Chapter 143: Waking Up In The Azure Peaks

The meeting hall of the Zhen clan thrummed with the low hum of voices, a tapestry of debate woven over five grueling hours. Jiang Feng's name hung in the air like incense smoke, curling through every discussion of strategy and survival with Northern Moon's safety at the forefront. Only when the elders had exhausted that thread did they turn to the city's pulse—its people, its faltering economy, the arteries of trade and toil that kept Northern Moon alive. The chamber's high ceiling seemed to press down with the weight of their burdens, its carved beams casting faint shadows over the councilors' weary faces.

Shushu, her sharp gaze softened by the late hour, tilted her head toward Ji Tianyu. The Free Trade Market she governed sprawled across Northern Moon like a living beast, its stalls and barter lanes a rival to the Ji Clan's storied auction houses. "Tell me, Tianyu," she began, her tone light but probing, "how's the funding for Poor Man's Corner coming along? Kia Mundi petitioned to fold it into Northern Moon proper. With his strength—and if we can get Lin Moyi back on his feet—we'd climb into the top two powers here. Was this your scheme, or did that old shadow of an old man of yours cook med it up?" She quirked a brow, well aware that Ji Tianyu, though clan head, stood in the long silhouette of his father—a Nascent Soul titan who still pulled strings from the sidelines.

Ji Tianyu's lips curved faintly, a glimmer of amusement breaking through his fatigue. "You've got it half-right. I nudged Kia Mundi to bring it to the council. Northern Moon's under siege from all sides now that such a youth with so much potential has appeared among us—we need every expert we can rally. My clan's pouring silver into Poor Man's Corner, and soon it'll sprawl wide enough to shelter thousands. It's a gamble worth taking. As for my father?" He chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. "Why not ask him yourself? I'm sure he'd oblige with an answer to make your head spin."

Shushu's smile was a fleeting thing, gone as she shook her head, an awkward and a little frightful look plastered her eyes. "I'd sooner wrestle a storm drake than tangle with that old fox." She knew better than to prod the elder Ji patriarch—his wit was as sharp as his cultivation and twice as unpredictable. Only people like Zhen Chen could match his enigmatic nature.

Knockkk!!

Their banter might have stretched further, but a sharp rap echoed from the side door, urgent and insistent, like the beat of a war drum. The room stilled, all eyes turning as one.

"Come in," Zhen Que called, his voice steady but laced with curiosity 'who could it be now?' He thought.

The door swung open, and a young attendant stumbled in, her steps uneven from haste. Sweat beaded on her brow, her chest heaving as if she'd sprinted across half the city to reach them. "Reporting to the council," she gasped, bowing hastily. "I beg pardon for the intrusion. Ji Moran—she's vanished and we're not sure which direction she went in or how she managed to escape from us. The houseguards are out searching for her as we speak Master. When we checked on the young lady, her attendants were encased in ice. Not dead, thank the heavens, but frozen stiff, unable to move."

"What?" Ji Tianyu shot to his feet, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. His hand twitched toward the door, instinct urging him to bolt through—yet just as he was about to, he paused, a flicker of realization stilling his rush. Slowly, he sank back down, waving the attendant off with a curt gesture. "Thank you for the update, you can go now."

"Yes, Lord Ji." The assistant bowed once again, retreating with the same breathless haste.

Zhen Chen's gaze bore into him, brows knitting in confusion. "Shouldn't you be tearing out of here? Any father would lose his mind over this. If my guess is right, she has gone in search of Jiang Feng."

Ji Tianyu's smile was wry, tinged with exasperation. "My father's been watching her from the shadows. If Ji Moran slipped away, it's because he let her. She's strong, but not enough to outfox the guards he'd have posted—cultivators far beyond her level. No, this is his doing. I just wish I knew what that old man's playing at."

"I see." Zhen Chen nodded, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. The Ji patriarch's eccentricity was a legend in its own right, a puzzle few cared to solve, but one thing was for sure, the old man was no fool.

---

Far from the clamor of Northern Moon, Phantom Valley lay cloaked in an eerie stillness. Half its ranks—fifty percent of its shadowed blades—had spilled into the wilds under Lord Varelith's decree, scouring the earth for Jiang Feng. The order had come swift and sharp from the three elders, who now stood vigil over a grotesque marvel:

A wide pond brimming with bubbling blood, its surface rippling crimson under the dim light. At its center sat Varelith, cross-legged and serene, his breath drawing in the spiritual essence that thickened the air. The elders had laced the blood with rare herbs, their potency seeping into the liquid like a dark elixir, fueling his recovery.

Elder Xu stepped away, his shadow twisting as he entered an adjacent chamber. There, a smaller pond mirrored the first, its blood churning faintly. Within it floated the broken form of Elder Bia, unconscious and incomplete—only his head, torso, and a single arm remained, the rest knitting together with agonizing slowness.

Hundreds of precious resources fed the regeneration, their energies shimmering in the viscous pool. Varelith commanded the lion's share of their care, yes, but the elders spared no expense to assist their fellow man, Elder Bia, their loyalty a quiet fire beneath their grim task.

"What could have wrought this, those who laid wait in the shadows said it was caused by a crystal palace?" Xu murmured his voice a thread of sound lost to the silence. He lingered a moment longer, then turned back to rejoin Elders Shenyin and Liang Yue.

Liang Yue glanced up from a glowing disc in her hand, its surface etched with medical runes pulsing faintly as she studied Elder Bia's condition. "Any word from the search party as yet?"

Shenyin his expression carved from ice shook his head before saying, "Nothing yet. The Obsidian Woodlands stretch vast and wild. If Jiang Feng's out there, it'll take months to sift through, even at our best pace."

