Heavenly Demon Reign

The outer disciple training grounds, once quiet in the early morning mist, now buzzed with quiet murmurs and glances.

Lan Wu had returned.

His robes were plain, his steps careful, but all eyes turned to him. Not because he was loud. No. Lan Wu never was.

But because he had survived.

"That's him, right?" "The one who faced the Thunderhand Tiger?" "Impossible. He's only in First Awakening." "I heard the Grand Elder saved him…" "Why does she even care about someone like that?"

He heard them. He always did. Yet as usual, Lan Wu offered no retort, only a quiet bow when acknowledged, and a faint smile that made his already soft features all the gentler.

He tugged lightly at the sleeves of his robe, nerves fraying at the attention. Not because of their disbelief, but because he feared something deeper.

"I don't want them to think I'm special… I'm not."

So he did the only thing he knew:

He worked.

He trained. He volunteered to carry supplies. He swept the scroll hall, tended to the spirit lily gardens, helped cook alongside the kitchen disciples when they were short-handed.

When his juniors had trouble with their stance during the morning forms, he knelt and adjusted their feet with a smile.

When his seniors sparred, he watched, bowed to them, and asked questions — never out of arrogance, always with that eager light of learning in his eyes.

And even so, some still whispered.

"Is he faking humility?" "It's a ploy to gain more favor." "He's trying too hard. It's pathetic."

Lan Wu said nothing.

But Mei Lian noticed.

She always did.

The cold-eyed instructor stood atop the terraced cliff above the training grounds, robes fluttering in the breeze like silent banners, arms folded as she watched her student below.

"He still trains when no one tells him to… even when his body is weak," she murmured. "Foolish. Or determined."

She descended.

The next days brought intense, focused instruction.

"Your qi pool is growing slowly, but that is good," Mei Lian told him. "I do not want growth without root. Your foundation must be solid. You survived once… You may not be lucky again."

Lan Wu nodded deeply. "Yes, Instructor."

They began each day before sunrise, high in the Wind Slope Valley, where the winds never ceased and the paths were narrow. It was here that momentum and movement were everything. One mistake, and you'd be tossed down a rocky slope.

Mei Lian had chosen this place deliberately.

"The first step to controlling wind is to first let it lead you."

Here, she taught him advanced footwork, how to use balance and body weight to transition smoothly between offensive strikes and defensive positioning.

"Footwork is not dancing. It is the art of moving without resisting. You must guide the wind without fighting it."

She corrected his stance repeatedly, adjusted his center of gravity, made him leap between uneven rocks with eyes closed, and walk narrow trails with iron weights tied to his ankles.

Lan Wu fell. Many times.

He rolled, tumbled, and once even sprained his wrist. But he never stopped.

At night, even when told to rest, he sat beneath the torii tree near the valley base, slowly repeating his forms, gathering qi, his fingers glowing faintly as he mapped the wind's spiral across his skin.

Mei Lian watched from afar, again and again.

"Why do you still smile after all this?" she asked him once during a rest.

Lan Wu, sitting cross-legged and panting from exhaustion, only looked up and wiped his forehead.

"Because I'm still alive… and I still have more to learn."

She said nothing.

But something in her gaze softened.

Wind Training: Subtle Progress

Over the coming weeks, Lan Wu's control over his wind affinity became more refined.

He learned to sense the air pressure around his body — not just to form a blade, but to gently push or pull his movement.

His attacks, once clumsy, now had a flow — not powerful, but graceful.

A downward sword stroke that once ended rigid now flowed like a ribbon, allowing him to shift seamlessly into a rising parry. A movement honed not by might, but by timing and rhythm.

Mei Lian taught him to listen.

To meditate not in silence, but in the windsong.

"Let the wind dance for you, not just carry your blade," she whispered once, holding his hands, guiding his arms through a spiral that caught a leaf in mid-air and sliced it in half.

"Feel the push. The drag. The twist. The breath of the world."

In these moments, Lan Wu felt it:

The faint harmony between qi, spirit, and wind.

Not mastery.

But understanding.

His qi still couldn't be projected fully. His wind blades were small, weak compared to others with the same affinity.

But each step he took was his own.

And in the quiet solitude of the sect gardens, when the wind was gentle and no one watched, he smiled again.

He still tugged at his sleeves when people stared.

Still kept his head slightly bowed when seniors passed.

Still cleaned, cooked, and helped where he could.

But within…

The wind had started to carry his steps.

And something new stirred beneath the surface of his humble silence.

A growing strength.

A quiet storm.

In the vast, lightless stretch of Wuixe's soulscape, time lost meaning. There was no sky, no sun. Only cracked obsidian stone beneath his feet, and an abyss stretching outward in all directions.

