Chapter 39: Waking Up

 "Junior Brother!"

Er Yun had been pacing outside the cave for days. The moment Chong Zhao emerged, she rushed forward — then stopped mid-step, her face breaking open with relief.

"Congratulations. You've crossed into the Mid-Stage of the Immortal Lord Realm."

Since the Three Realms had taken their current shape, the hierarchy of cultivation had been fixed and absolute. Half-immortals were a category unto themselves — they lived longer than mortals but were not considered true Immortals. That threshold was crossed only at the Immortal Lord Realm, which itself was divided into three stages: Early, Mid, and Peak. Above the Immortal Lord sat the High Lord, also in three tiers, and above that, the Demigod — the point at which one could first begin to perceive the Dao of the Divine.

The same structure governed the Yao Race. Fu Ling had trained in the Heavenly Palace since childhood under Jin Yao's instruction; even with her immortal bones removed, she had inherited her mother's Flaming Cloud Bow and the guidance of Zhen Yu, reaching the Mid-Stage of the High Yao Realm — a full major Realm above Chong Zhao. The Piaomiao Sect's own leader, Song Yun, had spent centuries in cultivation and stood only at the Early Stage of the High Lord Realm.

For Chong Zhao to reach the Mid-Stage of the Immortal Lord just three years after his ascension was, by any measure, extraordinary.

He showed no particular reaction to the compliment. He inclined his head. "Thank you for keeping watch, Senior Sister."

Er Yun's face went pink. She hadn't been able to enter the cave and had spent the days fretting helplessly from outside. She quickly told him what had happened: Zhe Sang had returned to the island, had advanced to the Immortal Lord Realm, and had issued a formal challenge.

"If Senior Brother has also advanced to the Immortal Lord Realm, a fair duel seems appropriate," Chong Zhao said, and turned toward the main hall.

Er Yun spoke before she could stop herself. "Junior Brother — Bai Shuo stole the Mountain-Guarding Jade Slip. Second Uncle imprisoned her in the Profound Ice Cave. He said if she could endure three days, she'd be released." A pause. "Today is the third day."

She had expected him to change course immediately. He didn't. His expression held. "Thank you for telling me, Senior Sister."

The absence of what she'd expected left her momentarily speechless. "You're... not going to go to her?"

The rumor that had circulated the island these past two days was unanimous: Bai Shuo hadn't stolen the Jade Slip for any purpose that benefited herself. Everyone believed she had done it for Chong Zhao.

"The Sect Leader's decree is fair," he said simply. "Come, Senior Sister."

He became a streak of light and was gone.

---

Outside the grand hall, Song Yun stood at the top of the stone steps with Zhe Sang beside him.

On the cloud platform below, Inner Sect Disciples had been sparring since morning — sword flashes and the crack of colliding immortal weapons, one match giving way to the next. A disciple named Yi Xiu had just knocked aside his opponent's blade and stood in the center of the platform, breathing evenly, waiting.

"Well done," Song Yun said. "Both of you have made progress. This round goes to Yi Xiu."

The two bowed and descended. The crowd's attention drifted upward to Zhe Sang.

It was nearly noon. All the Inner Sect matches were finished. There was still no movement from the back mountain. The disciples exchanged looks, the same thought running through all of them: if Chong Zhao was still in seclusion by tomorrow, the responsibility of representing Piaomiao at Phoenix Tree Island would fall entirely to the Eldest Senior Brother.

Zhe Sang remained composed. "Master," he said to Song Yun, "it's likely Junior Brother hasn't finished his closed-door cultivation. Perhaps today's duel—"

A streak of light shot out from the back mountain.

"Junior Brother Chong Zhao has emerged!"

The excitement that rippled through the disciples was immediate. A duel between the two top figures of Piaomiao Sect — this was what they'd been waiting for.

Zhe Sang's half-finished sentence dissolved into a faint smile. "It seems this battle cannot be avoided." Without waiting for Song Yun's word, he leaped to the cloud platform.

An instant later, Chong Zhao appeared on the other side of it.

Born into the heights of mortal nobility, now carrying the refined pressure of Immortal Qi, his robes moved with a quality that had nothing to do with wind. The female disciples watched him with undisguised feeling in their eyes. Even Er Yun, landing beside Song Yun, found her gaze settling there and staying.

