[Chapter 13]
The quiet days that followed Fan Long's disappearance left the entire Outer Sect in subtle unrest. Whispers passed like wind between corridors, cloaked in caution. No one wanted to say the name too loudly. Not out of respect, but fear. As though invoking it might summon whatever fate had taken him.
Castiel, meanwhile, spent most of his time in a quiet training chamber tucked near the mountain's edge. He had claimed it soon after the trial, away from the bustle of other disciples. The room overlooked the misty valley below, its walls carved from the mountain rock, aged with spiritual etchings that still glowed faintly.
Each morning began with focused meditation, syncing his breath with the pulse of his dantian. It was slow progress, but deliberate. He didn't rush—not because he couldn't, but because he wouldn't. The system in his mind offered temptations, instant shortcuts that dangled power like bait. But Castiel, ever the gamer, knew what early game traps looked like.
"System," he whispered one morning, still seated in lotus position, sweat dripping from his brow, "show me the long game."
[Notice: New Passive Skill Acquired: "Strategic Instinct (Lv.1)" - Your ability to assess situations improves the more you restrain from using brute force solutions.]
He smiled. That was more like it.
He stood and began practicing the Thunderstep Movement Technique again. It was a middle-grade technique, requiring strong leg coordination and precision Qi control. Every dash left faint crackles of thunder, and though he stumbled often, each misstep brought insight.
Outside, the sky turned darker.
A storm was coming—not of weather, but ambition.
Back within the inner sanctums of the Sect's Council Pavilion, Elder Jinlong paced slowly through the lantern-lit corridors. He stopped in front of an obsidian door etched with the emblems of the Twelve Founders. Without knocking, he entered.
The room inside was filled with dense incense and whispers—some spoken, others not. A figure cloaked in crimson stood near the center, speaking in a tongue even Jinlong struggled to decipher. Around them, five other elders sat in silence.
"Elder Jinlong," one of them said at last. "You've taken a liking to the boy."
Jinlong's eyes narrowed. "He has promise. And he's not reckless. That alone makes him a rarity."
"That promise comes with danger," another added. "The Heaven Vault Clan has already inquired about the trial records."
"Let them inquire," Jinlong said coolly. "We've long kept the Outer Sect stagnant. Maybe a tremor is what we need."
A pause.
Then the cloaked figure finally turned. Beneath the hood, her eyes glimmered with faint starlight. Elder Xuanyin.
"Keep your pet on a leash, Jinlong. The boy walks on fates too thin for even you to read."
Back at the training chamber, Castiel opened his eyes to a soft knock.
He turned, surprised to find Mei Lian standing by the entrance. Her long hair was tied back, and she carried a sealed scroll and a bag of what looked like spirit herbs.
"Thought you might be interested," she said, stepping in.
Castiel arched a brow. "Helping me? What's the price?"
"A spar. With stakes."
He grinned. "Now you're speaking my language."
She dropped the bag beside him. "Three days. Pavilion of Fallen Wind. Don't be late."
As she left, Castiel glanced at the sealed scroll. It bore the red wax sigil of the Inner Archives. Rare information. Likely bait. And he was hooked.
But he would wait.
There was something else pulling at his senses.
He stepped outside the chamber, eyes scanning the fog below. For a second, he thought he saw something move through the mist.
Something not human.
Across the valley, in a shadowed hall beneath the Sect's northern cliffs, a different scene unfolded. A man knelt, blindfolded, shirtless, his back marked with fresh lashings. Blood dripped quietly, pooling on the stone floor.
"You failed to retrieve the boy," a voice echoed from the darkness.
The man gritted his teeth. "He wasn't where you said."
"Excuses," the voice hissed.
A different figure approached, silent like a shadow. They held up a jade token.
"He has obtained an Echo Sigil."
The man lifted his head, trembling.
"That's... impossible."
"Nothing is impossible for one marked by the System," the voice replied. "Watch him. Do not touch. Not yet."
The bound man lowered his head again. Somewhere behind him, a serpent coiled around a steel pike, hissing softly as though laughing.
