NOVPUBThe letter tore through space and time, bypassing all barriers and restrictions, before arriving directly before the one who had once sent Riley a letter.
Bang!
It materialized at the entrance of a grand sect, slamming into the shimmering defensive formation that enveloped the sect like an unbreakable shell. A deep, resonating hum filled the air as cracks briefly spread across the barrier like a spider's web.
Had Riley poured more spiritual essence into his creation, the formation would have shattered entirely—but that was never his intent. This was merely a knock. A warning.
The letter, now hovering in the air, drifted gently downward and settled at the sect's entrance, carrying an ominous presence. Yet, despite its deceptively harmless appearance, every cultivator present could sense the sheer, overwhelming sword intent sealed within it.
The air grew heavy, the weight of an unseen blade pressing against their skin.
For a brief moment, silence reigned.
Then, chaos erupted.
"We're under attack!" one disciple shrieked, his voice cracking.
"Call the Sect Master, quick!" another shouted, scrambling backward.
"Alert the elders now!"
"Take cover!"
"Ready your weapons!"
A flurry of movement followed as disciples leaped into action, their robes fluttering. Swords, spears, and talismans were drawn in haste, spiritual energy surging in waves as defensive measures were prepared. The entrance of the sect, once calm and imposing, now buzzed with fear and uncertainty.
The defensive formation pulsed for a final time before stabilizing, its cracks vanishing as if nothing had happened. But the damage was done—not to the barrier, but to the hearts of those who witnessed it.
As the tension mounted, all eyes fell upon the cause of this disturbance.
A letter.
Floating. Unmoving. Silent.
Yet, it exuded an aura of dominance that made even the most seasoned cultivators uneasy.
"What the hell… is that a letter?" one disciple murmured in disbelief, his hands gripping his weapon tighter.
"Who the hell sent this thing to our doorstep?" another asked, eyes darting between his peers.
"An enemy? A dark sect?" someone else speculated, voice low with dread.
No one dared to approach.
Then, one bold—or perhaps foolish—disciple stepped forward, emboldened by curiosity or arrogance. He extended a hand cautiously, intending to inspect the letter.
The next instant—slash!
A thin, invisible blade of sword intent flickered through the air. A sharp sting bloomed across his cheek. He stumbled backward, eyes wide as a single drop of blood rolled down his face. The cut was shallow, but the warning was clear: come closer at your own peril.
A cold silence settled over the gathered disciples.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
The letter remained, unmoved and unchallenged, as if daring the sect to acknowledge its message—or face the consequences of ignoring it.
A minute later, space itself seemed to ripple.
Without warning, an old man materialized before the letter. His arrival was so silent, so seamless, that if not for the sudden shift in the air, no one would have noticed him. His robes were ancient yet pristine, untouched by the passage of time. His aura was unfathomable—vast, deep, and oppressive, like an ocean hidden beneath an unshaken surface.
The disciples froze. Their instincts screamed at them to lower their gazes, to not look directly at him, but their fear and curiosity kept them rooted in place.
Then, without ceremony, the old man scooped up the letter with his bare hands.
For an instant, the air crackled with an unseen force, as if reality itself resisted his touch. But the resistance lasted less than a heartbeat before vanishing, bowing before his sheer existence.
The moment the letter left the ground, the old man vanished.
No light. No sound. No lingering spiritual energy.
He was simply gone.
The silence that followed was deafening.
The disciples exchanged stunned looks, their eyes filled with disbelief. It was as if their minds struggled to comprehend what had just happened. For a long moment, no one spoke, no one dared move.
And then—
"Who the fuck was that old man?" a disciple finally blurted out.
"Your grandfather?" another quipped, trying to shake off the tension.
"Fuck you! I don't even have a grandpa!"
Their voices, though loud, carried an underlying unease. They were grasping at anything to break the unnatural atmosphere lingering in the air. A few even laughed nervously, but it was forced. No one could deny what they had just seen.
But their foolish chatter was short-lived.
Boom!
A terrifying pressure descended upon them, forcing every single disciple to their knees. Some gasped for breath, their faces pale. Others trembled, barely holding themselves together.
