By dawn, the group was on the move again.
Mist clung low to the ground, thick as breath, whispering past the cliffs and shattered paths that led toward Vermilion Chasm—a place shunned by even the most seasoned hunters. The land here was old, unsettled, heavy with the scent of spirit blood and beast marrow.
Lan Qin paused at the edge of a broken ridge, gazing down into the valley where blood-red rocks layered upon one another like scales.
> "This place feels wrong," he muttered. "Like a battlefield that never ended."
> "It didn't," Yi Meixue said softly. "Thousands of beasts fought here centuries ago—some say their hatred never faded."
Huang didn't speak. His hand hovered at the hilt of his sword, and with a quiet breath, he released a ripple of Sword Intent.
It spread out in waves—silent, disciplined, and potent. The air hummed. Leaves trembled. Dust rose and settled.
Somewhere in the underbrush, a Spirit Claw Panther hissed—but then slunk away. Lesser beasts, even the bold ones, withdrew. Mid-stage creatures paused in the shadows, choosing silence over challenge.
> "What did you do?" Bao Yun whispered.
> "Told them who walks this path," Huang replied.
They descended.
As they pressed deeper into the chasm, the terrain warped. The earth became a rusty gray. Strange, luminous moss clung to the walls. Energy fluctuated wildly—dense in some pockets, faint in others. The group moved cautiously, avoiding signs of beast tracks, bypassing sinkholes that might house serpentine horrors.
Hours passed.
Then Lan Qin raised a hand.
> "There. On the lower ridge."
Several figures stood cloaked in dark robes, bearing the insignia of the Violet Ash Sect, a minor sect from a border kingdom known for its cruelty and shadow-bound techniques.
But they weren't alone.
Flanking them were at least five cultivators in deep forest-green robes—bearing the mark of the Broken Thorn Society, a mercenary sect with no nation, only profit.
Yi Meixue narrowed her eyes.
> "They've teamed up. That's not good."
> "They know they can't survive this place alone," Huang said. "So they pooled strength. That means... they know the Crown is near."
Indeed, ahead of the foreign cultivators, through a jagged arch of bones and red stone, a light shimmered—golden and slow-moving, like molten sun in a basin of obsidian.
The Beast Crown hovered over a stone pedestal at the very center of the chasm. Floating, untouched.
Ancient runes circled it in faint orbit, glowing only slightly.
But the moment Huang's group stepped closer, one of the mercenaries turned.
> "Azure Sect dogs," he sneered. "I was wondering when you'd show."
The Violet Ash cultivator next to him raised a black blade. "You followed us from Scorpion's Pass. You should've died there."
Lan Qin stepped forward with a cocky grin.
> "Funny, we thought the same about you."
The two sides formed quickly—lines drawn, weapons bared, spiritual energy surging.
> "We can't let them reach the Crown," Yi Meixue whispered.
> "We won't," Huang replied, drawing his blade.
But just then, the light above the Crown pulsed.
It responded to the presence of cultivators. To the Qi and intent of those gathered.
And it lowered slightly toward the pedestal—acknowledging the start of the trial.
> "It's responding," Bao Yun gasped. "It's real."
> "Then so is the fight," Huang said.
The Violet Ash cultivators took their stance, one already preparing a soul-weaving curse. The mercenaries spread out, their formation curved like a sickle, meant to trap and bleed out opponents slowly.
And Huang stood at the front, Sword Intent rising.
> "Hold the line," he commanded. "Protect each other. Watch their movement patterns. We only get one shot."
The battle for the Beast Crown had begun—and only one side would leave the Chasm with it.
Swords clashed and Qi howled.
The calm stillness of the Vermilion Chasm was shattered beneath the fury of two clashing forces—Huang's group and the combined might of the Violet Ash Sect and the Broken Thorn Society.
The Beast Crown hovered in silent judgment above its obsidian pedestal, radiant golden light dancing around it like wildfire contained.
Huang stood at the heart of the battlefield, blade in hand, facing two opponents. One with a sickle-shaped soul blade that shimmered with cursed runes; the other wielded spirit-bound chains that lashed through the air like silver serpents.
They came together—relentless, coordinated, fierce.
Huang's sword moved like a storm held by stillness. No wasted movements, no grand displays. Just intent. Raw and unflinching.
His shoulder bled. His ribs ached. But he did not yield.
> "He's slowing," snarled the chain wielder.
> "He won't last," spat the other. "Use it now!"
They each slapped a scroll onto their chests.
Spirit Churning Talismans.
A surge of unholy energy erupted around them, black veins spidering across their arms. Their spiritual force doubled, then tripled in an instant. Their bodies cracked and reshaped under the weight of borrowed power, their eyes bloodshot and hollow.
Yi Meixue gasped.
> "That's soul-violating Qi—this is suicide cultivation!"
Huang gritted his teeth, shifting his stance as their strikes became a blur. He deflected two slashes. Parried a chain wrap. But the third strike grazed his cheek, and the fourth split his robes at the waist.
He felt himself being pushed back, inch by inch.
Then—
It all stopped.
The air thickened.
The sky darkened, despite the sun.
Even the radiant glow around the Beast Crown dulled.
Then he appeared.
Atop a crumbled ridge of vermilion stone stood a lone figure, his presence neither loud nor flashy—but impossible to ignore.
His black robe was simple, but the silver threads along the hem shimmered with old-world symbols no one could place. His face was sharp, almost delicate—but cold as a winter moon.
And in his hair was a long obsidian hairpin, from which hung a single black pearl that swayed softly in the breeze.
> "W-what is that pressure…" Yi Meixue dropped to one knee, instinctively lowering her head.
> "It's not Gold Seal," whispered Lan Qin. "It's something else."
The talisman-enhanced cultivators froze mid-strike. Their limbs locked. The flow of energy in their meridians reversed. Their knees hit the ground a breath later.
The man did not speak immediately. He simply walked forward—slowly, gracefully—and descended into the chasm where all eyes were locked on him.
The Beast Crown responded.
It dipped lower, the floating runes around it glowing once more. Not in warning. Not in defense.
But in recognition.
The figure reached out. His hand didn't tremble. No shield tried to block him. No beast roared in objection.
His fingers brushed the golden light—
And the Beast Crown settled in his palm.
The entire chasm pulsed once, and then went quiet.
Not a single spirit beast stirred.
Not a single cultivator dared breathe.
> "Who… are you?" the Broken Thorn leader rasped, still kneeling.
The man turned slightly, just enough for them to see the side of his face—serene, deadly, unreadable.
> "Someone who was here before any of you arrived," he said calmly.
He looked at Huang—only briefly, but enough to make the blood in Huang's veins still.
Then he turned, the black pearl swaying, and began walking toward the mists at the northern edge of the chasm.
> "W-wait! That artifact—!" one of the Violet Ash cultivators called out.
The man stopped just long enough to say two words:
> "Not yours."
Then he vanished into the fog, the Beast Crown in hand, leaving chaos and confusion behind.
Lan Qin broke the silence first.
> "Who... the hell... was that?"
Huang exhaled slowly, only now realizing how tightly he'd been gripping his sword.
> "I don't know," he said, eyes fixed on the fading mist. "But I think… we're going to find out soon."