the burning bands multiplied.
Every time his demonic true essence slammed toward her, it slid along her spear and brushed past some unseen point where her Fire Laws pulsed.
Each pass ignited more of his power.
Black-red energy turned to fuel. Bands of red-gold fire formed around his forearms, his elbows, his shoulders. The bone armor began to glow faintly, like iron heated too long in a forge.
"Damn you—!"
He swung a desperate hook at her head, putting his full weight and hatred into the punch.
Qin Xingxuan's eyes sharpened.
The lantern behind her flared; the stubborn flame in her heart—the one that had refused to go out in blizzard winds—poured into her limbs.
Her spear tip traced a small, perfect arc.
Then, with no flourish at all, she stabbed.
The spearpoint, wrapped in compressed Burning Heat, plunged into the center of his chest.
There was a soft, wet crack.
His ribs buckled around the spearhead. For a heartbeat, nothing seemed to happen.
Then his heart exploded into flame.
Red-gold power burst out from his core, racing along every channel, devouring from the inside. He opened his mouth to scream, but fire poured from his lungs instead. His eyes went dark.
He fell without another sound.
…
High above the bay, on a solitary rocky outcropping, a man stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
Ren Ming.
Wind tugged at his robe, salt mixed with a faint tang of smoke. His gaze swept lazily across the battlefield, pupils reflecting the red-gold of roaring flames and the dark sheen of demonic blood.
Below, Murong Zi, Bai Jingyun, Qin Xingxuan, Na Yi, and Na Shui moved through the chaos like threads in a weaving.
Na Yi and Na Shui were already at the flanks.
Two streaks—a clear blue and a bright, light-gold—slipped in and out of demonic cultivators' blind spots like fish darting through waves. Na Yi's sword rose and fell in straight, efficient lines; her Modified Chaotic Virtues Combat Meridians circulated true essence in smooth, unbroken loops that recorded every perfect movement in her bones.
Behind her, her own Fire Martial Intent rune-wheel spun steadily, the spokes burning with a fiercer heat. The Azure True Dragon Infinity Seed pulsed in her dantian; with each kill, her true essence surged back into her meridians, refilled without hard caps, always a breath behind her will but never once letting her drop.
Na Shui was wilder.
Her movements flowed like water infused with flame—soft when she slipped past an enemy's guard, explosive when her palm met flesh. The Modified Heretical God Force opened in controlled spirals inside her; each surge of power burst out, then circled back, tempering bones and tendons instead of tearing them apart.
Where her hand landed, demonic bodies crumpled.
Sometimes she struck with her palm, sometimes with a short blade, sometimes with an elbow that seemed too light to hurt. But wherever she passed, bones broke, organs pulped, meridians shredded—and then, a heartbeat later, red-gold fire ignited along those same paths.
Ren Ming watched quietly.
Ancient Ming bloodline flowed through his veins, coiled deep in his cells, tasting every strand of killing intent and stray demonic true essence in the air. Foul energies that overflowed from the demons' dying bodies tried to bite at Murong Zi and the others—only to be swallowed as soon as they drifted too close to him.
Impurities devoured. The rest refined into something his Dao could use.
His lips curved in a faint smile.
A ripple brushed the edge of his perception.
Farther along the coast, beyond the range of ordinary sight, a stronger aura flickered—late Houtian, edging halfway into the Xiantian's shadow. Its owner stirred, sensing the disturbance on the bay. For a moment, that presence leaned in their direction.
Ren Ming's Fire Martial Intent stirred.
He did not move his body.
In his Spiritual Sea, a red-gold rune-wheel turned once—a vast, sky-covering wheel inscribed with Fire Laws that had already stepped into the third level: Creation. Concepts folded into Concepts; chains of cause and effect twisted like threads through his fingers.
The sea breeze shifted.
Far away, the Houtian expert frowned. A sudden, inexplicable sense of danger flooded his heart—as if a predator had just opened its eyes and turned its head toward him.
His foot, which had almost taken a step toward the bay, paused.
A moment later, he turned away, focusing on something else entirely, mind already forgetting the faint disturbance along the coast.
Ren Ming's smile deepened.
"Not today," he murmured, voice light, almost amused.
He let his gaze fall back to the bay.
Below, the battle had already become one-sided.
Murong Zi's spear swept in wide, flaming arcs, each thrust and sweep leaving trails of red-gold light that seared through demonic bodies. Bai Jingyun's sword carved quiet, perfect lines; demonic cultivators fell apart a heartbeat after she sheathed her blade, only realizing they were dead when the world tilted away from them.
