Chapter 15 - A Spark of Rivalry
Ye Qiu stood amidst the clamor, his dark eyes narrowed to slits, his chest constricting with a frustration that had simmered too long to suppress. He hadn't meant for his muttered words to ripple outward—hadn't intended them to spark anything beyond a fleeting release of his pent-up ire.
But when he spoke, half to himself, about the insufferable arrogance of Qin Ting, the crowd around him jolted to attention as if he'd hammered a resounding gong.
A sharp ripple of tension sliced through the market's din, and from the throng stepped a young man cloaked in a brocade robe so exquisitely embroidered it shimmered like liquid gold cascading over his frame. His features were chiseled, his posture stiff with the haughty certainty of noble lineage.
He tilted his chin skyward, gazing down at Ye Qiu as though examining a mote of dust clinging to his pristine sleeve. "Who do you think you are?" he sneered, his voice a dagger sheathed in silk, smooth yet cutting. "How dare you tarnish the name of Young Master Qin Ting with that impudent, insolent tongue?"
Ye Qiu's aura pulsed faintly, the subtle thrum of a Divine Wheel cultivator winding around him like a coiled serpent, alert and wary. The brocade-robed youth caught it—his eyes flashed with fleeting recognition—but it did little to erode his towering confidence.
He himself lingered at the Primordial Pill Realm, a mere step below Ye Qiu's cultivation, yet he carried the unshakable pride of a scion hailing from one of the Eastern Wilderness's most ancient and storied bloodlines.
Four guards shadowed him, their presence a mute but palpable threat. Clad in muted gray armor etched with delicate, glowing runes, each was a seasoned master of the Divine Wheel Realm, their movements honed to the lethal precision of a stalking predator pack.
Beneath the youth's ornate sleeves, Ye Qiu glimpsed the faintest shimmer of something more—a concealed power, perhaps talismans or artifacts, tucked away like venomous secrets poised to strike.
Ye Qiu met the sneer with a glare that could freeze rivers, his voice dropping to a chilling, razor-sharp edge. "Am I wrong? Qin Ting is nothing but a pampered child, propped up by his father's gilded throne. Emperor Qin's shadow may stretch far and wide, but strip that away, and what remains? An arrogant, reckless fool who's never earned a single thread of the glory he parades."
The young man's scoff cleaved the air, sharp and incredulous, cutting through the rising murmurs of the swelling crowd. "Nonsense! Utter drivel from a worm too dim to behold the sun's radiance! Young Master Qin Ting is a True Disciple of the Xuantian Sect—its destined Holy Son!"
He pressed forward, his voice swelling with fervent zeal: "He towers over the youth of the Eastern Wilderness like a dragon soaring through the boundless Nine Heavens. At eighteen, he ascended to the Divine Spirit Realm—a feat no prodigy in all recorded history has rivaled. And you, a pitiful ant groveling in the filth, dare to slander his name?"
The words crashed into Ye Qiu like a blacksmith's hammer against brittle glass, shattering his composure. "Eighteen... and already in the Divine Spirit Realm?" he murmured, his voice a fragile thread nearly lost in the market's clamor. "No... it can't be true... can it?" Disbelief flickered in his eyes, igniting a tempest of doubt and astonishment that churned behind them.
He'd been absent too long—months cloistered in seclusion, wandering the shadowed groves of ancient forests and scaling the jagged, wind-scoured peaks of forgotten ranges. There, amid the soft whispers of a breeze through gnarled pines and the deep pulse of untamed qi thrumming in the earth, he'd sought to refine his cultivation, to temper his spirit into something unbreakable.
The world beyond had faded into a distant murmur, its news and rumors no longer reaching him. Yet now, standing here, he discovered that Qin Ting's name had reverberated across the Eastern Wilderness during his absence. Achieving the Divine Spirit Realm at such a young age was a feat of legend, one that had set every tongue ablaze with awe—every tongue, it seemed, except his own.
