Chapter 253: — Two Dragons, One Mountain

The late afternoon sun dipped low behind the jagged mountain crags, casting long, bruised violet shadows across the sprawling grounds of the Sanatan Flame Sect. The sky burned in gradients of molten copper, pale rose, and deepening indigo, while cool mountain drafts swept through the stone pathways, rustling the high bamboo groves and carrying the dry, crisp scent of pine needles.

Despite the brutal spectacle that had shaken the arena hours prior, the life of the sect did not halt.

Out on the northern stone terraces, rows of outer disciples moved in strict, synchronized unison, their wooden practice swords cleaving through the evening breeze with rhythmic whooshes. Their arms shook with fatigue, iron bands clinking against their forearms, but not a single posture sagged. Down near the martial courtyards, Elder Jian Fan stood like an unmoving stone statue, his hands clasped behind his back, his sharp eyes silently tracking the angle of every junior’s wrist, offering curt, precise corrections with a mere twitch of his chin. Further along the eastern colonnade, the faint, soothing fragrance of medicinal herbs drifted from the open windows of the Medical Pavilion, where Elder Hua and her attendants ground dried spirit-roots in heavy stone mortars.

Deep within the secluded courtyard behind the secondary training grounds, an ancient, sprawling ironwood tree stretched its gnarl-barked boughs wide, its broad crimson leaves fluttering gently against the darkening sky.

High up on a thick, horizontal branch thirty feet above the flagstones, Luo Chen lay with one knee propped up, his back resting against the sturdy trunk.

His dark hair was unfastened, spilling loosely over his shoulders in the draft. Fresh linen bandages were wound tightly beneath his torn disciples tunic, wrapping his cracked ribs, while faint purple bruises darkened his cheekbone and jawline. His sword—the slender blade with its faded pink-wrapped hilt—hung quietly from a small knot of wood beside him. Luo Chen held an arm over his brow, his sappier, quiet eyes staring through the canopy of leaves into the vast, darkening expanse of the sky.

Below the tree, light footsteps brushed over the fallen leaves.

Su Quan stepped onto the grass, her dark hair swaying against the delicate embroidery of her robes. Her brows knit into a tight, worried line as her gaze locked onto the battered figure resting among the branches.

“Luo Chen,” she called out softly, her voice carrying a fragile, scolding warmth. “Come down from there. Your meridians haven’t even finished realigning from that final impact, and Elder Hua said your left rib has a hairline fracture. Let me take you back to the medicinal garden to finish applying the bone-mending paste.”

Up on the branch, Luo Chen’s jaw shifted slightly. He didn’t speak. Slowly, deliberately, he let his eyelids flutter shut, turning his face away toward the trunk of the tree to feign sleep.

Su Quan’s breath hitched, an exasperated, helpless sigh slipping past her lips as she pressed a hand against her forehead. “You stubborn, impossible idiot…”

Before she could circulate her qi to lift herself into the air, a heavy, warm hand tapped down lightly on her shoulder.

“Leave the brooder to me,” a deep, easygoing voice rumbled behind her.

Su Quan turned to see Wang Tian standing tall behind her. The #1 Core Disciple had swapped his blood-stained battle tunic for a frsh new, orange disciple robe, though a neat strip of white gauze was wrapped securely around his own left temple. His bruised lips were pulled into a relaxed, confident smile, his eyes carrying no lingering hostility from their arena brawl.

“You go get some rest, Su Quan,” Wang Tian added, his voice lowering with genuine consideration. “You’ve been hovering around the medical ward since the barrier dropped. I’ll make sure he doesn’t fall out of the tree.”

Su Quan looked at him, then glanced over her shoulder.

Standing a few paces back along the lantern-lit cobblestone path was Muo Qian. She stood quietly in the soft evening glow, holding a steaming, folded lotus leaf cradle containing two plump, freshly steamed herbal meat dumplings. Muo Qian gave Su Quan a gentle, understanding nod, tilting her chin slightly toward the living female disciples quarters.

Su Quan hesitated for half a breath, looking up one last time at the silent figure on the branch, before finally letting her shoulders relax. “Don’t let him do anything stupid, Wang Tian,” she muttered, before stepping onto the path to join Muo Qian.

Wang Tian watched them walk side by side down the stone trail, their silhouettes gradually fading into the lantern-lit dusk.

Once the courtyard was quiet again, Wang Tian turned around. He didn’t jump onto the bough. He simply walked to the base of the ironwood tree, pulled his robes aside, and sat down flat on the cool earth, leaning his broad back firmly against the rough bark.

Silence settled over the courtyard.

The wind sighed through the crimson leaves. The distant, faint hum of night cicadas began to stir among the garden stones.

Several long minutes drifted past with only the sound of their breathing filling the quiet air.

Finally, high above, a voice broke the still.

“What do you want?” Luo Chen asked. His tone was cool, flat, and raspy from the smoke and blood of the afternoon.

Wang Tian let out a soft, amused sigh, tilting his head back until his crown bumped gently against the trunk.

“It’s not as if this is the first time you’ve eaten dirt against me,” Wang Tian said, his tone conversational and devoid of mockery. “We’ve traded blows since we were running laps in the outer courtyard with eighteen ton weight-bands. So why are you hiding up in the branches like a wounded sparrow? What’s eating at you this time?”

Luo Chen slowly opened his eyes. He lowered his arm from his brow, his gaze staring fixedly at the rough wood above him.

“This time was different,” Luo Chen said quietly, the raw frustration finally bleeding through his controlled facade. His knuckles tightened against the fabric of his trousers. “I refined my sword-intent to the absolute peak of the Nascent Soul . I pushed myself to the limits. I was confident… utterly confident that I had bridged the gap between us. Yet when we discarded our steel and met with bare fists… I still couldn’t shatter your defense. Why?”

