Lin Lin stood a few paces away, silently watching the scene unfold. Her chest tightened with an emotion she couldn’t name. Just days ago, these two were practically at each other’s throats—cold glares, biting words, and violent tension. And yet now… Bai Qi clung to Kent as if he were the last light in her world.
A gentle breeze blew across the courtyard. Lin Lin lowered her gaze. He has that effect… she thought. He burns through people’s walls with quiet flames.
She stepped forward finally, voice soft but firm.
“Kent… if you truly wish to avoid the Hua family’s eyes for a while, stay near Poison Cloud Mountain. It’s close to the academy, and under Elder Ghosthand’s influence. Even the Hua elders won’t dare act recklessly there.”
Kent turned to her, eyes gleaming with gratitude. “I understand. Thank you, Lin Lin… for everything.”
Their eyes met, and for a brief heartbeat, there was an unspoken warmth exchanged between them—neither romantic nor platonic, but something more intimate… a deep trust formed in battle and forged through care.
Then, without another word, Kent turned and walked toward the descending steps that led out of the estate.
At the edge of the courtyard, leaning quietly against a pillar, stood Yun Rou.
She hadn’t said much. She rarely did. But today, her gaze followed Kent’s retreating figure with something more than curiosity. Her heart—so often kept guarded—felt heavy.
Why does he always walk alone, even after touching so many hearts?
As Kent’s figure disappeared beyond the estate wall, Yun Rou sighed softly, pressing her hand to her chest as if trying to still its flutter.
And in the fading sunlight, Lin Lin, Bai Qi, and Yun Rou—each in their own way—stood in silence, bound together by the strange and powerful gravity of one man’s path.
The mountain winds howled as Kent’s figure ascended the steep slope of Poison Peak, the sky above cast in a hue of deep green, swirled by drifting clouds of toxic miasma. The narrow trail wound past deadly spirit plants, venomous flowers, and serpents slithering between cracked rocks—all untouched by Kent, whose aura carried a silent authority now.
The Poison Peak, once shunned by many disciples for its corrosive aura, had slowly turned into Kent’s second home.
As he reached the summit, a thin stream of violet smoke spiraled from a small wooden cottage wrapped in poisonous ivy. There, standing beside a bubbling cauldron, was a man dressed in simple gray robes embroidered with dark emerald runes—Kent’s master, the reclusive but terrifyingly knowledgeable Elder Ghosthand.
The old man didn’t turn as Kent stepped forward.
“You’re back,” Ghosthand rasped, stirring the liquid with a bone ladle. “I smelled the Night Mist’s breath in the wind. You brought me something, didn’t you?”
Kent smiled lightly and held out a sealed crystal vial.
The elder turned, his one good eye blinking slowly as he took the vial and uncorked it. A faint hiss escaped, and the air shimmered with dark mist. Inside the vial, five glistening venom beads pulsed like living gems—each one a purified core of poison from a Night Mist Cobra, known to melt bones and dissolve divine barriers.
Ghosthand’s lips parted in awe.
“These are… pure,” he muttered, lifting one bead with trembling fingers. “Uncontaminated… condensed to perfection. Even I haven’t seen Night Mist Beads of this quality in decades. This would fetch tens of thousands of pearls in black auctions!”
Kent’s voice was calm. “I received them freely.”
Ghosthand snapped his gaze to Kent. “Freely? From whom? A fool?”
Kent chuckled. “No fool. An elder inside the Pill King Balcony. I believe he sensed something during the gathering… perhaps my spirit. He handed them over without asking for anything.”
Ghosthand narrowed his eyes but nodded. “Then you’ve caught the attention of powers we can’t see. Be careful with such gifts. They often carry invisible debts.”
The old man paused, placing the vial down on a jade rack, before his expression grew more serious.
“I’ve also watched the jade slips.”
Kent’s brow arched.
“The bow, Kent. You wielded it like a beast born from the storm. You were reckless. And brilliant. But also… exposed.”
Kent didn’t deny it. “I needed to protect them. The Hua family crossed the line.”
“And now they won’t stop,” Ghosthand warned. “You’ve made a storm in a stagnant sky. Nobles, families, sects… even ancient groups are watching you. Some in admiration, others in greed. A bow cultivator is a novelty. A bowmaster who can dominate? That’s a threat.”
Kent remained quiet.
Ghosthand exhaled. “Bow manuals are rare in this world. Almost extinct. But I’ll search… dig into the shadowed collections. Even if I must use my old name, I’ll find something that suits your path.”
Kent’s heart stirred. “Thank you, Master.”
“Don’t thank me,” Ghosthand waved him off. “You’ve walked a path I abandoned long ago. But remember this—every time you draw that bow, you’re drawing the gaze of this realm. And not all gazes are kind.”
Kent nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting the poison clouds swirling over the peak. “Then I’ll draw it with intent. If they watch, let them learn.”
A silence passed between master and disciple, heavy with shared respect.
Finally, Ghosthand turned back to his cauldron. “Go. Rest, cultivate, and stay vigilant. I’ll call for you when I have something.”
Kent bowed respectfully and turned to leave.
As he descended the slope, the clouds parted just slightly, revealing a shard of sunlight piercing the toxic skies—a brief but powerful omen.
—-
Combat Peak…
High above the majestic Royal Academy, atop a cliff wrapped in storm clouds and lightning veins, stood one of the most formidable places in the entire capital—Combat Peak.
At the very top, inside a dark and massive hall built of obsidian and dragon bone, sat Peak Master Lei Zhen, one of the legendary figures of the empire—a man whose sword, once said to shake entire battlefields.
He sat cross-legged on a throne carved from a single piece of thunderwood, his long gray hair tied back in a warrior’s knot, muscles rippling beneath his black robe stitched with storm runes. His eyes, sharp like blades, were currently fixated on a glowing jade slip suspended mid-air.
The slip was displaying a live projection—a visual relay captured through enchanted recording jade. In it, a lone youth stood atop a golden chariot, bow drawn in a horizontal stance, eyes steady, heart calm.
Then came the rain of arrows.
All from one youth.
One bow.
One man.
Kent.
“Unbelievable…” the Peak Master muttered under his breath, narrowing his eyes.
He watched as Kent, unfazed, held back dozens of elite disciples, occasionally flinging a thunder mace or spinning a chakra disk to counter heavy attacks. Not once did he flinch. His hands moved with the grace of a seasoned warrior and the determination of a commander. This wasn’t luck. This was battle instinct.
A wide smirk began to form on the old warrior’s lips.
“A bow…” he said, chuckling in his deep gravelly voice. Then his voice turned cold and commanding.
“Xuan’er!”
A shadow flickered beside the great doors of the hall, and a young man with silver robes knelt immediately. “Master?”
“Send word to the Inner Court. I want Kent, the one from the Poison Peak, brought to me immediately. Not tomorrow. Now. I don’t care if he’s cultivating, sleeping, or sitting on a cloud.”
“Yes, Peak Master!” Xuan’er bowed low.
“Also…” Lei Zhen stood up slowly, his imposing figure rising like a storm titan. “Make sure he comes with that bow. And send a silent escort. No one else should know until he reaches me. Not even the elders.”
“Understood.”
The servant vanished like mist in wind.
The Peak Master turned back to the hovering jade projection, which replayed the scene again—Kent stepping on a chariot of lightning, his arrows flashing like a constellation’s wrath.
“Royal Academy hasn’t seen a bow-user in decades…” Lei Zhen murmured with deep amusement. “They all think it’s a dead path. But this boy… he’s awakened a forgotten war art. And he’s not even serious yet.”
He laughed heartily, his voice shaking the windows.