The crowd pounced on his stunned silence, their laughter bursting forth like a sudden, vicious squall. Faces contorted with mirth, fingers jabbed in his direction, voices tangled in a raucous chorus of mockery.
"Where'd this backwater runt stumble in from? Doesn't even know Young Master Qin Ting's in the Divine Spirit Realm!"
"Hah! Bet he crawled out of some dank mountain crevice, still reeking of moss and mud!"
"No, no—he's just a dullard with rocks rattling in his skull! Hahaha!"
The jeers pierced Ye Qiu's ears, each one a barbed thorn sinking deeper into his wounded pride. Shame blazed hot in his chest, intertwining with a fury that trembled through his tightly clenched fists.
He swept a venomous glare across the rabble—merchants haggling over wares, cultivators posturing with swagger, idle gawkers hungry for sport—all of them melting into a gallery of jeering, contemptuous grins.
Without a word, he pivoted sharply, his tattered cloak snapping like a whip behind him as he shoved through the press of bodies and stormed off.
The laughter pursued him, swelling into a deafening roar as his silhouette dwindled against the dusty street.
It gnawed at him relentlessly, a ravenous beast clawing at his resolve, fanning the embers of a resentment that had smoldered within him for far too long.
But it wasn't the brocade-robed youth or the faceless mob he loathed most. No, the true target of his seething ire burned brighter, sharper, inescapable.
'Qin Ting!' he raged inwardly, the name a jagged splinter embedding itself deeper into his mind. 'Always you! Time and again, it's your wretched shadow that drags me into this cesspit of shame and humiliation! If I don't carve out retribution for this, I swear I'm no longer a man!'
The vow surged through him, a wildfire threatening to devour his restraint, when a voice—soft as a breeze rustling through bamboo—sliced through the tumult.
"These trials are but fleeting shadows, Ye Qiu," Elder Ling said, his tone gentle yet unyielding, a lifeline tugging him back from the abyss. "Every great soul in history has trudged through fire. Temper your heart, my apprentice."
Ye Qiu's breath caught in his throat, then eased, the storm within him subsiding to a smoldering ember. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the faint warmth of the ring on his finger—the vessel housing Elder Ling's spirit—and let out a slow, steady exhale.
The old master was right. He'd let his emotions spiral unchecked, a lapse that left him raw and unsteady. Yet why did Qin Ting's name alone unravel him so completely? It was as though an invisible thread bound them, yanking at his calm with every mention, flooding him with a hostility he couldn't fully grasp—a rival etched into the marrow of his fate.
"Master," he said quietly, his voice steadier now as he addressed the ring, "forgive me. My heart's still too brittle."
Within the artifact, Elder Ling's spectral form flickered, his lined face softening with a glimmer of pride. The boy's resolve endured, sharpened by self-awareness. So long as Ye Qiu could peer into his own flaws, there was no cause for concern. The path ahead would forge him anew.
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Far above the dusty streets of Backridge City, beyond the reach of petty grudges and market taunts, Qin Ting stood atop the Auric Celestial Skyspire. The vessel gleamed like a fragment of the heavens themselves, its hull a masterful lattice of gold and jade that cleaved through the clouds with silent, effortless grace.
On the bridge, he stood at the heart of it all, hands clasped behind his back, his presence a quiet tempest of majesty. His robes of deep purple flowed like shadowed silk, adorned with golden threads that caught the light in fleeting, dazzling glints.
His face was a mask of serene indifference, his sharp features framed by dark hair swept into a flawless bun, secured with a jeweled pin that gleamed faintly. He exuded an aura that felt otherworldly—regal, untouchable, a celestial deity surveying a mortal realm far beneath him.
At his side stood Nie You, a wiry man with hawkish eyes and a bow that spoke of decades of unwavering loyalty. Beside him was Zhou Pingyue, her demeanor cool and composed, a blade sheathed yet perpetually poised to strike. Both awaited his command, their silence a testament to his absolute authority.
Nie You stepped forward, his voice low and deferential. "Young Master, the sect has dispatched a greeting party to meet us on the ground. They await your arrival below. What are your orders?"
