Chapter 29: The Basin of Claws

Western Tiger Basin – Ironspine Fortress, Inner Sanctum

The Western Tiger Basin sprawled across a jagged continent where flame-forged cliffs met jungles writhing with beasts. It was land baptized in blood, where metal and marrow were the only currencies of survival. Amid the roaring winds and magma-cracked mountains stood Ironspine Fortress — a black-walled citadel said to be built atop the corpse of a Divine Tiger God.

Its marrow still fed the basin's spiritual veins.

The basin's people lived by one code: Strength is Truth.

From outer militias to core disciples, everyone fought for advancement. Education was given only to those who won duels. Emotions were not suppressed but burned into fuel. A laughing warrior could still gut you. A crying one, even faster. Every child in the basin grew up with their fists bloodied before their tenth birthday. Compassion was not outlawed, but it was treated like poetry—beautiful, and utterly useless in the field.

At the heart of this was the Whitefang Tiger Sect, supreme rulers of the basin. Of the many sects, they stood unchallenged not because of diplomacy, but because they broke the bones of those who disagreed. The very laws of the region were etched into tiger-hide scrolls soaked in the blood of traitors.

They were ruled by Bai Wuji, the Tiger Lord.

He sat upon a throne carved from petrified beast-fangs, unmoving as his four War Pillars knelt before him. Even in silence, the room carried weight. The flickering flames of the Bone Brazier trembled in his presence.

He was no ordinary ruler. Bai Wuji was a war-devouring tyrant who had torn through three sects with his own claws. His cultivation had long passed the realm where death was a threat. Whispers claimed he had once survived a direct hit from an Immortal-ranked technique by devouring it.

"The Vermilion Kingdom has stabilized," he murmured, voice deep as a quake. 

One of the Pillars raised her head—Lady Huanyin, commander of the Flame Eye Sect. She was the most mercurial of the four, her eyes as unreadable as fog on fire.

"Let us strike now, before they mend their spine. We delay too long, they may grow teeth."

Bai Wuji did not respond. Instead, he stared into the brazier. A flick of his finger dropped a scroll inside. Flames curled around it, revealing a map of leyline convergences. The burning paper crackled like a voice whispering secrets.

"No," he said. "Not yet. The flower still blooms—but its roots are tangled with rot. We'll wait until the petals open to us."

Behind the throne stood a figure wreathed in golden aura, calmly observing. Yan Doujin, Holy Son of the Whitefang Tiger Sect, loomed like a youthful war god. His robes shimmered with beast thread; his hands bore claw tattoos that twitched when he smiled.

Cultivation: Nascent Soul - True Nascent Stage

He was young, too young to wield that much power. But it was real. Earned through brutality, genius, and a terrifying self-discipline inherited from his father. The basin adored him, feared him, and expected him to surpass even Bai Wuji one day.

Yan Doujin bowed. "And if the petals do not open, Father?"

Bai Wuji glanced over. "Then we pluck them."

Lady Huanyin's lips curled. "With root and soil."

Another War Pillar, the silent Beastmaster Heng, grunted in agreement, his massive arms folded. He had tamed over a hundred feral spiritual beasts, and yet remained leashed only to Bai Wuji's will.

In the shadows beyond the brazier, General Luo Jian, the Ironblood Core leader, muttered, "War is breath. We inhale now. But we cannot hold forever."

Bai Wuji's voice cut through them all like a blade through silk.

"Then exhale when I say. Not before."

A moment of silence followed. The tension in the air hummed like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

Then, Yan Doujin straightened.

"What of Mei Xueyan? The Lotus girl."

Lady Huanyin's smirk widened. "Still caught between the stem and the blade."

The Tiger Lord finally stood. The brazier flared higher.

"Let her choose," he said. "And let her know: the Tiger never waits long for prey."

From the fortress's tallest spire, as thunder rolled across the horizon, the banners of the basin unfurled—black cloth stitched with crimson tigers. A storm was coming and its claws were ready.