Boar Son had long since stopped counting the years, though the sect records still marked his seclusion at 300. Seasons passed beyond the stone walls of his courtyard, storms rose and faded, disciples came and went, and the world continued its endless motion without his involvement. He sat beneath a quiet tree, a cup of untouched tea resting at his side, his sword laid across his lap as if it too had grown accustomed to stillness. To Boar, cultivation was not a race or a struggle. It was simply a way to remain, to watch, and to ensure that no story ended before he was ready to see it through.
However, fate had other plans. It did not arrive with thunder or warning, nor did it disturb the wind or stir the leaves around him. Instead, it descended a theif in the night, pressing into the minds of every cultivator across the Tharn Realm at once. Words not spoken, yet fully understood, etched themselves into thought and soul alike, carrying a pressure that could not be ignored. Boar's eyes opened for the first time in years, not out of urgency, but curiosity, as the message settled within him like a page turning in a story he had not yet read.
In 100 years, 3,000 cultivators would be chosen to enter the Gaia Realm and cultivate for another 100 years. To be considered, one must reach Transcendent level and possess a Planet level artifact. No source was given, no explanation offered, and no refusal permitted. The decree lingered, heavy and absolute, before fading as if it had never been there. Beyond the courtyard walls, the world began to shift, quiet tension giving way to restless ambition, as if something vast had just cast its shadow over everything that lived.
In the 3 years that followed, the Tharn Realm forgot what peace felt like. Sects that once closed their gates opened them only to hunt, alliances formed overnight and shattered just as quickly, and every whisper of opportunity turned into bloodshed before the day was over. Cultivators who had spent lifetimes in seclusion emerged with sharpened intent, no longer content to watch the world pass them by. The path to Transcendence became crowded, and those who could not keep up were trampled beneath it, their fates decided by those who believed themselves closer to the decree's favor.
Artifacts became the true currency of this new era. Ruins were stripped bare, ancient grounds defiled, and entire bloodlines erased over rumors of Planet level treasures. Cities that once thrived under order turned into markets of betrayal, where trust held no value and strength muddied truth. Techniques once hidden were revealed, forbidden arts resurfaced, and cultivation itself grew unstable as desperation pushed people beyond their limits. Across the realm, the strong rose faster than ever before, but so too did they fall, consumed by the very power they sought to control.
Through it all, the Norse Sect remained unchanged. Its gates stayed open, its disciples trained as they always had, and its elders upheld the same quiet principles that had defined them for generations. They did not chase the decree, nor did they interfere with the chaos beyond their borders. For a time, this sincerity protected them. But in a world where restraint was mistaken for weakness, it was only a matter of time before eyes turned toward the one place that had not yet been consumed by the storm.
Word spread quickly across the Central Continent of a place untouched by the madness, a quiet stretch of land where the decree had failed to stir ambition or fear. A sect stood there, unchanged and unmoved, as if the world beyond its mountains no longer concerned it. No renowned figures had risen from its halls, no alliances tied it to the great powers, and no influence extended from its name. To most, it was nothing more than a footnote in the vast landscape of cultivation. But to those who thrived in chaos, such stillness was not admirable. It was suspicious, and more importantly, exploitable.
Rumors soon followed, growing sharper with each telling. Beyond the sect's gates lay mountains that had never been fully explored, and within them, the ruins of an ancient city long forgotten by time. If the stories were true, then treasures of unimaginable value remained buried beneath stone and silence, wasted on cultivators who lacked the will to claim them. The idea spread like fire, twisted by greed into certainty, until it was no longer a question of truth but opportunity. Voices rose in quiet agreement across factions and rogue groups alike, each arriving at the same conclusion without needing to speak it aloud.
Such a place could not be left in the hands of the unambitious.
And so, beneath the surface of that growing rumor, darker intentions took shape. Plans were drawn in secrecy, movements coordinated in shadows, and the Norse Sect, for the first time in its history, became the center of attention it had never sought. What began as whispers soon hardened into resolve, as those who chased power turned their gaze toward the mountains, seeing not a peaceful refuge, but a prize waiting to be taken.
Over time, Norse disciples began to vanish. It started with a few missed returns from routine missions, then turned into a pattern no one could ignore. Within the sect, Soul Flame Lotuses flickered out one after another, each extinguished flame marking a life that would not return. Trespassers grew bolder, testing the boundaries of the mountains, probing defenses, and clashing with patrols as if daring the sect to respond. Norse endured, choosing restraint over retaliation, holding to its principles even as pressure mounted. But restraint, in a world that had lost its balance, was mistaken for weakness.
The line was crossed quietly, without spectacle or warning. On the 7th day of spring, Kai Son was captured beyond the outer ridges and taken by an unknown group of cultivators. By the time word reached the sect, his Soul Flame Lotus had already gone dark. He was the direct disciple of the Sect Leader, a talent carefully nurtured and deeply valued. Yet even that did not measure the true weight of his death. Kai was also the grandnephew of Boar Son, a connection few outside the inner circle even knew existed.
Far beyond the Tharn Realm, within the storm-wrapped expanse of the Lei Domain, Boar sat in stillness as he had for years, unmoved by the chaos consuming his home. Lightning coiled and fell around him, feeding his cultivation as time passed without meaning. Then, without warning, something within him fractured. A thread tied to his bloodline snapped, sharp and absolute, echoing through his heart with a clarity no distance could dull. His eyes opened, not with confusion, but certainty. Without hesitation, he rose and stepped from the storm, already turning his path back toward the Norse Sect.
A thick fog descended without warning, rolling down from the mountains and swallowing the Norse Region whole. It spread with unnatural speed, blanketing valleys, ridges, and every path that led in or out of the sect. Those who stood outside its reach felt the shift in the air, a pressure that settled deep in their bones to the marrow. Within the fog, every cultivator who did not belong to Norse suddenly felt a burning sensation rise from within their bodies, as if lightning had been poured into their veins. It was not an attack they could block or deflect. It came from the inside, relentless and absolute.
Screams tore through the mountains, sharp and unending, echoing beyond the fog and reaching even those untouched by its power. Norse disciples stood frozen, not from fear of harm, but from the sheer agony of those cries. They knew those voices belonged to the invaders, yet the sound of such suffering pressed heavily against their hearts. Then, through the suffocating mist, a bolt of lightning fell, striking a single point with blinding precision. Every disciple knew that place without needing to be told. It was where Kai Son had fallen.
From the southern courtyard, a voice broke through the tension, raw and desperate. "Uncle… my son… they killed my son." It was the Master of Thor's Peak, her composure shattered, her grief laid bare for all to hear. She did not need to ask for vengeance. The moment had already answered her. High above, unseen within the storm he carried with him, Boar Son stood at the center of it all. In the three years within the Lei Domain, he had mastered the Lei Punishment Formation, and now its power blanketed the entire region, separating ally from intruder with absolute clarity.
A second layer formed in silence, settling gently over the sect itself, shielding every Norse disciple from what came next. Then his voice descended, calm and unmoved, reaching only the Sect Leader. "Hold the sect. Leave these vultures to me."