His arrival drew all attention. Zhe Sang felt this, and the jealousy it produced was old and familiar and carefully hidden beneath a composed expression. "After years apart," he said, "Junior Brother's bearing surpasses even what I remembered. Truly worthy of the name Piaomiao's first."

"Chong Zhao greets Senior Brother." He bowed. "We are glad for your return. Junior Martial Uncle and the disciples have missed you. Now that you are back, I hope to work alongside you in revitalizing our sect."

Zhe Sang was Song Yun's direct disciple, their relationship as close as father and son. Chong Zhao had no interest in creating chaos in the sect — not unless Zhe Sang gave him no other choice.

"Save the pleasantries." Zhe Sang's voice went cold. "You know exactly how you beat me two years ago. I've come back to reclaim what's mine. I don't need your concessions." His immortal sword appeared and leveled itself at Chong Zhao's forehead. "Let this Senior Brother see how you've grown. This time, that medicine cultivator won't be here to save you."

The sword moved before he finished speaking.

Chong Zhao's own blade materialized to meet it.

The two immortal swords clashed above the platform and held, their cold light spreading in pulses. They were from the same sect, their immortal power comparable, and the initial exchange gave nothing away. But as the fight continued, the difference in experience began to show — Zhe Sang's techniques were more weathered, each strike more precise in its intent to wound. Chong Zhao fought in defense, and after the time it took to burn an incense stick, he was losing ground.

Er Yun watched Zhe Sang's sword seek out the vital points, watched the sword Qi leave cut after cut through Chong Zhao's robes and then his skin. "Uncle, you have to stop them—"

Song Yun shook his head. "Unless this is settled today, Piaomiao will tear itself apart."

Er Yun went still. Zhe Sang's sword pierced Chong Zhao's shoulder. Blood spread through white fabric. The disciples below sucked in a breath.

Zhe Sang hadn't quite expected that, and the satisfaction of it was visible on his face. "If you're this fragile, how do you plan to carry Piaomiao's future?"

Chong Zhao lifted his gaze.

Something in his expression shifted — the careful restraint giving way to something harder and more deliberate. His palm sword blazed with sudden light, catching Zhe Sang's blade and pushing it aside. "That battle two years ago left me ashamed before Senior Brother. I return that debt now." A beat. "Senior Brother. After you."

The shockwave sent Zhe Sang back three steps.

He stared at Chong Zhao across the platform while the disciples below burst into noise — bewildered at first, then louder. Zhe Sang's face went through several colors before settling on a dark crimson. "Chong Zhao! You dare—fine! Very well!"

He struck again, and this time Chong Zhao answered in kind — full force, no holding back, strike following strike without pause, driving Zhe Sang steadily backward. The Eldest Senior Brother, who had practiced the Ethereal Sword Technique for a hundred years, found himself barely able to parry.

The disciples cheered. Chong Zhao's technique was beautiful but more than that — there was something in the way he fought, unhurried and certain, that made even watching it feel like witnessing something inevitable.

Zhe Sang heard the cheers and felt the edge of the platform at his back. He was living the defeat of two years ago again. His face was a mask of resentment.

He could not lose again. He would not.

Something red flickered in his eyes. His sword trembled — and a pearl appeared on the hilt, vivid red, brimming with Spiritual Qi so concentrated it was almost visible to the naked eye. The moment it emerged, his power surged beyond anything he'd shown before. His next swing landed before Chong Zhao could recalibrate.

Chong Zhao flew backward, struck the platform hard, and came to rest on one knee, coughing blood.

The cheering stopped.

"Junior Brother!" Er Yun moved toward the steps. Song Yun's hand stopped her. She turned on him. "Uncle, what kind of artifact is that?" She had seen the pearl clearly, felt the pressure of its Qi — this was not a standard spiritual object. The energy it held was comparable to their own Mountain-Guarding Jade Slip.

Song Yun's expression had gone strange. His body swayed, and he coughed — sharp and sudden. Er Yun caught him. He shook his head, his attention fixed on the platform.