The chains had long since become familiar.

They coiled around his arms, chest, and ankles—heavenly inscriptions glowing along them in pale gold, each symbol etched with divine force. They bound him to the jagged slab of land like a warning: You are not to move. You are not to rise.

And yet…

Wuixe sat upright, legs folded, arms relaxed—despite the bindings.

His fingers twitched subtly.

Again.

And again.

Ssshhk—krzzhh—crackkk—!

From his palms, flickers of violet lightning hissed into the air, dancing along his corrupted qi. At first unstable, then fizzling out. The spark died.

He frowned.

Pouted.

"Tsk. Not enough arc control."

He adjusted the angle of his inner circulation. Swirled the lightning in a spiral through his meridians—no, too fast. The qi broke into static. His body rattled with recoil even in the mindscape.

His eyes narrowed.

"Again."

And so he repeated the motion. Over. And over.

Thunder Qi was violent, naturally chaotic—destruction in motion. Corrupted Qi was devouring, unstable and mutative. To merge both—without a physical body to test in—was madness.

To Wuixe?

It was fun.

All around him, hazy afterimages of combat played like illusions—ghosts of imagined fights where he was the attacker, the defender, the dying, the slayer.

He moved through imaginary battlefields, striking down foes of his own design. Demon cultivators. Heavenly heralds. Shadow puppets. Clones of himself.

Each technique he conjured was tested. Named. Refined. Discarded if not satisfying.

Some he loved, like:

Thousand Pulse Ignition – a chain reaction of thunder surges that detonated within the opponent's qi flow.

Vein Shatter Drop – a downward spiral of wind-fused lightning that drilled through defenses.

Laughing Bolt Serpent – his attempt at sentient lightning, a technique that almost bit his own arm off in the simulation.

Each time something failed, he flinched, pouted, and tapped his chin.

"No, no. The serpent's tail is too wild. Back to the thread-weaving method…"

He muttered to himself like a child mumbling equations, voice soft, tone playful—but behind it all was the gleam of something ancient. Something wrong.

That glint in his eye: curiosity twisted into obsession.

Each success made him smile—wide, toothy, joyful.

Each failure made his brows furrow, fingers curl, lips twist.

He didn't scream. He didn't rage.

He analyzed.

Methodically.

Patiently.

Like a butcher carving perfection into bone.

The hardest task yet?

Combining Wind and Thunder.

On their own, they were volatile. Together?

A storm given form.

"Wind is motion… freedom. Thunder is power… rebellion. Both are swift. Both break rules."

He sat cross-legged as runes glowed in the air around him, sketched by thought and madness alone.

He imagined his opponent again—this time faster. Stronger. Wind-based.

He struck with a burst of wind from the left, following with a downward thunder arc—his body twisting, qi spiraling outward in a dance of death.

It failed.

The elements clashed. The wind dissipated, unable to hold the charge. Thunder snapped prematurely.

He growled.

Eyes narrowed.

His hand reached forward again… a child reaching for a toy just out of grasp.

"Maybe… if I hollow the wind spiral… wrap the lightning inside it… let it ride, not be carried."

He began spinning an internal rotation—his Wind Qi hollowed into a helix, then began injecting streaks of corrupted thunder Qi along the inside edge.

A twisted current.

It worked for two rotations.

Then exploded.

He coughed violently. Even in the soulscape, pain echoed.

And he smiled through the pain.

"Closer."

Far behind him, the Devouring Moon Beast, eternal and ancient, lay curled upon a crescent-shaped perch of obsidian.

Its mane shimmered like starlight, eyes half-lidded, watching the mad child before it.

"You are… exhausting to watch," it said, voice like wind passing through bones.

Wuixe didn't turn. Still working, still weaving. Still testing.

"You watched heaven fall, didn't you?" he asked without looking.

"I did."

"And the underworld scream?"

"That too."

"What are you?"

The beast lifted its head lazily.

"Something neither above nor below. A mistake perhaps. Or a reminder."

Wuixe laughed quietly.

"You speak in riddles."

"I answer in truth."

"That's not helpful."

"It is not meant to be."

Wuixe finally turned, eyes glowing with that same eerie childlike glow.

"One day, I'll learn your story."

"Perhaps."

"I've got time."

The Moon Beast huffed, laying its head back down.

"Madness. Pure madness. And curiosity—your only chain tighter than mine."

It closed its eyes.

And Wuixe went back to work.

The sparking rings of thunder danced again in his palm. The wind hollowed. His breathing slowed.

He would name this one:

Storm Coil: Second Breath.

The first technique of his own design.

Not yet perfect.

But oh, how sweet the madness of discovery.