Inside the vast halls of Combat Peak, where warriors trained under lightning and roared their names into history, Kent stood before one of the most formidable beings he had yet encountered—Master Lei Zhen, the Peak Master himself.
The air inside the grand chamber crackled faintly with dormant lightning. Even the stone tiles beneath Kent’s boots felt subtly warm, as if carrying the breath of battle spirits from centuries past. At the far end of the hall, on a raised platform carved in dragonbone relief, sat Lei Zhen, wrapped in dark robes lined with thunder-silk, his presence radiating silent, heavy authority.
An Early Heavenly immortal Wizard.
A realm higher than Kent’s own—a gap so vast that it was no exaggeration to say that Lei Zhen could crush a hundred Kents with a single breath if he willed it.
The old master’s sharp eyes bore into Kent as he raised a hand slowly. “Show me the bow.”
Kent didn’t hesitate. He reached into his spatial ring and pulled out a weapon many had begun to whisper about. The black and gold Dragon-Lion Bow, its frame gleaming with faint lightning engravings and tensioned with a string of spirit beast sinew.
Lei Zhen stepped down from the throne-like platform, each step echoing like a thunderclap.
He took the bow into his hands and studied it. “Hmm… This is no apex weapon… just a Dwarf Elderly-rank creation. Refined, but far too ordinary for the strength you displayed.”
Kent only smiled, calm and composed. “Then, perhaps, the magic lies not in the bow… but in my hands, Peak Master.”
Lei Zhen chuckled lightly, amused. “A bold tongue for a young cultivator.”
Kent then took out his golden quiver, the one gifted by the storm god. As he held it out, a soft glow radiated from within.
“It’s special,” Kent said. “This Heaven’s Nest Quiver produces arrows endlessly. Not particularly high-rank, but very… convenient.”
Lei Zhen raised a brow, genuinely impressed. “Endless arrows? Such a treasure is rare even among Peak Disciples. Still… low in grade.” He handed it back. “There’s potential here. Much potential.”
“I searched through entire markets,” Kent said with a sigh. “There are no bows for sale. Not even in the Pill King Market. No one uses bows anymore. Also the rare ones are too expensive.”
Silence lingered. Lei Zhen’s amused expression faded into seriousness. His eyes turned sharp, reading Kent like a scroll.
“You display skills that would take decades to master. Where did you learn such bow techniques? That horizontal draw, the foot anchoring, the delayed release timing—those are legacy moves only written in dust-covered war scrolls!”
Kent met his gaze squarely. “I’m self-taught,” he replied. “I come from a… remote corner of the realm. No formal master.”
A long silence.
Lei Zhen’s eyes narrowed. He knew Kent was hiding something. But the old warrior didn’t press.
“You practiced sword first, didn’t you?” he asked suddenly. “Why? You have a bow-user’s instincts, not a swordsman’s.”
Kent lowered his gaze slightly. “The sword… is a family legacy technique. Something I must master to honor my bloodline.”
“I see.” Lei Zhen’s voice softened for the first time. “Duty. It shapes many of us.”
Then, without warning, Lei Zhen stepped forward, his presence bearing down like a mountain storm.
“I know someone,” he said, voice rumbling with intensity. “A true Bow Master. He lives beyond the capital. A hermit. Old. Crazed, even. But if you truly wish to become a War God with a bow, he’s your path.”
Kent’s brows lifted slightly. “What must I do?”
“I will not offer this without price.” Lei Zhen turned, walking slowly toward the far window overlooking the vast capital. “In 1 year’s time, the Golden Heir Tournament will be held. The victors of that tournament gain access to forbidden ruins, sacred lands, and treasure grounds. Every nation sends its finest youth…”
“The Kulu Nation has never won.”
Kent’s eyes darkened.
“I want you to win it,” Lei Zhen said, turning back with steel in his voice. “In return, I’ll introduce you to the old Bow Master. And—if you succeed—I will grant you Combat Peak’s honorary disciple badge.”
A silence settled between them like snow.
The weight of the offer was immense. The Golden Heir Tournament was no child’s game—it was a blood-soaked battlefield of prodigies, where even death was a possibility.
Kent bowed slightly, thoughtful. “I’ll consider it.”
“I’m not asking you to answer now,” Lei Zhen said. “But be swift. Time is always shorter than it seems.”
Kent turned to leave, his back straight, his footsteps echoing.
Just before he crossed the exit, Lei Zhen’s voice called out once more. “Kent.”
“Yes, Peak Master?”
“That sword legacy you spoke of… hold onto it. But remember—the bow may be what makes you a legend.”
Kent smiled faintly. “I plan to be both.”