Qin Xingxuan's spear moved in simple, unadorned thrusts. Every time a demonic brute roared and charged, she met them with that same stubborn, unwavering lantern flame—each strike landing exactly where their defense was weakest, not because she saw gaps with her eyes, but because the fire in her heart refused to yield.
Each kill.
Each danger.
Each brush with death.
All of it stirred their comprehension.
Murong Zi felt it most directly.
The battlefield illusion Ren Ming had forced her into days ago overlapped with reality. The flames in her mind—the ones that had roared across blasted earth, cutting through endless enemy lines—now walked beside the fire on this small bay.
Every time she thrust, the fire wrapped tighter around her spear, no longer flaring out in wild bursts. It clung to the precise arc of her movement, following the intent behind each motion.
"My spear and the fire…"
Heat surged through her veins.
"…they really are one road."
Bai Jingyun, stepping lightly through scattered corpses, sensed the candles from her previous vision—each flame bending toward her blade. The demonic flames from evil arts, the torches on the shore, the burning rooftops, even the heat in fresh blood—each of them seemed to offer up an edge, a line waiting to be drawn.
"The world's fire…" she thought. "It's full of edges… just waiting to be cut."
She adjusted the angle of her sword by a hair's breadth. A demonic cultivator's attack slipped past her cheek, close enough to scorch a few strands of hair.
Her sword carved a quiet line.
He fell apart without understanding why.
Qin Xingxuan stood between kneeling villagers and a charging demonic brute. The lantern in her heart beat in rhythm with the thunder of the sea. Fear rose inside her; she caught it, held it, then pressed it down.
Her flame was not grand. It did not roar like a conqueror's blaze. It simply… refused… to go out.
"That," she thought, feeling her spear steady in her hands as another wave of demonic true essence crashed toward her, "is also the Dao of Fire."
Her spear thrust forward.
The lantern behind her glowed softly.
The demonic wave broke around her like surf around a lighthouse.
Ren Ming's eyes glinted.
"Good," he thought. "Feel it. Don't borrow my road. Burn your own."
…
The massacre did not last long.
To the demonic cultivators, it stretched into an eternity of screams and burning flesh, of comrades collapsing beside them one after another, of fire that refused to be dispersed.
To Ren Ming, it was nothing more than a simple, necessary tempering exercise.
By the time the last Pulse Condensation demonic cultivator toppled—his body splitting in two from a single flick of Bai Jingyun's sword that left a long, slow-closing cut in the air—the bay had fallen quiet.
Only the crackle of flames and the sobs of villagers remained.
Murong Zi planted her spear in the ground.
Her chest rose and fell, breath rough; sweat trickled down her temples, mixing with blood and soot and splinters of ash. The red-gold ring around her body flickered once, twice—then steadied, spokes thickening with each breath.
"That was…"
She laughed, the sound hoarse but bright.
"…great."
Bai Jingyun wiped her blade clean with a single flick, a wisp of flame burning away the blood. She slid the sword back into its sheath. Her breathing was steady; only the faint flush at the base of her neck betrayed that she had fought at all.
"Their cultivation…" she said quietly. "It was not low. Yet…"
"Yet you cut them down," a calm voice finished.
Ren Ming stepped down from the rocks.
He walked through the battlefield as if he were crossing a training field after a normal spar. Blood puddles tried to cling to him; the Ancient Ming bloodline devoured the lingering malice in them, leaving only harmless warmth behind. The air itself seemed to part for him—heat, smoke, fear, all pushed aside as though unwilling to touch him.
He stopped in front of the three Heavenly Abode girls, his gaze sweeping over them in one slow pass.
True essence turbulence. Minor meridian strain. Some internal bruising.
No cracks in their Dao Hearts.
His smile deepened.
"Not bad," he said, his voice lazy but warm. "First real kill with your Fire Laws and Martial Intent, and you didn't embarrass me."
Murong Zi clicked her tongue and looked away, but her ears turned red.
"If we embarrassed you," she muttered, "I'd just jump into the sea myself."
Bai Jingyun bowed slightly, posture straight despite the corpses around her. "Your guidance was profound," she said. "If we could not at least handle this level… we would truly be unworthy."
Qin Xingxuan cupped her fists, eyes clear despite the lingering heat in them. "…We won because they underestimated us," she said softly. "Their hearts were already rotten. Our flames… burned easily."
Ren Ming chuckled.
"Ah, listen to you," he said. "Already speaking like you've walked the road of killing for a few decades."
