Chapter 142: Current Offairs Of Northern Moon

Three days had passed since the cataclysmic events at the Obsidian Waterfall realm, and already the winds carried Jiang Feng's name like a storm sweeping through dry grass. Whispers of his deeds ignited a fervor that rippled across the martial world's four land masses, stirring awe and unease in equal measure, especially in the Jin Royal Family. Among the younger generation, faces once bright with ambition now sagged with despair, their spirits sinking beneath the vast chasm that separated them from Jiang Feng's towering might. It was as if they stood at the edge of a boundless sea, watching a lone figure vanish into the horizon while they floundered in the shallows.

When the tribulation clouds finally unraveled, their roiling darkness dissipating into the ether, word spread that Jiang Feng yet lived—though he had slipped from sight like mist through clutching fingers. Gao Yundian, elder leader of Thunderclap City lingered only long enough to confirm the rumors before turning his back on the shattered remnants of the Obsidian Gate.

Four indistinct figures had emerged from that chaos, their silhouettes etched against the sky, and the mere memory of them sent a shiver curling down his spine. To even entertain the thought of pursuing Jiang Feng filled him with dread so visceral it prickled his skin. The other senior leaders shared his unease, their steps hastening as they abandoned the desolate site with their juniors.

What remained was a scarred wasteland stretching for miles—an expanse of scorched earth where flames had licked the soil black, jagged fissures splitting the ground like wounds, and faint arcs of remnant lightning flickering in the air like restless spirits. A thousand miles beyond that forsaken place, the land lay flattened, its once-proud hills and mountains reduced to ash, rivers evaporated into ghostly wisps, and the vibrant chorus of wildlife silenced forever. That swath of ruin became a death zone, a grim testament to the power that had clashed there, shunned by all who valued their lives.

Far to the north, in the shadowed halls of Northern Moon, Zhen Chen paced back and forth in a cramped chamber aglow with the soft luminescence of formation lines etched into the walls. Their intricate patterns pulsed faintly, casting a golden sheen across the room's occupants. Four figures moved with quiet purpose around a tall, cylindrical casing filled with a shimmering, opaque liquid that swirled like captured clouds. Within it floated Lin Moyi, his body suspended in stillness, a breathing apparatus clinging to his face like a lifeline. His chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm, a fragile thread tethering him to the living world.

"Doctor Lan, report," Zhen Chen snapped, his voice taut with impatience. These past few days had worn his composure thin, and the question had tumbled from his lips more times than he cared to count.

A wiry man with sharp eyes and a faint dusting of gray at his temples turned from the glowing disc he held—a tool that hummed with subtle energy. Zhen Lan, known to all as Doctor Lan, was both a master of formations and a healer of rare skill within the Zhen clan. He adjusted his stance, his fingers tracing the disc's edge as he spoke. "Old Chen, based on our findings, his body remains intact—no fractures, no torn meridians. But his soul... there's damage there, growing more evident with each passing hour. His complexion pales by the day, and his Nascent Soul, for reasons I can't yet fathom, fails to mend the wounds. This is unlike anything I've encountered. We'll need more time, more tests before I can offer you anything solid."

Zhen Chen's jaw tightened. Doctor Lan's assistants—three practitioners drawn from allied families—worked in silence, their hands deftly adjusting the arrays that fed the medical tube. The contraption was a marvel born of necessity, crafted by Zhen Chen and Doctor Lan to cradle Lin Moyi's faltering life. The liquid within shimmered with the essence of rare herbs, dissolved pills, and spiritual vitality siphoned from spirit stones—a desperate alchemy meant to bolster both body and soul.

"Damn it all," Zhen Chen muttered, his frustration boiling over. Just two days prior, he had clasped Lin Rou's trembling hands, swearing that his father would pull through, that he could entrust him to his care. Now, those words tasted like ash on his tongue, and he groped for answers that refused to come.

Doctor Lan's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, steady but tinged with puzzlement. "There's more. His body harbors traces of lightning—stubborn, elusive threads we can't extract. And within his meridians, a dark energy coils, resisting all our efforts to purge it. The lightning... we might be able to ask the Lei Clan for aid. They've got a knack for such things. But the dark essence energy? That's another riddle entirely." He glanced up from his reports, his brow furrowed, as if the mystery gnawed at him too.

Zhen Chen exhaled sharply. "Keep watch over his vitals. If anything shifts—anything at all—find me at once." With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving Doctor Lan to his ceaseless vigil.

Moments later, he entered the grand hall of the Zhen clan, where a murmur of voices greeted him. His son, Zhen Que, presided over a gathering already underway, his presence a steady anchor amid the storm that had engulfed Northern Moon. These past few days had been a relentless ordeal for the major clans and sects, each tangled in a web of intrigue and consequence too intricate to unravel easily.

"Welcome, Father," Zhen Que said, gesturing to the seat beside him with a graceful sweep of his hand. His dark eyes flickered with concern as they met his father's, reading the strain etched into every line of Zhen Chen's face. Lin Moyi's decline weighed heavily on them all.

As Zhen Chen settled into his place, the six councilors rose in unison, offering a respectful bow. He waved them down with a curt gesture, his mind still half-lost in the medical chamber. The assembly comprised the city's most formidable minds—two women and four men, each a pillar of Northern Moon's governance, their cultivation honed to the mid-late stages of the Golden Core Realm.

The first to break the silence was Qing Lingxuan, leader of the Azure Spirit Hall. Her voice carried the calm of a still lake, though her words bore a quiet weight. "Old Clan Head, the path of cultivation demands resilience. It's a bitter twist that your friend should suffer so, especially now, when the currents run wild and treacherous. We will hold the Shadow Church accountable, I assure you."

