Autumn had come softly to the Amber Leaf Valley Sect.
The mountains did not blaze with red; they exhaled gold. Leaves the color of diluted amber drifted between cliffs like patient thoughts, settling upon tiled roofs and quiet courtyards. The valley floor lay cradled in mist, a pale river threading through it like silk drawn from a celestial loom. Bamboo groves whispered in the wind, their voices neither sad nor joyous—merely continuous.
High above, where the cliff's edge curved like the lip of a teacup, a young man lay on his back with one arm pillowing his head.
Li Youran.
He wore white robes trimmed faintly in purple, the cloth too fine for someone who had never drawn a strand of qi into his dantian. Sunlight caught in his dark hair and rested there as if reluctant to depart. His expression carried no ambition, no concealed storm—only an ease so natural it felt indecent in a world that sharpened its teeth daily.
Below him, disciples trained.
Steel rang. Breath heaved. Instructors barked.
A boy collapsed mid-stance, trembling. An elder's voice cracked like dry wood.
"Again!"
Li Youran turned his face slightly toward the sky.
The clouds moved without haste.
He approved.
The Amber Leaf Valley was not the strongest sect in the kingdom, but it was old. Its gates were carved from darkwood streaked with veins that resembled frozen lightning. Stone lions crouched at the entrance, their eyes polished smooth by centuries of passing ambition.
Within those walls, power was cultivated like rice—sown early, harvested ruthlessly.
Li Youran had sown nothing.
He was the son of Elder Li— a mid-stage Golden Core powerhouse, a pillar of the sect, a man whose presence could silence a hall with a glance. Disciples bowed to Youran not because of fear, but because of proximity to the elder fear.
He disliked bowing.
It interrupted his peace.
A breeze passed over the cliff and lifted the hem of his robe.
Footsteps approached—measured, hesitant, rehearsed.
He did not turn.
"Junior Brother Li."
The voice was warm honey poured over every word.
He sighed inwardly. Not in annoyance. In acknowledgment.
"Senior Sister," he replied, eyes still closed.
She stood behind him for a moment, studying the silhouette against the sky. Lin Meiyue—Outer Sects's brightest disciple and most precise smile. Her cultivation had reached late-stage Body Tempering at nineteen. Her prospects were promising, but prospects were not positions.
Core discipleship required more than talent.
It required leverage in places of power.
She stepped closer. "You are resting again."
"Mm."
"The morning assembly ended an hour ago."
"Yes."
A pause. The wind filled it kindly.
"Junior Brother," she said softly, "do you never feel… urgency?"
He opened one eye.
The valley below shimmered in gold and haze. A hawk circled in the distance, untroubled by the mortal quarrels beneath it.
"Urgency," he said, tasting the word like unfamiliar tea, "is a habit."
Her smile tightened. "The world beyond these mountains is not gentle. Even within the Weixuan Kingdom, demonic sects prowl. The royal ancestor is Nascent Soul true expert. Our strongest is merely a Golden Core peak. Power determines whether we are protected—or slaughtered."
"Slaughtered," he echoed. "By whom?"
"The strong."
He turned his head at last, looking at her fully.
His gaze was clear, almost mild.
"And who slaughters them?"
She hesitated.
"The stronger."
He nodded once, satisfied. "Then the matter seems endless and beyond me."
Lin Meiyue's fingers tightened around the object she carried wrapped in silk.
"This is precisely why you must cultivate."
He pushed himself up to sit, crossing his legs loosely.
"Must?"
Her composure wavered. She stepped forward and unwrapped the silk.
Purple light bled into the autumn air.
The weapon was a trident, its prongs slender and cruelly elegant, veins of darker violet running along its shaft like imprisoned lightning. Even dormant, it exuded pressure—not oppressive, but deadly.
"The Purple Devil Trident," she said. "An ancient relic recovered from a ruin beyond the eastern ridge. It resonates faintly with your aura."
He looked at it with mild curiosity, as one might regard a decorative fan.
"I do not possess an aura."
"You are the elder's son."
"Just like the eagles in the sky I am but a mortal flying through life."
She lowered her voice. "Junior Brother… everyone knows your birth was… unusual."
The wind stilled for a breath.
Youran's expression did not change.
"Do they?"
"They say you were meant for greatness. That you possess incredible talent."
Leaves drifted between them.
He studied her, not with suspicion, but with quiet interest.
"And what do you say?"
She met his gaze steadily now, ambition laid bare but not ugly. "I say a man born at the center of fate should not lie on a cliff while others bleed for a place beneath the sky."
He looked toward the valley again.
Below, a disciple screamed as his meridians strained under forced qi circulation.
The scream faded.
The wind resumed.
"Senior Sister," he said gently, "have you ever watched leaves fall?"
Her brows knit.
"They do not compete," he continued. "They do not calculate the wind. They fall when they fall."
"This is not falling!" she snapped before catching herself. "This is cultivation. This is survival."
He considered the trident now.
It pulsed faintly.
Something within him stirred—not power, not ambition.
Irritation.
He reached out casually and wrapped his hand around the shaft.
It did not move.
His fingers tightened slightly.
Still nothing.
The weapon remained embedded in earth and silence.
Lin Meiyue's eyes gleamed. "It requires qi to awaken."
He released it and dusted his palm lightly.
"So it does."
"You cannot wield it as a mortal."
He exhaled softly.
The sound was almost a laugh.
"How troublesome."
She blinked.
He stood.
Up close, the ease about him felt heavier than any killing intent. Not sharp, not cold—simply immovable.
He looked at the trident again.
"To swing a stick," he murmured, "one must first converse with the air."
"You must cultivate," she pressed.
He glanced at her.
"And if I do not?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Then one day, when the strong arrive, you will not even have the choice to rest."
Silence pooled between them.
Far below, a bell tolled—the noon signal.
Youran's gaze drifted across the valley, the golden leaves, the roofs layered like scales of some ancient hunted beast.
He felt no fear.
No urgency.
Only mild inconvenience.
"If the price of quiet," he said at last, "is effort… then I suppose I can afford a little."
Lin Meiyue's heart skipped.
"You will finally cultivate?"
He nodded once.
"Enough to use it."
She smiled—bright, victorious.
He looked at the sky again.
The clouds continued drifting, unconcerned.
"After all," he added lazily, "it would be impolite to accept a gift and leave it unused."
He stepped forward, lifted the Purple Devil Trident again—this time not with strength, but with faint intention.
For the briefest flicker—
Deep within his sealed dantian—
Something answered.
A tremor.
So small even heaven did not notice.
But the wind did.
And it shifted.
Youran rested the trident against his shoulder, as if carrying firewood.
"Senior Sister," he said lightly, beginning to walk back toward the sect grounds, "show me where one learns to converse with air."
Behind him, Lin Meiyue stared at the spot where he had stood.
The earth beneath the trident's former resting place had cracked—not outward, but inward.
As though the trident exuded its own gravity.
And yet the valley remained peaceful.