Three days passed quickly.
At the Pavilion of Fallen Wind, Castiel stood shirtless under the noon sun. His body bore faint scars now, not from battle, but self-training. His eyes were sharper. Less curious, more calculating.
Mei Lian arrived in silence. She wore silver robes this time, a sign of her newly acquired Inner Disciple status.
"Ready to lose?" she teased.
"Only if it gets me more scrolls," Castiel replied, stretching his arms.
They bowed.
And the battle begans.
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The wind howled through the dense forest of the Mountain Range, the trees swaying with an ominous rhythm as if the land itself sensed the brewing storm. Castiel stood still, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, his eyes locked on the unfolding scene before him. The battle, the test of wits and will, had reached a point where mere power was no longer enough.
It was no longer just about leveling up. No, it had become something deeper, something more dangerous.
The air was thick with tension.
"Is this all you have, Castiel?" Fan Long's mocking voice echoed through the clearing. The prideful disciple had barely recovered from the earlier confrontation, but his arrogance still bled through his every word. He stood across from Castiel, his sword drawn and energy pulsing with an undeniable aura of power.
It was the kind of pressure that would make most weak-hearted cultivators quail in fear, but not Castiel. His mind was already calculating his next move, his every action laced with caution.
"Come on," Fan Long goaded. "Are you going to keep hiding behind your tricks, or will you face me with your true strength?"
Castiel's fingers twitched, not in the way of someone preparing for a traditional fight, but in a way that suggested calculation, understanding his enemy in a deeper sense. Fan Long's arrogance wasn't just empty—he was strong, but his strength relied too heavily on his aggression and pride.
He was a blade with a dull edge.
The first move came, sudden and brutal—a strike aimed directly at Castiel's chest. It was fast, but not as fast as the tactical leap Castiel had already calculated in his mind. Instead of blocking it head-on, he sidestepped, causing the strike to miss by mere inches. His footwork was precise, his movements smooth, flowing like water.
Fan Long growled in frustration, swinging his blade again, but this time Castiel didn't wait. He lunged, his own weapon—a simple, unassuming blade—slashing through the air. A flash of silver light reflected in the moonlight.
There was no doubt Castiel had been holding back, but this was more than just about power. This was a test of adaptability, of understanding the deeper layers of combat that many didn't even know existed. The attack didn't hit Fan Long directly, but it created a series of spatial distortions, shifting the flow of energy in the surrounding area and causing Fan Long to momentarily lose his balance.
"Impressive," Fan Long admitted with a sneer, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. He had underestimated Castiel, but that mistake would cost him. Even now, Castiel had not truly revealed his full potential.
Fan Long rushed in again, unleashing a barrage of strikes, faster than before, with energy crackling at the edge of his blade. But Castiel remained calm. With each swing, Castiel's expression grew more focused, and his movements more fluid. He was learning, adapting, reading the pattern of the strikes, just like he did with every game back on Earth.
It wasn't just about brute strength—it was about the right timing, the correct angle, the perfect response.
As Fan Long's sword came down for the final blow, Castiel sidestepped again, but this time, he used the force of the swing against him. His own weapon flashed out with a lightning-quick motion, cutting through Fan Long's defenses and drawing a thin line of blood across his arm.
It was enough.
The moment of hesitation, of shock, was all Castiel needed. Before Fan Long could react, Castiel pressed the point of his sword to his opponent's throat, his voice cool and unwavering.
"Yield."
Fan Long's eyes blazed with fury, but his breath was ragged, and his body betrayed him. He had lost.
The silence that followed the battle was deafening. Castiel stood over his opponent, sword still drawn, but there was no malice in his eyes, only cold resolve. His breath was steady, his mind still sharp, but he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was amiss. Why was Fan Long so willing to rush into this fight?
The elders watching from the sidelines remained silent, their gazes sharp as knives, calculating every movement, every decision. Castiel's victory had been clean, but the weight of their scrutiny was palpable. He could feel the shadows of their eyes bearing down on him. They were watching him, perhaps more closely than they had ever watched a disciple before.