Beside her sat Ji Tianyu, head of the Ji clan, Ji Moran's father, his sharp features softened by a thoughtful nod. Lei Huanyu, ruler of the Lei Clan, exuded a faint crackle of energy, his presence as commanding as the storms he wielded. Chi Xi of the Crimson Sky Pavilion leaned forward slightly, his gaze keen, while Tie Mulian of the Ironwood Sect sat with the solidity of the forges he oversaw. Lastly, Shushu, governor of the free trade market, watched with the measured calm of one accustomed to navigating chaos—an entity apart from the Ji clan's auction houses, yet no less vital, she was a strong-willed woman.

Zhen Chen met their eyes, one by one, and felt the burden of their scrutiny. The reports from the Northside awaited, and with them, the next thread in the unraveling tapestry of their fate.

Zhen Que slid a stack of neatly bound papers across the polished table, their edges whispering against the wood as they settled before each councilor. The reports chronicled the latest stirrings within and beyond Northern Moon, a city vast enough to cradle millions, yet dwarfed by the sprawling expanse of the Obsidian Woodlands. News traveled swiftly here, carried on the wings of rumor and the breath of merchants, but even its reach faltered at the edges of the Woodlands and the distant shores of the three continents beyond.

He flipped open the first page, his voice steady as it cut through the hall's heavy silence. "Our scouts report that the Celestial Shadow Church is now led by a figure known as Lord Varelith. Word from our spies—and corroborated by the Jin Royal Family—claims he hails not from the low realms but the upper or in other words the Immortal Domain. The formation shield he's conjured surpasses anything within Nascent Soul capabilities, a feat that speaks of origins far beyond our current understanding."

The councilors bent over their copies, eyes tracing the inked lines with growing unease and concern. Even Zhen Chen's weathered features tightened into a deep frown. Such tidings were the stuff of tales from the lower realms—whispers of ascended beings and forbidden powers—yet here they sat, confronting them as stark reality for the first time.

Zhen Que turned the page, pausing as the weight of his words settled. "For now, the royal family has withdrawn their forces, regrouping to chart their next move. To keep an army stationed there risks annihilation should the upper realms intervene unpredictably if that's even possible. They're treading carefully, and so must we."

A rustle of paper followed as the council digested his report, the air thick with unspoken questions. Shushu, the sharp-eyed governor of the free trade market, leaned forward, her fingers lingering on the text. A seventh-level Golden Core cultivator, her loyalty to Northern Moon ran as deep as the roots of the ancient pines beyond the city gates. "This is troubling," she said, her tone measured but firm. "How did this Lord Varelith pierce the Veil of Severance? Souls crossing that boundary should be snared in the void, unable to escape. Something's amiss—either the veil has weakened, or he wields a power we don't yet understand."

Qing Lingxuan nodded, her serene demeanor masking the flicker of concern in her eyes. As leader of the Azure Spirit Hall, her words carried the weight of experience. "You're right, Shushu. Such an event is rare enough that even the Golden Steppe Sect might hesitate before acting. But this Lord Varelith can't exceed the Nascent Spirit realm—not if we're still standing here unscathed. His strength, though formidable, has limits bound by the lower realms laws."

Lei Huanyu, the storm-tempered ruler of the Lei Clan, shifted in his seat, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Qing Lingxuan speaks true. Reports peg him at mid-Nascent Soul to nearing the upper limits, though he's not unscathed after what happened. General Jin Kael claims he took wounds in that black wasteland that appeared a thousand miles away from the Obsidian Gate—perhaps he took damage from those four, who knows. Whatever the cause, it's bought us time."

Tie Mulian, the broad-shouldered head of the Ironwood Sect, set his report down with a faint thud, his gaze sliding toward Ji Tianyu. His voice, rough as forge-heated steel, carried no malice, only blunt honesty. "Tianyu, I don't mean to twist the knife, but your future son-in-law's name is on every tongue now. The Jin Royal Family, the Celestial Shadow Church, Delta, and Azure Peak have also caught wind—they're fixated on Jiang Feng. Mark my words, the other great cities and those old vipers lurking in the shadows will crawl out soon enough. It's a storm brewing for your daughter. Yet, his strength—at not even thirty years old—is a windfall for your clan and all of Northern Moon. Such strength can promote your Ji clan to a prosperous future, a turning point, yes, but one fraught with peril."

Tie Mulian's candor was as unyielding as the iron he shaped; his fiery spirit was tempered by a core of integrity that made him a man others trusted without hesitation. Ji Tianyu turned to the final page, his fingers lingering over the script detailing Jiang Feng's exploits. There, too, were lines about his daughter, Ji Moran—the fierce young woman bound to this enigma of a man.

The younger generation spoke of how he had carved a path for her through the Obsidian Waterfall Realm, a blade flashing in the dark, cutting down any who dared threaten her safety. Under his cold, watchful gaze, she had honed her skills, shedding fear like an outgrown skin. Her first kill had come beneath his shadow, her heart hardening into something fearless and unyielding, but also cold towards everyone around her except for him.

Ji Tianyu traced the words with a calloused fingertip, his chest a tangle of pride and dread. Ji Moran would draw her sword for Jiang Feng without a thought for her own life, just as he would for her—a bond forged in blood and tempered by the trials inside the Obsidian Waterfall Realm. He pictured her standing beside that young man, her once-soft eyes now glinting like polished steel, her blade an extension of her will.

Was this cause for joy, that his daughter had found such strength? Or sorrow, that she had stepped onto a path so perilous? The council hall seemed to fade as he wrestled with the question, the murmurs of his peers a distant echo against the storm brewing in his heart.

'And those two flames, it's reported that Moran also has one'