The ghostly glide of the carriage over the abyss was the only sound filling the cabin.
Mò Yán kept her eyes lowered, the cup of tea untouched between her trembling hands. The poison of Yù Qíng's words still burned in her mind, dissecting dogmas she had spent twenty‑five years building. Discipline maintains order, she had always told herself. It was what her father demanded. It was what the Central Pillar required.
But what had her sect's stagnant discipline achieved?
Her mind wandered to her grandfather, the only cultivator to have touched Condensation of the Void, who had abandoned the throne of Shattered Heaven because he judged that everyone there was climbing a dead sky. The clan called him mad. Mò Yán, however, had always known that he had been the only one to see the truth. They were merely parasites on ancient stones. And now, before her, stood the true heavens.
Mò Yán lifted her scarlet irises, unable to resist the magnetism pulling her toward the window. Zhì Yuǎn remained there, oblivious to her, his breathing slow, his profile sculpted in cosmic perfection. Just being in the same space as him made the deep Yin of her Refined Body pulse and heat, melting the modesty that had kept her untouched her entire life. Heat rose up her pale neck, dense and involuntary.
She felt no disgust, as she felt for the men of her clan. She felt hunger. A terrifying, submissive hunger.
Her grandfather had left to seek the Dao in the mortal world. Mò Yán realized, with a chill that prickled all her skin, that the Dao had just knocked on her door. And she, willingly, wanted to open it.
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The silence inside the Ruin of the Throne was heavy, a tapestry of ages woven in cold stone and oblivion.
Mò Tiān, the Sect Master of the Shattered Heaven Sect, paced before the walls embedded with veins of dead jade, whose dull light resembled drowned stars. His hands were clasped behind his back, his gray brows furrowed in deep concentration. Only a few days had passed since the ancient jade had resonated, shaking the mountain's foundations and sending his daughter, Mò Yán, accompanied by Hán Léi and the Great Elder, to investigate the anomaly on the borders of Misty Peak.
For a cultivator at the peak of the eighth stage, a few days were nothing, but the anxiety gnawing at the Sect Master's chest was unprecedented.
Space trembled, Mò Tiān thought, stopping to touch the cold grooves of the stone wall. If the anomaly that awakened in the north is a remnant of the Transcendents, a path to break the chains of this mountain… our sect will rule the world.
Outside, at the immense stone gates guarding the entrance to the Central Pillar, the atmosphere was considerably less grand.
Two disciples on guard struggled against the cutting wind of the altitude. The sea of gray clouds swirled beneath the last suspension bridge of iron chains, like a hungry ocean licking the edges of the mortal world.
One of the guards raised his head, squinting against the mist. The rhythmic sound of hooves striking old wood and the creak of heavy wheels echoed across the abyss.
The silhouette of a colossal armored carriage tore through the mist like a leviathan rising from the depths, pulled by four pure‑blood black horses. But it was not the vehicle that made the guards freeze. It was the driver's seat.
Sitting on the coachman's bench, holding the leather reins with hands that visibly trembled, was the Great Elder of the Shattered Heaven Sect. The most respected cultivator on the mountain was pale as wax, sweating cold under his lead‑gray tunic, playing the role of a mere transport servant.
And beside him, sprawled casually on the bench, was a young blonde woman. She wore a stunning golden silk dress stained with dry splatters of blood. Yawning with boredom, her demeanor and actions exuded an almost carnivorous instinct. She did not possess the polished, refined Qi of a traditional cultivator; the bestial, hyper‑dense aura she exuded distorted the very breeze—a predatory heat that made the guards' stomachs churn.
The old cultivator did not respond to the sentinels' shocked looks; he merely swallowed hard and led the horses through the open gates, stopping in the vast courtyard of black stone at the pillar's center.
The news spread like fire through dry grass. Within minutes, Mò Tiān marched through the corridors, followed by four elders, their robes fluttering with the haste of their strides.
When they reached the courtyard, the colossal carriage was already stopped. The Great Elder remained on the driver's seat, his shoulders hunched, his gaze averted. There was no sign of Hán Léi.
"Lín Wújiàn!" Mò Tiān's voice thundered across the courtyard, using the elder's name in pure authoritarian reprimand. "What is the meaning of this? Where is Disciple Hán Léi, and where is my daughter?!"
The Great Elder trembled, but before he could answer, the metallic click of the carriage's armored door echoed through the silent courtyard.
The heavy door of wood and steel opened.
Mò Tiān held his breath. But who stepped onto the carriage's veranda was his own daughter.
Mò Yán descended to the black stones. The silver‑gray tunic strained against her exaggeratedly voluptuous curves, her white hair falling perfectly aligned down her back like a cascade of pure snow. Her aristocratic face was pale, but her posture did not show dread or hysteria. On the contrary, there was in her a modesty and discipline bordering on fanatical devotion.
She did not run to her father. She did not perform the traditional Shattered Heaven salute.
Mò Yán turned sideways, positioning herself gracefully beside the carriage's steps, like the most polished and reverent of attendants. The restrained flower bent her torso into a rigorous, deep ninety‑degree bow, directed exclusively toward the darkness of the armored cabin. It was the perfect image of snow submitting to the abyss.
"Sect Master," Mò Yán's voice echoed across the courtyard. Her tone was unshakably formal, melodious, and strictly polished, without a single trace of hesitation. She lifted her deep scarlet irises to meet her own father's eyes, demanding obedience. "Lower your weapon and silence your Qi immediately. My Lords have arrived to claim the ancient foundations of our mountain. As hosts, I demand that Shattered Heaven render the most absolute reverence, so that your ignorance does not disturb my Lord's affairs."