Below, a profound silence had fallen. Everyone had assumed Zhe Sang would lose again. The reversal had been instant and total. Chong Zhao couldn't stand against a single strike from whatever that pearl had done to Zhe Sang's power.

Zhe Sang walked slowly toward where Chong Zhao knelt. "I wasn't using my full strength earlier. Did you truly think you could beat me this time?" He looked down. "Kowtow. Admit your defeat. Repent for what you did two years ago, and I'll allow you to stay in the sect — as an Outer Sect disciple."

Chong Zhao raised his head. The blood at the corner of his mouth had not yet been wiped away. "I've already repaid what I owed you from that battle." His voice was steady. "I haven't lost yet, Senior Brother."

Zhe Sang's face went darker still. His immortal sword rose again.

"Senior Brother, stop!" Er Yun's voice cracked across the steps.

---

Deep in the Profound Ice Cave, in the dark and cold, Fan Yue's eyes opened.

He came back to consciousness slowly, the way someone does after sleep that was not quite sleep. Bai Shuo was still in his arms, where she had been when he lost consciousness two days ago. She wasn't moving. Her eyes were closed.

"Mas... Master." The word came out blurred, the voice still half-belonging to a dream.

Her cheeks were flushed against the cold, a faint smile on her lips — the expression of someone in a pleasant place. But her breathing was thread-thin, barely there.

Fu Ling had left, but the Drunken Dream curse remained. Bai Shuo had been caught inside it for two days. If she didn't surface, her Spiritual Qi would drain completely.

Fan Yue didn't understand the mechanics of what had happened to her. But he could feel the Spiritual Qi going — quietly, steadily, like water through a crack. Some part of him that had no language for it understood: if she didn't wake now, she might not wake at all.

"Wake... up," he said, haltingly.

His world was a simple one. It contained one person.

He held her tighter and kept calling her name.

---

In the illusion, Bai Shuo sat with her chin propped in her hand and looked at a man's back.

Purple robes. Long hair loosely bound. He leaned against a bookshelf reading without any particular urgency, a small wine gourd hanging at his hip. The library around her opened into the grandest hall she had ever seen — a place so extravagant it seemed designed to make her feel the smallness of everything she'd known before.

She had woken here after the bone-cold of the ice. She had tried to leave. Every time she walked toward the entrance, she ended up behind this figure again, as if the space looped back on itself.

She knew who he was. She had been looking for him for ten years. She couldn't see his face clearly, couldn't pull his name to the surface of her mind, but the recognition was bone-deep: he was the one who had saved her in the imperial mausoleum, a decade ago.

When she first saw his back, she had been overwhelmed — the feeling that the heavens had finally heard her. That feeling had lasted until she understood the shape of what she was trapped in.

She couldn't leave. She couldn't approach him. He couldn't see her or hear her. The distance between them was fixed and absolute.

Am I dead? she'd wondered, with genuine philosophical openness. Is this what the heavens decided to give me?

Being an optimist in the specific way that Bai Shuo was — unbothered by what she couldn't change, content to trace the edges of what she had — she had spent two days trailing after his back, watching him sleep when he was idle and drink when he was awake, and finding, to her mild surprise, that it was not a bad way to spend time if time was what one had.

She rested her chin in her hand.

She felt drowsy.

Her eyes began to close.

She didn't see the hall beginning to come apart around her — the columns cracking, the ceiling losing its coherence, the entire constructed space preparing to take her with it as her Spiritual Qi faded toward nothing.

"M-Master!" The voice reached her from somewhere outside the dream, ragged and young and frightened. Bai Shuo's eyes snapped open.

Who?

"W-Wake up... wake up..."

Wake up? Wake up from what?

"P-Please..."

Please — me? She was a nobody. A weed drifting through the Three Realms. A minor immortal with no particular standing. Who would beg someone like her for anything?

The ceiling cracked open above her, a massive section of it tipping inward. Her pupils contracted. She tried to move. Her body didn't respond.

Why can't I move? What kind of—

"Bai Shuo! Wake the hell up!"

The shout was hoarse, desperate, and completely stripped of composure — the voice of someone who had run out of patience with being careful about it.

Her spirit shook.

Her eyes opened.