Wang Tian took a slow, deep breath, letting the cool evening air fill his bruised chest. He looked down at his own calloused hands, turning his broad palms over under the dimming light.

“It’s not because your sword was dull,” Wang Tian began, his tone shifting into something steady, solemn, and uncharacteristically grave. “And it’s certainly not because you didn’t work yourself to the bone. You fought like a demon today, Luo Chen.”

Wang Tian paused, his gaze hardening as he stared into the distance.

“You forget what I carry behind these eyes. I possess the battle instincts of two lifetimes. In my previous existence, before my soul crossed the river of samsara and woke on this mountain, I was a man who lived and breathed total war. I led vanguard iron legions through rivers of rotting corpses, clashed against continental powerhouses, and survived hundreds of life-or-death battlefields. Every pivot, every counter, every fraction of an inch I slipped past your fist today… that wasn’t fresh talent. It was hundreds of years of blood-stained muscle memory carved directly into my soul.”

Wang Tian tilted his head up slightly, his deep voice carrying directly to the branch above:

“If not for the accumulated weight of an entire past life… I wouldn’t have been able to keep up with you. Your speed would have broken my guard ten moves in.”

Up on the bough, Luo Chen’s breath caught in his throat.

His eyes widened in genuine, stunned shock. Slowly, his neck turned, his gaze dropping down through the crimson leaves to stare at the back of Wang Tian’s head.

Wang Tian let out a soft, dry chuckle, a broad, warm smile spreading across his face as he looked upward, meeting Luo Chen’s bewildered stare.

“Do you know how rare someone like you is?” Wang Tian continued, his voice ringing with absolute, unfiltered sincerity. “You didn’t reincarnate with the memories of an ancient general. You don’t possess a legendary primordial bloodline, nor do you hold some divine artifact handed down by the heavens. You are just a stubborn bastard who picked up a sword and swung it until your hands tore open, day after day, year after year.”

Wang Tian’s grin widened, his eyes flashing with pride:

“You are the kind of man that I—the Ghost Emperor Wang Tian—truly admire from the bottom of my heart. With pure, unyielding dedication alone, you have dragged yourself to the apex of this sect, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with monsters and surpassing people born with ten times your talent. You really are something else, Luo Chen.”

Luo Chen’s jaw went slack.

The words struck him with the force of a physical blow. The cold mountain wind seemed to vanish, his thoughts spinning into a sudden, deep vortex of memory—the countless rainstorms where he had practiced sword-thrusts until his shoulders dislocated, the late nights when only Wang Tian’s distant sword-strikes echoed across the empty plaza to keep him company, the fierce, unyielding bond forged through hundreds of brutal spars.

He… remembers an entire lifetime of war, yet he looks at my blade like that?

Luo Chen was so thoroughly lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice the air pressure beside him ripple.

SWISH.

Without a single whisper of sound, Wang Tian vanished from the base of the tree and materialized directly on the branch, crouching inches from Luo Chen’s face.

Wang Tian’s solemn expression was completely gone, replaced by a wide, wicked, mischievous grin.

“Now then!” Wang Tian barked cheerfully.

Before Luo Chen’s sluggish reflexes could react, Wang Tian’s thick hand shot forward like a striking viper, clamping tight around the collar of Luo Chen’s tunic.

“Stop zoning out like an old maiden and go get your damn ribs patched up!”

With a savage roar of exertion, Wang Tian planted his feet on the branch and threw Luo Chen straight off the tree with full, overwhelming physical force.

“WHA—?!”

Luo Chen’s body sailed through the air in a high, sprawling arc, whistling over the garden walls straight toward the soft lawn of the Medical Pavilion courtyard fifty yards away.

“FUCK YOU, YOU BASTARDDDDD—!” Luo Chen’s outraged, echoing roar reverberated through the quiet evening air, startling a flock of spirit-birds from the surrounding pines before ending with a loud, cushioned CRASH into a thick patch of medicinal moss.

Hovering effortlessly in mid-air above the tree bough, his robes billowing in the wind, Wang Tian crossed his arms and threw his head back, letting out a booming, triumphant laugh that echoed off the granite cliffs.

A hundred yards away, standing quietly on the elevated stone walkway beneath the eaves of the eastern corridor, Elder Liya rested her forearms lightly against the red-lacquered balustrade.

Her long, dark peach hair drifted softly across her cheek in the twilight breeze. Looking across the courtyard at the lingering commotion, a faint, gentle smile curved her lips—warm, serene, and full of quiet pride for the young dragons who guarded the future of the mountain.

The last amber ember of the sun sank beneath the jagged western horizon, surrendering the mountain peaks to the encroaching dark.

Hundreds of miles to the south, the night sky violently ruptured.

A jagged streak of boiling violet and blood-crimson qi cleaved through the upper cloud sea like an executioner’s blade, parting the mist for miles in its wake. Liu Tong tore through the roaring wind at terrifying speed, his dark robes whipping wildly against the gale.

His calloused knuckles squeezed the iron shaft of his war-axe until the metal groaned, the twin embers of his crimson eyes locking onto the distant mountain silhouette looming against the stars. His lips pulled back into a wide, jagged sneer, teeth glinting in the dark.

At the exact same instant, deep beneath the foundation of the Sanatan Flame Sect—

CLANK.

The heavy locking mechanisms of the Subterranean Gravity Chamber shifted with a dull, resonant echo. The massive iron doors parted by barely an inch, and from that narrow seam, a dense, swirling vortex of pure spiritual energy spilled out into the stone corridor, churning the dust in silent, rhythmic waves.

Inside the pitch-black chamber, completely enveloped by the crushing gloom—

Two blinding golden pupils snapped open in the dark.

To Be Continued…