"Hmm." Liang Yue's hum was soft and thoughtful. "As expected. The Golden Steppe's pulled back for now, but with Varelith weakened, I wonder how long the Spirit Dome will hold." She looked out at the large multicolored formation that covered the sky.

The blood ponds gurgled faintly behind them, a grim heartbeat underscoring their words. Phantom Valley though silent, had its troubles, by right, they shouldn't have resurfaced as yet. If it wasn't for a command being sent down for the upper realms, it would be another five hundred to a thousand years before they would resurface and sweep the land once they've fully gathered their strengths. But now, its shadows stretch ever thinner across the land.

Three months slipped past like a fleeting breeze, yet the tales of Jiang Feng still burned bright, spreading far and wide across the continents. His name danced on every tongue more on the young than the old, and now his likeness followed—rough sketches and vivid drawings began to circulate, each one hailing him as the new unrivaled young genius of the age, able to contend with the older generation. Among the younger generation, his portrait passed from hand to hand like a sacred relic, fanning the flames of awe and envy among the youths.

At a bustling market stall tucked beneath the eaves of a grandiose rock face, which was large enough to hold hundreds of people, two youths lingered over a tattered sketch, their voices rising above the clamor of bartering traders.

"Did you hear?" one said, eyes gleaming with excitement as he tapped the drawing. "They say there's a super genius from the Obsidian Woodlands—strong enough to trade blows with a Nascent Soul cultivator, I wonder if that's true!"

The other snorted, folding his arms with a scoff. "What a load of nonsense. The Obsidian Woodlands couldn't birth someone like that—it's a backwater compared to the Golden Steppe. You're dreaming if you believe it, if he can fight Nascent Soul then I'm a dog."

"Or maybe you're just jealous," the first shot back, grinning as he tucked the sketch into his sleeve. "Not everyone's stuck in the mud like you."

Further down the street, beneath the awning of a noodle shop, a pair of young cultivators slurped broth and traded gossip over steaming bowls.

"I saw his portrait yesterday," one mumbled through a mouthful, chopsticks hovering. "They say Jiang Feng single-handedly leveled half the Obsidian Gate. Even the seniors are scared senseless."

Her companion raised an eyebrow, swirling her spoon lazily. "Half the gate? Please. Rumors grow legs and run wild. He's probably just some lucky fool with a good sword. Still... those eyes they draw him with—black as a demon's heart. Gives me chills."

Though the sun blazed high in a cloudless sky, the snow-draped peaks of the Azure Peaks stood eternal, their icy crowns untouched by the warmth below. Like the Obsidian Woodlands, this was a land of vast, untamed grandeur—a set of mountain ranges so towering that even in summer's deepest embrace, their summits glistened white, kissed by frost.

The Azure Peaks were a fortress sculpted by nature itself, its jagged cliffs and winds swept past a bulwark against the world. Since the lower realms took shape, a hardy society had thrived here, carving towns into the living rock—dwellings perched on cliff edges, linked by stairways both narrow and broad, gazing out over chasms that plunged into misty infinity.

The cultivators of these heights had long mastered the art of bending wind and ice to their will, drawing power from the peaks' relentless gales and the frigid spiritual energy that pulsed through the stone. This land's strength was its isolation; invaders faced a gauntlet of perilous trails and biting cold that could sap the life of the unprepared in hours. Yet that same seclusion choked trade with the lowlands, rendering goods from beyond the mountains rare and precious, though not absent but expensive.

Deep within this rugged expanse, a cave had been hollowed into a semblance of refuge—a makeshift abode that doubled as a blacksmith's lair. Its entrance was a rough gash in the mountainside, framed by wind-smoothed stone, while inside, the air thrummed with the scent of molten iron and the tang of pine smoke. A forge glowed at the far end, its embers casting a flickering dance of orange light across walls pitted with age.

An anvil rested with solemn weight beside the forge, its surface marred by countless strikes, surrounded by a scattering of tools—hammers, tongs, chisels—arranged with the effortless precision of a master's hand. Shelves carved into the rugged stone walls cradled ingots and jagged scraps of metal, their surfaces catching the firelight in faint, silvery gleams. Tucked toward the rear of the cave, the forging table stood as a quiet sentinel, its presence weaving seamlessly into the rough-hewn surroundings, exuding an unassuming warmth that beckoned one closer.

Yet, to dismiss it as a mere tool, fragile and incapable of shattering peaks, would be a fatal misstep. Beneath its solitary, weathered facade slumbered a boundless, untamed power—silent and still, but poised to unleash devastation swifter than a drawn breath. This was the forging table left behind by Master Jiang.

Here, Jiang Feng sat, legs crossed on a woven mat, a pot of steaming green tea simmering before him. The fragrance unfurled like a living thing—bright and grassy at first, then deepening into notes of roasted chestnuts and a whisper of mountain herbs, carried on tendrils of vapor that curled upward in the cool air. The tea's warmth softened the cave's starkness, mingling with the sharp metallic bite of the forge and the faint musk of damp stone. A single clay cup rested in his hands, its heat seeping into his palms as he raised it to his lips.

He took a slow sip, the liquid's subtle bitterness blooming across his tongue, grounding him in the quiet. At times, his eyes shifted—darkening to an inky black, vast and unfathomable as the depths of a forgotten sea, a void that seemed to swallow the light around him. Then, just as swiftly, they softened, returning to a calm clarity, steady and untroubled, as if the world's chaos could never ripple their surface.

The firelight played across his face, etching the sharp lines of his jaw and the faint scar tracing his brow, a silent testament to battles past. At this moment, amid the cave's rugged solitude, he was both the storm and the stillness—a figure carved from the mountains themselves.