Chapter 28 The Azure Sky

• "Whoosh—" The gale howled through Crackwind Valley, driving a torrent of amber leaves across the obsidian cliffs. Tan Xuan emerged from the ancient forest, his robes stained with dark ichor, each step leaving a faint trail of blood that the wind swiftly erased. Cultivators training along the valley's edge paused, their eyes lingering on the killing intent that clung to him like a second skin—but none dared stare for long. Here, even seasoned assassins wore their slaughter like a badge, and Tan Xuan's aura, though potent, was far from unique. He sought a cleft in the cliffs, where twin waterfalls formed a natural alcove. Settling cross-legged, he drew three deep breaths, each exhale expelling a wisp of crimson mist—vestiges of the hundred beasts he'd slain. The bronze scroll floated before him, its surface rippling with arcane light as he sank into the cryptic verses. Half a year passed in the valley's timeless tempest. Then, on a day when the wind carried the tang of ozone, Tan Xuan's eyes snapped open. His pupils swirled with motes of green light, like leaves caught in a whirlpool, as he gazed unseeingly at the roiling sky. At that moment, the gale intensified, hurling a cyclone of aspen leaves into the air. They spun in chaotic patterns, their veins glowing gold in the dim light, while a veil of ochre sand rose to obscure the sun. *Wind lifts autumn leaves; dust veils the azure dome.* The scene unfolded like a celestial pantomime—ordinary to onlookers, but to Tan Xuan, it was a revelation. He saw the wind's invisible fingers guiding each leaf, the sand grains tracing invisible meridians in the air. "Wind is the weaver of the universe," he murmured, recalling a line from the scroll. His heart pounded in rhythm with the gale, and crimson threads spiderwebbed across his sclera. The world dissolved: sand became hieroglyphs, leaves turned to runes, and together they formed a scripture written in the language of the elements. As he grasped this truth, his body emitted a resonant hum. Sand and leaves converged, forming a three-hundred-zhang wind column that swallowed him whole. Within this vortex, the air itself seemed to freeze, every molecule trembling in anticipation. "By the Ancestors..." Feng Lingzi's voice cracked in the bronze scroll. The old spirit materialized, his translucent form quivering with astonishment. "I spent a millennium staring at this scroll, and he... he's done it in years?!" A faint flush colored his spectral cheeks. The commotion drew dozens of cultivators. They watched in awe as Tan Xuan hovered within the wind column, his hair streaming like dark flames. But among the crowd, three figures exchanged subtle nods—their auras flaring with starlight, moonlight, and draconic might. "Starry Sky Academy, Moon Worship Sect, True Dragon Academy," someone hissed. Before the words fell, a constellation of blades, a crescent moon of silver light, and a dragon's claw of golden qi slammed into the wind column. "Fools!" Feng Lingzi roared. He stepped from the scroll, his form expanding to match the wind column. With three thunderous claps, he summoned three cyan palms—each the size of a mountain peak— that smashed through the attacks. The resulting shockwave sent boulders hurtling, and one attacker was swatted into a fine red mist. The other two fled, leaving trails of panicked mana in their wake. "Curse this weakened state..." Feng Lingzi panted, his form flickering. But the message was clear: a Heavenly Being lurked here. Cultivators scrambled to distance themselves, their earlier envy replaced by icy fear. Unaware of the drama, Tan Xuan floated in a state of ecstasy. He was the sand, the leaf, the wind—all and none. When he opened his eyes, a verdant light flared, and he descended with the grace of a falling feather. "I shall name this... the Realm of Falling Leaves and Whirling Sand," he whispered. Though his cultivation remained at Profound Dragon Ninth Stratum, his blood now sang with wind spirit power—each drop carrying the essence of the gale. He flexed his hand, and a leaf beside him instantly disintegrated into a cyclone of motes. The valley had gone silent, save for the eternal wind. Every eye was on him now, not with jealousy, but with the敬畏 (awe) reserved for those who walked the path of legends.