Qin Ting's gaze drifted to the viewport, where the sprawling expanse of Backridge City unfurled like a tapestry—red-tiled roofs and winding streets cradled by the distant, mist-veiled peaks of the Lian Yun Range.
He inclined his head slightly, his tone smooth as polished stone yet carrying an edge of command. "Good. They're swift—I have little patience for delays. Bring us down."
The Xuantian Sect was a titan among the Eastern Wilderness's holy lands, its roots plunged deep into the region's ancient history, its influence a vast mantle that draped over cities and sects alike.
Backridge City bore its imprint in the form of a grand estate—a palace of gleaming white stone and gilded towers that doubled as an impregnable stronghold. Within its walls thrived hundreds of the sect's elite, their lives governed by a stationed elder whose decrees were as ironclad as law.
Nie You gestured ahead as the Skyspire began its descent, his voice steady and assured. "Young Master, that's our garrison below. It's yours to command."
Qin Ting's eyes settled on the palace, its silhouette dominating the city's core like a crown atop a sovereign's brow. Its sprawling grounds pulsed with protective wards, faint tendrils of qi weaving through the air—a testament to the sect's unassailable grip. He nodded once, a flicker of approval piercing his otherwise impassive gaze.
The Skyspire touched down with a whisper, its landing flawless before the palace gates. Only after Qin Ting and his entourage stepped onto the earth—flanked by the silent, towering figures of the Death Guards—did the vessel ascend once more, vanishing into the heavens like a departing deity.
A crowd had gathered, their murmurs swelling into a low tide of anticipation. At their forefront stood an old man in flowing black robes, his silver hair tied back neatly, his weathered face calm yet resonant with a power that rolled off him like the depths of an unseen ocean. A master of the Divine Spirit Realm, his presence was a quiet thunder.
As Qin Ting descended the ramp, the Death Guards parting the air with their synchronized, ominous steps, the elder advanced and clasped his hands in a respectful greeting. "Nephew Qin, your arrival honors Backridge City beyond measure. I am Liu Feng, the stationed elder here. It's my humble privilege to welcome you."
So this was Elder Liu, the grizzled steward of the sect's foothold in this far-flung corner.
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Qin Ting regarded him for a fleeting moment, his thoughts shifting beneath a surface of cool composure. "Elder Liu," he replied, his voice even and measured, offering a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgment.
The Skyspire's descent had set the city ablaze with whispers. Word spread like wildfire through the streets: Qin Ting, a True Disciple of the Xuantian Sect, and son of Emperor Qin, had arrived.
His name was a lodestone, drawing awe and envy in equal measure. To the young male cultivators, he was a legend made flesh, a summit they could only dream of ascending. To the female practitioners, his striking visage, noble lineage, and prodigious talents wove him into a figure of near-mythic reverence—a radiant moon casting light into their loftiest aspirations.
His renown in the Eastern Wilderness was a mountain too vast to surmount, a truth that had left Ye Qiu bleeding beneath the market's scorn earlier.
Under Elder Liu's meticulous care, Qin Ting and his retinue settled into the palace with the efficiency of a well-oiled mechanism. As a True Disciple, Qin Ting claimed the highest chamber—a sanctum perched atop the tallest spire, its balcony offering a sweeping vista of Backridge City's sprawl and the faint, rugged silhouette of the Lian Yun Range against the horizon.
Elder Liu's attentiveness was no mere courtesy. Stationed in Backridge City, he wielded apparent authority, yet his post was a velvet-lined exile—a subtle punishment born of the sect's labyrinthine politics.
Qin Ting's arrival was a rare crack in the stone, a chance to reshape his destiny. He was no ordinary disciple; he was the living banner of the Qin Family, a titan whose influence spanned continents. Whispers had reached Elder Liu from allies within the sect: this was an opportunity to reclaim power lost to the currents of factional strife.
Resolve burned in the elder's eyes, steady and unyielding as tempered steel. He would not let this moment slip through his grasp.