The physical shock struck Mò Tiān like the blow of a red‑hot hammer. He stepped back, his mind refusing to process the scene. His daughter, the proud heir of the Central Pillar, the brightest mind of her generation, voluntarily positioning herself as a ceremonial servant to demand submission from her own clan?
"Yán'er… what are you saying?" Mò Tiān whispered, confusion rapidly giving way to volcanic fury. His eighth‑stage Qi exploded around his body, cracking the courtyard stones. "What kind of sorcery is this?! Who dares bewitch my daughter's mind to make her act like a maid in my own courtyard?!"
"It is no sorcery, Sect Master!" shouted the Great Elder from the driver's seat, tears of terror streaming down his face. "Bow down! Hán Léi is dead! Misty Peak was crushed! Just obey!"
"Coward!" Mò Tiān roared, drawing his longsword from his waist, the steel singing its thirst for blood. "No one subdues Shattered Heaven with tricks!"
A boot covered in dark leather touched the courtyard floor.
Zhì Yuǎn stepped out of the cabin. The black silk cloak fell heavily over his broad shoulders, drinking the sunlight like night itself. He exuded an absolute indifference to mortal politics and insults.
Mò Tiān was about to shout and charge, but he could not take the first step.
Zhì Yuǎn drew no weapons. He formed no hand seals. He simply existed there, and the raw density of primordial energy overflowed from his being. It was not a directional attack; the pure gravity of his Inner Universe collapsed onto the stone pillar like the firmament itself crashing down.
The air became solid. Mò Tiān's lungs emptied in a sharp wheeze. The tempered steel sword slipped from his hands, falling with a hollow clang. The four elders beside him crashed face‑down onto the ground instantly, unable to move a single muscle under that cosmic weight.
Mò Tiān resisted for one second more, until his knees gave way with a dry crack, forcing him to kneel before the carriage, his face contorted in agony. Only Mò Yán remained untouched. The ocean of oppressive pressure bypassed the white‑haired girl perfectly, leaving her frozen in her majestic ninety‑degree bow while her entire world was crushed around her.
Zhì Yuǎn did not look at the prostrated Sect Master. He did not look at the elders, manifesting only to observe the Dao, dissecting the spatial foundation hidden beneath the mountain. Completely ignoring the stagnant leaders on the ground, Zhì Yuǎn walked toward the corridors leading to the Ruin of the Throne.
Behind him, using the Floating Lotus Step technique, Yù Qíng floated out of the carriage. The central pillar of Shattered Heaven was not composed only of dead stone; ancient, twisted pines clung bravely to the edges of the abyss, and a thick carpet of emerald moss lined the cracks in the black rock. Her bare feet hovered millimeters above that cold, damp vegetation, gliding over the chaos like a goddess walking on still waters.
Yù Qíng stopped before Mò Yán, who still held her deep, unwavering bow beside the carriage. The devoted wife's black eyes swept over the young woman's impeccable posture, marveling at how the diplomat's dogmatic discipline had been dissected and rewritten during the long hours of travel.
The priestess raised her pale hand and touched Mò Yán's flawless cheek. The restrained flower shuddered under the cool temperature of the blue woman's fingers, her heart racing beneath the silver‑gray tunic. But there was no hesitation in her posture. It was not the paralyzing terror that gripped the fallen elders in the courtyard; there was in her the dense acceptance of a choice forged in the abyss of her own mind.
"Uprooting an ancient root from its native soil is an exhausting process, little flower," Yù Qíng murmured, her lips curving into a slow, satisfied smile.
In silence, Yù Qíng slid her fingers down to the young woman's perfectly sculpted chin. With a gentle, irresistibly dominant pressure, the priestess guided her upward. Mò Yán offered no resistance. Obeying the silent command, the diplomat straightened her torso, rising slowly until she stood face to face with the dark goddess, her scarlet irises lowered in absolute surrender.
"I observed your conflict and your silence throughout the entire journey," the priestess said, turning her face majestically for a second only to look at Sect Master Mò Tiān, who trembled on the ground on the moss and rock, crushed and humiliated, while his own daughter was tamed as a personal possession. Then her black eyes returned to the young woman held in her fingers.
"Your father and your sect prostrate themselves in the dust because the weight of my heaven crushes them. But obedience shaped by fear is sterile. You, on the other hand, digested the ruin of your own world and voluntarily chose to plant your soul in my garden. An impeccable foundation. And infinitely more useful."
Yù Qíng released Mò Yán's face with a final cold caress, stepping back with sovereign elegance.
"An impeccable foundation and infinitely more useful," the blue goddess concluded, appraising her entirely. "Now guide the way, little snow flower. Show us where your father keeps the sect's finest tea. We have a new world to organize while my husband devours the mysteries of your ancient stones."
"As the Lady commands," Mò Yán replied. Her voice flowed, unshakably formal and melodious, devoid of the tremor of terror that had broken her own father. She bowed once more, a contained movement that strained the silver silk over her full chest, and turned gracefully toward the great stone gates. "Shattered Heaven is now your garden. Please, follow this servant."
Mò Yán began walking toward the darkness of the corridors leading to the pillar's depths, her light, silent steps clearing the way for the calamity that now ruled her home.
Yù Qíng followed, gliding over the emerald moss with ethereal elegance.
A few steps away, leaning against the side of the armored carriage, Yù Méi rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her own brain.
The carnivorous, impatient mind of the Untouchable Petal could no longer bear the weight of those metaphors. She huffed loudly, pushing off from the carriage wood to follow the two.
"Roots, barren soil, gardens, and tea…" Yù Méi muttered, her heavy footsteps echoing on the black rock as she entered the millennial fortress. "I just hope her father keeps roast meat along with that tea. Because if I have to listen to another poem on an empty stomach, I'll start pulling this pillar's roots out by the fistful."
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