*Imperial Capital – Night of the Black Dragon*
The first guard died with a finger-sized hole frozen between his eyes.
Liu Yuanhao’s frost-flame finger still smoked.
The wall fell.
Gates yawned.
Black Dragon banners poured in like ink.
Inside the palace, torches painted gold walls red.
Luo Mingsang ran barefoot across marble, silk hem soaked in someone else’s blood.
Behind her, a Body Storage captain knelt.
“Lady, Dragon Gate—now!”
She didn’t argue.
One hundred veterans formed a square around the garden portal.
“Gate stays ours,” their captain said.
“Dead men don’t lose gates.”
Luo Mingsang’s last sight: three Heaven Locks drawing swords under lantern light.
Then the portal swallowed her.
…
*Imperial Garden – Last Stand*
One hundred vs ten thousand.
Black Dragon cultivators flooded the moonlit paths.
Two black-robed veterans—old enemies—unleashed dragon-scale auras.
Steel rang.
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Qi exploded.
Limbs flew.
Liu Yuanhao stepped over corpses, frost-flame curling like cigarette smoke.
“Still breathing?” he asked the pinned captain.
The captain spat blood and laughed.
“Glory’s heavier than your ice.”
Liu Yuanhao raised his hand.
Frost-fire roared.
…
*Wolong Ridge – Second Hell Gate*
Overlord stood beneath the ghost city’s walls.
The yin official tipped his cup.
One hundred drops of Grievous Water fell—each a dying man’s scream made liquid.
Seventy drops crushed Overlord to one knee, soul creaking.
He retreated, sweating.
A bleeding soldier crashed through the portal.
“My king—Imperial Capital burns!”
Black Dragon Guard One tried to flee.
Overlord’s fist arrived first.
One punch—crater, silence.
“Black. Dragon. Cult.”
The name left his lips like a death sentence.
He vanished west, earth cracking behind him.
Every spy in Wolong Ridge sent pigeons skyward.
War had a name now.
…
*Lake-Heart Island – Timeless Sea*
Lu played chess against himself.
Black stone—white stone—soul sparks.
Ni Yu and Ning Zhao knelt before the mini stele, foreheads shining with intent runes.
Little Yinglong floated belly-up, dreaming of the days before daily beatings.
The lotus bud drifted over.
Yinglong poked it—soft, unbreakable.
Clang.
First petal fell, ringing like a sword drawn across steel.
Yinglong flapped backward, claws up: Not me!
Clang. Clang.
Petal two, three, four…
Nine blades of gold light unfolded.
At the heart sat a boy in cyan lotus robes, legs crossed, eyes shut.
Lu laid down his final stone.
The boy’s eyes opened—curious, newborn, ancient.
Lu smiled from the tower.
“Nine petals, nine chimes.
Your name is Lu Jiulian.”
The boy tilted his head, repeated the sound like tasting new wine.
“Lu… Jiulian.”
His voice was Lu’s voice, but lighter—like wind chimes instead of thunder.
He stood on the blooming lotus.
Bare feet touched water; ripples turned to glass.
Little Yinglong hid behind Ni Yu.
Ni Yu whispered, “Young Master cloned himself… and made him prettier?”
Ning Zhao’s sword hand twitched—equal parts awe and wariness.
Lu wheeled to the edge.
“Same soul, different roads.
You will walk the realms I drew on paper.
Qi Condensation to Three Spirits—live them, break them, bring me the receipts.”
Lu Jiulian cupped fists, lotus sleeves rustling.
“Order received.”
He stepped off the lake.
The moment his sole left the lotus, the flower folded into a cyan sword sheath at his waist.
One step—grass.
Second step—sky.
By the third step he was a cyan streak vanishing beyond the horizon.
Little Yinglong peeked out.
“…Do I still get beaten tomorrow?”
Lu’s laugh drifted down like warm rain.
“Double.”
…
Far away, capitals burned, dragons roared, and a boy in lotus robes walked into the first flames of the new era—carrying Lu Fan’s curiosity in his pocket and a blank cultivation scroll in his heart.
The chessboard was set.
The spare player had entered the game.
