Chapter 13 — The Pathless Sky

Lee Haeun had walked for what felt like weeks.

The Middle Realm wasn't bound by the passage of time, not the way mortals understood it. The sun didn't rise or fall—it pulsed. Sometimes crimson, sometimes silver, sometimes just… gone. Mountains floated, forests reversed direction, and realms collided like waves in slow motion.

He didn't sleep. He didn't need to.

His cultivation had quieted—not stilled, but… balanced.

The fragment of the Origin Manual he absorbed had altered the flow of his dantians. They no longer strained to pull in energy. They waited. Listened. Drew in only what belonged.

It was unnatural. But it felt right.

That was when the ground split open.

It didn't crack, didn't rumble—it parted, like hands moving aside curtains. No noise. Just sudden, impossible absence. And beneath it:

A staircase. Steep. Endless.

He paused.

There was no formation here. No threat. No presence.

And that's how he knew—

"This is where I'm supposed to go."

The descent was slow. Not because he hesitated—but because space resisted him. Each step bent inward. Gravity didn't pull; it weighed. And eventually, the air thickened until it felt like walking through the memories of a dying god.

But Haeun kept walking.

Until he reached it.

A chamber. Not large. But eternal.

The walls were etched in moving runes, alive with subtle breathing patterns. On them were carved battle scenes too abstract to follow—armies of one against shadows, suns being shattered, and cultivators unraveling into dust.

And at the center, untouched by time or rot:

A cloak.

Black. Threadbare.

It should've meant nothing. No spiritual energy, no inscriptions, no enhancements.

But Haeun couldn't breathe.

Because it felt like the room was kneeling to it.

He didn't touch it.

Not yet.

Instead, he knelt beside it, lowering his head in quiet reverence.

A gesture he'd never given to any sect elder.

"Nameless One," he whispered. "This wasn't just left here. This was placed. You wanted this found… but only by someone who'd understand."

Beneath the cloak, tucked almost invisibly, was a small scroll.

It read:

"Cultivation is not to ascend.

It is to remain unmoved."

And under that, one word:

"Remember."

He placed the scroll in his robe. Still, he didn't take the cloak.

Something told him… not yet.

He stood. The chamber seemed to release him.

He bowed once—and turned back toward the stairs.

Elsewhere, in the Lower Realm…

The Murim Alliance capital was carved into the bones of a mountain.

Literally.

The entire city rested within the ribcage of a giant creature whose name had long been forgotten. Its skeletal remains stretched across the horizon—impossible in scale, as if the mountain had grown around the body, not the other way around.

This was Baekhon—neutral ground of the Alliance.

And today, tension filled every hall.

The Leader of the Murim Alliance, Grand Strategist Kwon Seung, stood at the center of a vast circular chamber. He wore no armor. His robe was plain gray, almost civilian.

He was not a martial artist. He was a tactician.

And for the past six months, everything he knew about the balance of power was unraveling.

Before him sat the Five Kings—each the representative apex of their respective factions:

King Baek Dojin, the Orthodox Pillar, master of the Flowing Fist. A calm man with cloud-white hair and folded hands.

King Shin Gwan, the Shadow King of the Unorthodox—dark robes, sharper tongue.

King Woon Yeol, the Demonic King—smiling, always, with blood-scented qi leaking from his pores.

King Mirae, the only woman—master of the Mind Mirror Sect, and the only cultivator to ever paralyze an army by speaking.

King Jin Taehwa, the Silent Blade—head of the Wandering Sects. Spoke only when needed. So far, he hadn't.

The six of them, mortal or otherwise, decided the fate of the martial world.

And today, Kwon Seung had called them for one reason.

"The gods have moved," he said.

No one argued.

He gestured to the massive jade scrying crystal at the room's center. It flickered with distorted spiritual images: storms ripping open sects, divine glyphs appearing in cursed realms, entire secret zones collapsing into each other.

Then a blurred image appeared—a boy standing on a sword field.

No name. No identity.

But the swords bowed.

That was all the proof they needed.

King Baek Dojin spoke first.

"If we act like this is normal, we will collapse. Fear breeds cults. Cults breed war."

King Woon grinned.

"Let them come. A little divine chaos makes the wheat separate from the chaff."

King Mirae's voice was like glass.

"We are not talking about beasts or rebel sects. We are talking about the myth turning real. The Nameless One's techniques… the Cursed gaining minds… entire foundations shaking. This is not coincidence."

Kwon raised a hand.

"Then let us stabilize the people."

King Shin raised an eyebrow.

"How? Fear doesn't listen to speeches."

"Not speeches," Kwon said. "A tournament."

That caught their attention.

"Not just any tournament," Kwon continued. "The Dragon and Phoenix Tournament. Revived. Reframed."

"We use it to rebuild morale. To unite the Lower Realm's youth under a shared goal. Let them see heroes in each other—not just myths."

The room went quiet.

Then, King Jin Taehwa finally spoke.

One word.

"When?"

Kwon smiled.

"Two months."

The Dragon and Phoenix Tournament.

Once held every generation. Now… it would return as a symbol.

The rules were brutal.

Only cultivators under the Evolutionary Realm could participate.

The tournament was divided into two brackets—Dragon (combat) and Phoenix (discipline-based).

Both tested spiritual depth, control, tactics, raw power… and leadership.

The winners didn't just get titles.

They were named Youth Kings and Queens—future heads of the realm's factions.

Chosen not just for strength.

But for potential.

Flyers were already being distributed across sects.

"Rise and Represent."

"Strength Through Unity."

"Become the Next Flame."

But beneath the surface… the motives were deeper.

Because the Murim Alliance knew something the world didn't:

The seals on ancient gates were breaking.

Secret realms weren't just opening—they were bleeding.

Cursed cultivators weren't random. They were being directed.

And the gods?

They weren't just watching.

They were waiting.