Flight Through Ash And Lightening (Updated)

The spirit hawk was not bred for stealth, but Yue Lian rode it as though silence were a prayer she wove into its feathers.

Midnight winds screamed across the east cliffs, tearing at her robes, tugging at her sleeves like desperate hands. The world below was a sea of sleeping mountains, and within it nestled the Southern Archive Sect, glowing faintly beneath wards inked with divine calligraphy—once protective, now a prison.

Behind her, Lin Huo sat tense, sword drawn, one hand pressed to the hawk's spine. A flickering concealment talisman hovered over his palm, crackling weakly, its power waning.

"If we fly any higher," he warned, "we'll breach the Celestial Net. They'll know exactly where we are."

Yue Lian did not look back. Her eyes were locked on the horizon ahead—on that thin, jagged line of black mountains that stabbed through the clouds like ancient swords buried in heaven's skin.

Her hand clutched the jade slip hidden in her robe's inner fold.

It pulsed faintly. The truth lived inside it.

Yan Zhuo, long cursed as a monster, had bled to protect innocents. Had died saving those who now called him a traitor. The world had gotten his story wrong. And now that mistake hunted her.

A shrill cry shattered the sky behind them.

The clouds tore like paper as a spear of silver light burst through. The Silver Judge had arrived—riding a blade longer than a carriage and faster than thought. Chains of judgment whipped behind him, glowing with suppressive runes and ancient scripture. He was not a man. He was a verdict made flesh.

"Hold on!" Lin Huo shouted.

The spirit hawk dived, wings folding with a sharp crack. The wind howled louder, shrieking around them like a thing enraged. Below them, pine forests rushed closer.

Behind them, the Judge gave chase.

Back at the Southern Archive Sect, Elder Guan stood alone on the steps of the Hall of Silent Petition, robes stirring in the unnatural wind left in the Judge's wake. The other elders had long since dispersed, leaving behind nothing but incense trails and decisions sealed in cowardice.

A voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Elder Guan," said a young scribe, breathless. "A courier from the Eastern Reaches just arrived. He brought this. He… said it was urgent."

Guan frowned and opened the scroll.

Inside: another jade slip.

He pressed it to his forehead.

His legs nearly gave out.

Another survivor. Another memory. A second witness—unconnected, unaffiliated. But the story matched. The truth was the same.

Yan Zhuo had not committed the crimes attributed to him.

He looked up, gaze drawn to the sky where arcs of silver light split the stars.

"…We've made a grave mistake," he whispered.

The air battle over the cliffs became a desperate contest of speed and spirit.

The Silver Judge hurled a volley of talismans—each one sealed with high-level purifying Qi. They exploded in midair like falling stars, radiating force. The spirit hawk shrieked as a burst clipped its wing, feathers flaring with flame.

"We're losing altitude!" Lin Huo cried. "We'll crash if—"

Yue Lian's brush flared with Qi. She raised it—not to write, but to carve. In the air, she drew a single, complex sigil, the strokes glowing gold.

Bind and shield.

A radiant barrier bloomed behind them—like a lotus of light. One of the Judge's attacks slammed into it, dispersing with a thunderclap.

The force knocked them sideways. The hawk spiraled, wings spasming.

Below, trees rushed up.

They crashed through the spirit pine grove in an explosion of branches, shattering bark and talisman-etched roots. The hawk, wounded, dissolved into spiritual mist with a shriek, retreating into its talisman form.

Lin Huo rolled hard, coughing, mud smeared across his face.

Yue Lian slammed into the ground. Blood filled her mouth. Her ribs screamed. But her hand never let go of her brush.

She sat up, wincing, eyes blurred—and froze.

He had arrived.

The Silver Judge stepped into the grove with the weight of destiny behind each footfall. His armor shone with inscriptions too ancient to decipher. His presence distorted the air—runes circling his form, marking him not as a cultivator, but as an arbiter of divine law.

"Yue Lian of the Southern Archive Sect," he intoned, voice echoing from his helm like thunder in a sealed tomb. "You are charged with disseminating heretical records, consorting with forbidden spirits, and slandering the Celestial Verdict."

She struggled to her feet, spitting blood. Her back was straight.

"The Verdict was a lie," she said hoarsely. "Yan Zhuo was no tyrant. He was a martyr."

"You are not authorized to judge history."

"And you," she said, meeting his gaze unflinchingly, "are not authorized to erase it."

He raised the Judgment Saber.

Its runes ignited.

Lin Huo stepped between them, arms wide. "She carries proof. She speaks the truth. If you kill her, you confirm everything we fear—that your judgment is blind."

A pause.

A silence so sharp it felt like the grove was holding its breath.

And in that moment—a flicker. The Silver Judge hesitated. His blade did not lower, but his aura trembled. The hesitation was not long, but it was real.

Then—

A roar tore through the grove.

Shuang appeared like a streak of divine wrath—grown three times in size, fur blazing like sunlight, antlers rimmed with stormlight. The qilin crashed into the Judge with the fury of a mountain, claws raking down his armor, shattering runes.

The air exploded with spiritual backlash.

"Run!" Lin Huo shouted, dragging Yue Lian by the arm.

She didn't argue. They fled—branches whipping past them, heartbeats thundering louder than the chaos behind them. Overhead, the sky churned.

Behind them, the grove pulsed with light. Qi cracked like thunder.

By dawn, the continent rippled with rumor.

A Silver Judge had drawn his blade against a girl of seventeen.

A disciple of the Southern Archive had vanished under moonlight.

And the name Yan Zhuo had resurfaced—not in condemnation, but in uncertainty.

Throughout hidden corners of the empire, forgotten masters stirred. Old war relics resonated. Talismans fluttered on long-closed shrines.

In the Celestial Archives, certain sealed records shimmered faintly—no longer dormant.

And in the deepest part of the world, far from the sight of gods and men, beneath a mountain sealed by blood rituals and celestial chains, a sarcophagus trembled.

Inside it, a figure lay surrounded by seals that had not flickered in three hundred years.

Then—

Cracks appeared.

A heartbeat pulsed within.

Yan Zhuo's eyes opened.

And they burned with memory.