The One Who Sends Invitations From Heaven

The darkness descended softly over Tianhuan.

No stars dropped. No storms burst.

But high above the clouds, another moved— slower than consideration, deeper than qi.

A will.

It passed across the heavens unlighted, unshaped. The moon hesitated behind a veil of clouds as if too modest to shine.

And in the innermost room of the Heavenly Origin Pavilion, the candles trembled.

Not from wind.

But from fear.

Grand Elder Mu Chang sat in meditation when it hit. Not pain. Not pressure. But the clear, sharp lack of control.

His breathing ceased.

His thoughts froze.

And then, individually, the hundred jade slips placed around him ignited into flames.

He opened his eyes—too late.

Every slip had held the destiny of an influential sect leader, a core disciple, or a sacred beast.

Every one… now empty.

Not destroyed.

Not erased.

Released.

He rose to his feet.

"What… in heaven's name…"

Seven mountain summits high, across the continent, towered the Seven Blades Sect.

Famous for its arrogance. Its conquest. Its lust to dominate.

Inside its Grand Formation Hall, thousands of spirit stones shattered simultaneously.

An elder shrieked as his eyes spat blood.

In the room's center, a radiating mirror shattered and showed a single sentence:

"He has returned."

No name.

No realm.

No sect.

Only truth.

And in the Tianhuan's silent summits.

Hun Ye sat under the same pine tree.

Still.

Unmoved.

He sipped tea as if the world wasn't prostrate before the brink of chaos.

And maybe it wasn't.

Chaos, after all, required noise.

He brought quiet.

A quiet sound traveled to his ears.

Not wind. Not footsteps.

A pulse.

It traveled through the earth like the ripple cast by a humble hand. No arrogance. No insistence. A soft welcome—so subtle it hardly warranted the term.

Hun Ye opened his eyes.

Floating in front of him was a shimmering silver paper. No emblem of any sect. No spiritual seal. Only the same phrase written in ancient divine script:

"Will you watch the Rising Sun Tournament?"

He poured another cup of tea.

Not to respond.

Merely because the time was right.

Deep down on the ground was a man in a black-and-gold robe standing at the cliffside with his head bowed. His name was Xu Yanjing—Heaven-Class Envoy of the Divine Bamboo Pavilion.

He was shaking.

Behind him, two of his subordinates stood, each in hand an incense and kneeling, not daring to look up.

The letter was sent.

No word arrived.

But that was to be expected.

"He will not come," one breathed.

"He will not even notice us," the other said.

Xu Yanjing shook his head.

"He sees."

He gazed up toward the sky. "The very stars stopped in their path this week. Do you think they do that for anyone but him?"

They refused to answer.

Under the pine tree, Hun Ye drank his tea and reflected on something far away.

A day long ago from the tribulation.

When sects fought not to dominate—but to learn.

When tournaments were staged for knowledge, and not for power.

When swords did not crave glory, and names were not inscribed on stone but whispered in humble tea houses.

The "Rising Sun Tournament."

He remembered it.

Once a century, it was staged.

It had once been a land of ideas. Brilliant young minds showcased their theories. Elders discussed formations. Spirits convened to observe—not in terror, but to learn.

He set the cup aside.

"I can go," he breathed.

The pine needles crunched, despite there being no breeze.

At Willow Peak, Bai Qing'er moved within her dreams.

She dreamed of steps.

Softer ones.

Like someone stepping down from heaven with no wish to touch earth.

She opened her golden eyes as the night grew darkest.

And breathed, "He's going to move."

The following morning, news ran like wildfire across the continent.

A mysterious cultivator had materialized at the edge of the Radiant Sky Empire.

He wore no sect symbol.

Carried no weapon.

But he strode right through three ancient arrays—each intended to ward off even Soul Ascension cultivators.

None activated.

He arrived at the imperial palace gates.

And spoke softly:

"I come to bring an invitation."

The emperor himself came down.

He knelt on marble steps, robes sweeping across holy stone.

"Who brought you?"

The man did not bow. But he smiled in a warm manner.

And presented a scroll.

The emperor unrolled it.

Only two words were penned.

And they were not written to the emperor.

They were:

"Hun Ye."

The emperor's hands shook.

The guards dropped their swords.

For every legend—even in the highest court—had heard that name once, spoken in ancient tales before bedtime.

The riddle disappeared without a trace.

Deep within a faraway cave, a forgotten holy monster cracked one shining eye open.

It had not moved in five thousand years.

But now…

Suddenly invitations from the heavens were being sent out again.

That was a sign of something stronger than fate stirring.

And of course, it could mean only one thing:

The person sipping tea under the sky is thinking of walking once more.

Again on the mountain cliff…

Hun Ye rose to his feet.

Only a little.

Once.

The birds flew higher.

The clouds curled inwards.

And for the first time in ten thousand years—

The world tilted.