And then, the doors shut behind him.
Outside, clouds churned gently above Combat Peak.
Inside, a storm was brewing in the heart of a Peak Master who had just discovered a flame worth fanning—one that could very well change the fate of the Kulu Nation forever.
–
Forbidden Mountain Nation — a land wrapped in eternal dusk, veiled by sinister mists and riddled with ghostly silence. It was here, deep within the gnarled roots of the mountains, that the infamous Dark Night Assassin Group made their lair — a cursed fortress where contracts were sealed with blood and fate was bought in silence.
Tonight, the fog parted as an honored guest approached under the cover of darkness.
The Hua Family Patriarch, draped in dark purple robes with silver serpents coiled around his sleeves, stood before a round obsidian table, his face grim and eyes filled with vengeful malice.
He placed a jade plate on the table.
On it: Kent’s face, captured by surveillance stones during the bow massacre. A calm yet sharp-eyed youth, whose presence now haunted every member of the Hua family.
Beside it, he placed a pouch sealed with crimson talismans.
A servant in the shadows stepped forward to inspect.
“One hundred thousand mana pearls, pure refined.” the servant murmured.
A ripple of whispers spread through the dark corners of the hall.
Suddenly, from behind a curtain of shadow, a lean figure emerged — face half-covered by a fox-shaped mask. His voice was low, emotionless.
“E-Grade Bounty. Target: Kent. Age, unknown. Weapon: bow. Status: active threat to a major noble family.”
With a flick of his wrist, the masked figure activated a black jade medallion, sending out a silent pulse across the assassin network. Within moments, every active member of the Dark Night Group received the message.
A target had been marked.
And Kent’s name had been written into the kill list of the most notorious shadows beneath heaven.
–
Meanwhile, under the golden lanterns of the Royal Library, Kent moved silently between towering shelves, his hands running along ancient scrolls and beast cultivation manuals bound in dragon hide and phoenix silk.
A librarian passed by, nodding respectfully. Kent had already become a minor legend within the academy after the Hua Family bow massacre. Even the book spirits inside the library buzzed with excitement as he entered.
Behind him trailed a little ball of emerald-scaled fluff — Sparky, the Thunder Flame Dragon Cub.
But something was wrong.
Since arriving in the Immortal World, Sparky’s cultivation had stagnated. He, who once devoured lightning and danced through storms, now barely summoned a flicker of thunder breath.
Kent stopped before a forbidden row of bestial scrolls marked “Draconic Heritage & Abyssal Bloodlines”. He pulled one out — its title glowing faintly.
“Heavenly Path for Mixed-Blood Dragons: Nine Revolutions Flame-Scale Method.”
He opened it.
Words filled the air like burning embers. The technique demanded rare herbs, consistent flame-tempering, and a bath in spirit magma. But it promised to reignite lost draconic bloodlines, especially those suffering from world transitions.
Kent glanced down. Sparky was pawing at the scroll.
“This one?” Kent smiled.
Sparky purred and lit up briefly, a flicker of violet flame sparkling on his horns.
Decision made.
As he rolled the scroll, Kent’s instincts tingled. Something had shifted.
Far in the distance — through layers of space and qi — a hunter had marked him.
He didn’t know yet that his picture was being passed between dagger-wielding phantoms.
But his gaze turned serious as he looked down at Sparky.
“We’ll train harder, you and I,” he whispered. “They want a hunter… I’ll become the storm.”
Kent moved towards the cultivation chambers of Royal Academy.
Tucked beneath layers of spirit-forged stone and engraved with intricate runes that shimmered like living veins, lay a secluded cultivation chamber—one rarely used, for it devoured spirit energy like a bottomless abyss.
Kent stepped through its circular gate, the heavy iron doors closing behind him with a resounding boom that echoed like a war drum.
By his side, Sparky, his Thunder Flame Dragon, had shrunk down into a sleek, house-sized form—scales flickering with dormant lightning. The little dragon let out a low growl of dissatisfaction, as if he, too, felt the weight of stagnation.
The room was round, with faint symbols on every wall—sigils of lightning, flame, storm, and arcane might. It was a place built for breakthroughs.
Kent stood still for a long breath, then raised his hand.
“Come forth.”
With that, he summoned every mana pearl he had collected—hundreds of shimmering, radiant stones of various hues and purity—a glittering avalanche of power poured from his storage ring and piled before him like a sacred offering.
The air itself buzzed.
Sparky circled the edge of the chamber, sniffing the pearls and letting out a pleased snort of static. But he remained silent, sensing his master’s serious aura.
Kent seated himself at the center, legs crossed, back straight, and eyes closed.