Murong Zi grinned. "Give us a few more days," she shot back boldly. "We'll prove it."
Ren's gaze curved, amusement and satisfaction mingling in the lines at the corners of his eyes.
"That," he said, "is exactly what I had in mind."
…
The next several days blurred into a bloody rhythm.
Ren Ming didn't lead them deeper into the South Sea. He didn't need to. All along this battered coastline, small demonic outposts clung to the rocks like parasites—branches of greater halls, twisted cults that survived by preying on fishermen and remote villages.
To Houtian and Xiantian masters, these places were gnats.
To Pulse Condensation juniors, they were nightmares whispered about in taverns.
To Ren Ming… they were whetstones.
He used his universal travel art to fold distance, dragging his small group from one target to the next. One moment they were watching waves crash against a cliff; the next, space twisted, Fire Laws and chaos paths interlocking under his feet, and they were stepping out at a new bay with a new village under siege.
Never too far. Never too deep.
Always within a range where the girls' current strength could triumph—not through blind luck, but through effort, will, and growth.
Every day, a new bay.
Every day, new demonic cultivators in sneering masks, their true essence tainted by foul arts and cheap bloodshed.
Every day, Murong Zi's spear broke more demonic bodies, her Fire Laws heating and cooling in perfect time with her strikes. She began to taste the difference between too much fire and just enough. When she compressed flame at the spear tip, piercing power soared, letting her punch through reinforced barriers. When she let heat whirl along the shaft, the impact of her sweeps multiplied, sending Bone Forging brutes flying like broken dolls.
Her rune-wheel's spokes grew thicker, their red-gold light deepening to the color of molten metal.
Every day, Bai Jingyun's sword lines grew finer.
She experimented with shorter cuts that targeted joints, with longer arcs that sliced through multiple enemies at once. In the heat of combat, the candle-flames she'd seen in her vision turned into diagrams in her mind—showing her exactly how much heat to compress to cut bone, how much to melt weapons, when to let Fire intent carry the edge and when to let sword intent take the lead.
She learned how to cut demonic true essence itself.
Where her blade passed, foul energy parted like silk, unable to cling to her or those behind her.
Every day, Qin Xingxuan stood between innocence and slaughter.
She took hits—small ones. A grazing blow here, a shockwave there. Bruised ribs. Numb arms. A few lines of blood across the forearm or shoulder.
None of it shook her heart.
Her lantern flame merged more deeply with her breath, spreading from her chest into her limbs. She learned how to use the villagers' fear—not as a burden, but as tinder. The more desperately they prayed behind her, the brighter her flame burned, not out of arrogance but out of responsibility.
Her spear, once a simple tool, began to feel like an extension of that quiet, unyielding fire.
Na Yi and Na Shui were not idle.
They fought on the edges of every battlefield, intercepting demonic cultivators who tried to flee or circle around to strike the villagers from behind. They met enemies a realm higher than the Heavenly Abode girls—late Pulse Condensation, sometimes even early Houtian—and broke them with a mix of refined circulation, Fire Intent, and dragon-seed-boosted recovery.
Na Yi's sword intent entwined with Fire Laws, each strike leaving faint red-gold seams in the air. Foul true essence that tried to cross those seams sputtered and dissipated, as if cut off from its own source.
Na Shui's palms and blade swings rode waves of boosted true essence; her inner governor—Ren's modification to Heretical God Force—captured each surge and spun it through refining mills inside her body. Every clash with an enemy became a hammer blow for her bones, a tempering fire for her meridians.
Sometimes their opponents looked at the trio from the Heavenly Abode and assumed Na Yi and Na Shui were the true dangers.
By the time they realized all five women were equally terrifying, they were already burning.
After each battle, Ren Ming gathered them on some cleaner patch of rock—under a cliff where the wind blew the worst smells away, beside a quiet tidal pool where the sky reflected in still water, atop a wind-scoured pillar overlooking the sea.
He would pour tea from his ring, the fragrance of the leaves washing away blood and smoke, and sit cross-legged.
Then he would speak.
"This attack," he'd say, tapping the shaft of Murong Zi's spear with a knuckle. "You let your heart charge ahead of your feet. Your Fire Laws responded, but your body lagged. If your opponent had been calm, they could have cut your meridians at the turn."
He'd reach out and shift her grip, just a little.
"Here," he'd say. "Spears aren't just for stabbing holes. Think of your fire as a rope, not a hammer. Wrap it. Pull. Don't just smash."