At the center of this suffocating force stood an elder of the sect. His piercing gaze swept across the gathered disciples, his expression thunderous.
"Silence!" he roared. "Back to training, you fools! And let me make this clear—not a single word of what happened today leaves this sect! Do you hear me?"
His voice carried an undeniable weight, a command that could not be disobeyed.
One by one, the disciples scrambled to their feet, their heads bowed in submission. None dared to argue. None even dared to breathe too loudly. With one final glare, the elder released his pressure, allowing the air to return to normal.
Yet, even as he reasserted control, his own heart was in turmoil.
That man…
He knew exactly who had taken the letter.
That was no mere elder.
That was this sect's ancient ancestor.
A figure of legend.
A man who had not shown himself in millennia.
A cultivator so powerful that even the sect master himself could only bow in his presence. A being who stood at the pinnacle of the Nine Cauldrons Continent—a living Void Tribulation powerhouse.
The elder took a slow, deep breath, steadying himself. Why? Why had their ancestor, who had remained in seclusion for so long, suddenly appeared now?
And for a letter?
A mere letter had drawn the attention of a man who could decide the fate of entire kingdoms with a flick of his sleeve?
The elder's expression darkened.
This was not a simple matter.
Without hesitation, he turned on his heel and vanished into the sect's depths. He had no choice but to summon the other elders.
They needed to discuss this. 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙥𝙪𝙗.𝒄𝙤𝙢
Because if their ancient ancestor had personally taken action, then something far greater than any of them could imagine was already in motion.
A storm was coming.
And the sect could only pray they would survive it.
Several minutes later, three figures gathered in the endless void, their presence mere distortions in space, as if reality itself hesitated to acknowledge them.
Their true bodies remained far away, hidden within their respective domains, yet through sheer mastery of their divine senses, they bridged the unfathomable distances between them.
They did not manifest as flesh and blood, nor did they carry the weight of mortality. Instead, they appeared as shifting shadows in the wind—formless, featureless, their silhouettes flickering like dying embers against the abyss.
Their mere existence warped the fabric of the void, an unspoken testament to the boundless power they wielded.
For a time, silence reigned.
Then, a voice—weathered by countless years—broke the stillness.
"I received a reply from Riley Mason."
At his words, a letter materialized between them, suspended in the air by unseen hands. It did not simply appear—it emerged, as if the void itself had birthed it into being.
The parchment, ancient yet pristine, pulsed with an invisible aura. The seal unraveled without touch, and the letter unfolded itself, revealing a short but weighty message.
"Say the time and date. I will be there to lend a hand."
The handwriting was sharp, each stroke laced with sword intent, as if the very letters held the edge of a blade.
A low chuckle echoed through the emptiness. It carried no warmth, only intrigue.
"Interesting. Did you see what Riley Mason did, Old Devil?" Another voice, just as ancient yet tinged with amusement, cut through the stillness.
"Yes," Old Devil replied, his shadow flickering like an unsteady flame. "He mimicked my sword intent. But I doubt he's truly a sword cultivator. His Dao and mastery lie elsewhere."
"Or perhaps this is misdirection," the third figure interjected, his tone measured, unreadable. "We know almost nothing about Riley Mason. The man doesn't even have a Daoist title."
The void fell into a brief, contemplative silence. Even for beings of their stature, there was something unsettling about the unknown.
"Hmph… it doesn't matter." Old Devil's tone was dismissive, yet there was an undercurrent of something deeper—curiosity, or perhaps unease. "We will soon know everything about him—and more. Let's stick to the plan."
Without another word, his shadow flickered once and vanished, dissolving into nothingness.
The second powerhouse lingered for a moment, as if mulling over possibilities unseen by the others. Then, with a faint, thoughtful hum, he too disappeared, leaving only the faintest ripple in the void.
Now, only the ancient ancestor remained.
Alone in the endless darkness, he gazed at the spot where the letter had been, his thoughts swirling like a storm beneath a calm surface.
There were too many questions, too many uncertainties. For all their power, for all their foresight, they stood on the precipice of something vast—something beyond even them.
And Riley Mason was at the center of it.
For a long, long time, the ancient ancestor pondered. And the void, as always, kept its secrets.