Murong Zi would grumble under her breath, then practice that exact motion a hundred times, sweat dripping down her nose as the sun dipped brighter or lower behind her.
To Bai Jingyun, his tone would be softer, but no less precise.
"You cut here," he'd say, drawing an invisible line through the air with his finger. "It was fine. But your flame's compression leaked at the edges. See this?"
He'd narrow the line, making it thinner, cleaner.
"You can let your sword intent carry the heat instead of forcing your true essence to do all the work. That way, your stamina stretches longer. Less wasted energy. More killing power."
Bai Jingyun would listen without a word, eyes following every movement. Afterward, whenever she thought no one was watching, she'd practice the line in the corner of their temporary camp, over and over, until she could cut the air without disturbing a single grain of sand at her feet.
Qin Xingxuan… he watched her longer before speaking.
"You held the line," he'd say. "Well enough that no one died behind you. That's already good. But there was a moment when the fear of losing the villagers made your flame tremble."
He would meet her eyes, gaze steady.
"Fire that worries about what it burns… flickers," he said quietly. "Trust yourself. If you've chosen to stand there, then stand. Doubt is heavier than any demonic fist."
Her fingers would slowly tighten around her spear shaft.
She'd bow her head, just a fraction, then lift it again, eyes clearer than before. The next battle, that moment of hesitation grew shorter. The one after that, shorter still.
Ren Ming never scolded.
He never sighed in frustration.
He spoke as if all of this—the blood, the danger, the refining—were as natural as breathing, as normal as sunrise and sunset. When they faltered, he didn't push them with anger; he pushed them with certainty, as if it were already decided they would walk far on the Dao as long as they kept moving their feet.
At night, under hastily erected barriers and flickering campfires, his tone softened further.
Murong Zi would flop down near him with a groan, tossing her spear aside as if it were made of lead.
"This is abuse," she'd complain, sprawling so close to the fire that sparks danced on her sleeves. "Guest Instructor, aren't you supposed to cherish your students? Not use us as meat shields."
Ren Ming laughed.
The sound was easy, relaxed—a warm ripple in the cold night.
"You seemed pretty happy skewering demons," he said. "If this is abuse, you're the most enthusiastic victim I've ever seen."
Murong Zi spluttered. "I—I was just… in the moment!"
"Mm." He raised an eyebrow. "Sure."
Her face turned red. After some grumbling, she'd inch a bit closer to the fire, then just a little closer to him, leaning her back against the same rock.
Bai Jingyun usually sat a little farther away, carefully cleaning her sword with a piece of cloth, the firelight flickering over her pale profile. She rarely joined the banter. But every time Ren's gaze drifted to her, she would meet his eyes for a heartbeat longer than politeness required before turning back to her blade.
Qin Xingxuan sat with her back to a rock, always facing the direction danger might come from—even inside Ren's barrier, even when his runes encircled them in an unbreakable ring.
When he handed her tea, she accepted it with a quiet "Thank you," fingers brushing his for a fleeting moment. Her shoulders, tense from the day's slaughter, would loosen just a fraction.
Na Yi and Na Shui, who had long since settled into his orbit, were less restrained.
They leaned against him when they were tired. They stole sips from his cup without asking. Na Shui would comment loudly on Murong Zi's dramatic groans; Na Yi would tilt her head and calmly dissect Murong Zi's footwork in the last battle until the girl threw a small pebble at her in protest.
Ren Ming's smile never faded.
He listened, responded, teased back with a casual ease. No "young miss," no stiff courtesy forms—just simple, direct words that felt strangely fresh in a world built on rigid etiquette.
At first, the Heavenly Abode girls found his way of speaking jarring.
Then, they realized that every casual joke, every warm tease, was framed by an unshakable confidence—by a sense that no matter what came at them next, he would simply meet it and step over it.
The days stacked.
Blood. Flame. Laughter. Guidance.
Their Fire changed.
By the end of the seventh day, even the waves near their camps seemed to carry a faint red-gold tint whenever they walked along the shore, as if the sea itself remembered their flames.
…
On the morning of the eighth day, the sky dawned clear.
Ren Ming stood alone on a high cliff, overlooking the glittering expanse of the South Sea. Below, waves smashed themselves against black rocks, sending up curtains of spray that caught the rising sun, turning to shards of crimson and gold.
Fire Laws hummed faintly around him, invisible lines etched between heaven and earth.
His Ancient Ming bloodline had already mapped the region's demonic presence. Threads of dark aura glowed in his senses—thin lines marking minor outposts already culled, thicker knots marking those that still remained.
Most of the weaker nests had been wiped out.
One, however, remained.
One with a weight to it, an anchor of killing intent tempered by years of slaughter.
Ren Ming smiled, eyes half-lidded.
"Middle Houtian, solid demonic foundation, decent killing intent," he murmured. "Mm. A satisfactory stepping stone."
Footsteps approached from behind.
"Guest Instructor."
Qin Xingxuan's voice was calm, but the slight tightness beneath it did not escape his ears.
He turned.
Murong Zi, Bai Jingyun, Qin Xingxuan, Na Yi, and Na Shui stood together, sea wind tugging at their robes, the scent of salt and smoke caught in their hair.
Their auras had changed.
Murong Zi's true essence burned hotter now, but it no longer leaked in all directions. The red-gold ring around her body hugged close, tight and disciplined, spears of flame forming and extinguishing in rhythm with her breath.
Bai Jingyun's presence felt like a sheathed sword—no obvious pressure, but anyone with a sensitive soul would feel the faint sword mark her Fire Intent had carved into the world around her, like a line drawn across the sky that refused to fade.
Qin Xingxuan's aura was the quietest. No surging heat, no flaring power. Yet the Fire element in the air gathered around her without fanfare, as if accepting her as a natural hearth. Even the sea breeze that touched her seemed a little warmer.
Ren Ming's smile softened.
"You've all done well," he said. "Better than most so-called 'geniuses' I've seen."
Murong Zi snorted, but pride shone openly in her eyes.
"Of course," she said. "We're your people, aren't we?"
Bai Jingyun coughed lightly, gaze lowering, hiding the faint blush at the tips of her ears.
Qin Xingxuan's ears turned a soft pink, but she did not look away.
Na Yi's lips curved. "Since you're praising us this early in the day," she said, "it must mean you're about to throw us into something dangerous."
Na Shui shivered dramatically. "Again," she added.
Ren Ming laughed.
"You know me too well," he said.
He lifted a hand and pointed out toward the sea.
Far away, an island jutted from the waves—a jagged black stone, its cliffs rising sheer from the water like broken teeth. Faint, ominous light crawled along its surface, like blood seeping through rock.
From its center, a pillar of baleful qi curled into the sky, staining the clouds a dirty crimson.
"That," Ren Ming said, "is one of Blood Sand Hall's better outposts. Their local branch master is in middle Houtian. He's been using mortals as blood sacrifices for some time."
Murong Zi's expression darkened instantly.
"So we kill him," she said. There was no hesitation, only a sharp, focused killing intent.
Ren Ming nodded.
"But this time," he continued, his gaze growing serious, "I won't let you spread the burden around."
His eyes moved to the three Heavenly Abode girls.
"Murong Zi. Bai Jingyun. Qin Xingxuan," he said. "The middle Houtian demonic cultivator is yours."
Na Shui blinked.
"Just them?" she blurted, glancing between her sisters-in-arms and the distant, ominous island.
Na Yi's brows rose slightly, then smoothed. Understanding flickered in her eyes. "…You plan to use him as their whetstone," she murmured.
Ren inclined his head.
"Your Fire Laws have reached the first level," he said to the three girls. "Your Fire Martial Intent has taken form. But both are still one step away from what this stage can truly offer."
He smiled slightly.
"Pressure is the best teacher. I'll block any outside interference. Na Yi, Na Shui—you'll guard the edges of the battlefield. But the main dish…"
His eyes glinted.
"…belongs to them."
Murong Zi's blood boiled.
"Good," she said, eyes burning brighter than the rising sun. "If we can't even kill one middle Houtian demon together, then what right do we have to stand beside you?"
Bai Jingyun drew a quiet breath, fingers brushing the hilt of her sword.
"…I wish to test my sword," she said simply.
Qin Xingxuan hesitated for one heartbeat.
Only one.
Then she bowed.
"I'm afraid," she admitted, voice low but steady. "…But I don't want to stand still."
Her gaze lifted, meeting his.
Ren Ming's smile deepened, warmth and pride mingling in his eyes.
"Then let's go," he said lightly. "Time to knock on their door."
Behind him, a red-gold rune-wheel turned, lines of Fire Law and chaos paths interlocking.
Space twisted.
Heat, salt, and the roar of waves rearranged themselves in an instant; the cliff under their feet vanished like a dream.
In the blink of an eye, the high cliff where they had stood was gone.
They reappeared on the edge of the black-stone island.