Grey ended the voice transmission with Zayne in silence. The faint glow of the jade slip dimmed to nothing, leaving the room swallowed by stillness. The last echoes of their conversation lingered in the air like smoke—fragile, vanishing.

Through that brief exchange, he had gathered more than words. Fragments of truth had slipped through Zayne's tone—bits of the world's current beneath the calm surface. When pieced together, they painted a picture darker than dusk.

The first thing Grey learned was that the battlefield was no place for Qi Accumulation cultivators. Those still stationed there were not warriors but placeholders—mortals pretending to stand before gods. They guarded the bones of conquered land until the true cultivators, those of Foundation Establishment and beyond, arrived to claim it. Their purpose was already fading. Their era was almost gone.

The second truth struck colder: the rewards of war had already been claimed. The heavens had opened once, pouring treasures into waiting hands, then closed again without mercy. Even if Grey left now, he would arrive too late. The battlefield would give him nothing—no merit, no treasures—only corpses and the echo of lost chances. His only gain would come from the dead.

The third truth carried the weight of inevitability. The battlefield itself rejected the weak. The Qi there had long been tainted by slaughter—an essence thick with malice, a breath that gnawed upon lesser souls. Only Foundation Establishment cultivators and those above could survive amidst that corrosive air. The rest would be ground into dust beneath unseen wills.

And lastly, there was distance.

The war lay far beyond the horizon, across mountains and wastelands where spiritual beasts roamed and the sky itself was fractured by old battles. To reach it would take weeks—months, even. Sky Mist had once burned through an ocean of spirit stones to send their armies through teleportation arrays, but that generosity had long been exhausted. What remained now was silence, cold and deep.

Grey stood by the open window, watching the mist drift across the distant peaks. The city stretched beneath him, roofs glimmering faintly beneath the half-light of dusk. He could hear the faint sound of bells from a distant temple, lonely and old.

A sigh escaped his lips. "So I must find another path to Foundation Establishment. The war's doors are already closed."

The words drifted out into the night, swallowed by the wind.

He leaned against the frame, his gaze lost in thought. Once, he had imagined that war would be a ladder—a cruel one, but still a path upward. Blood and danger were things he could endure. But the ladder had already been climbed, and those who remained below were left to stare at the soles of departing feet.

His eyes dimmed, and another thought stirred.

The path of a Core Disciple.

If he took that mantle, Sky Mist would pour its resources into him—treasures, techniques, pills. He could ascend quickly, perhaps even effortlessly.

Yet the idea tasted bitter.

To be a Core Disciple was to stand beneath the sect's gaze. To be bright enough to be noticed… and therefore never left alone. He imagined elders whispering his name, measuring his growth, speculating about his secrets. He imagined the weight of their concern—chains wrapped in silk.

He valued silence more than power. Freedom more than favor.

Sky Mist fed its chosen sons with spirit stones and opportunities, but it also bound them with invisible vows. Guardians would follow. Eyes would watch. Every step would echo within the sect's walls.

Grey did not want that. He did not want to be known.

He wanted only stillness—to refine his poisons, to sharpen his arts, to grow like a shadow in the corner of the world. He wanted to find his siblings. And perhaps… to find a way back to the world that birthed him.

But Sky Mist would never help in that.

To them, the past was dust, and other worlds mere dreams.

So, in his heart, the decision bloomed like frost: If there is no other way, I will leave.

Leave quietly. Return quietly. Stronger, unseen.

The moon rose. Night fell.

Grey moved through the sleeping streets of Sky Mist City, his steps soundless against the stone. Lanterns swayed in the wind, their dim flames flickering like dying spirits.

After storing the faces of wanted criminals in his jade slip, he began his patrol. The city breathed faintly, restless. He moved like water—cold, silent, without trace.

But the night gave him nothing.

Most criminals had long learned to hide. Those he found were weak—pickpockets, smugglers, petty men gnawing at the fringes of the sect's shadow. Their cultivation was laughable, their wealth pitiful. Grey cut them down with calm precision, but each victory felt hollow.

Two weeks passed like mist curling between stones.

Each night, he hunted. Each dawn, he returned with less than before. The hunger for progress gnawed at him. His spirit stones dwindled. The barrier before him remained unbroken.

He could feel it—like a wall of glass between breaths. His cultivation had reached the peak of Qi Accumulation. The Forbidden Monarch Art pulsed within him, ready to pierce through, yet something held him back. His Cold Yin energy had ripened, sharp as winter steel. But his counterpart—the opposing flame within—remained dim.

If he forced a breakthrough now, he would cripple his foundation. The Sky Mist Art demanded harmony, and harmony could not be forced.

So he waited. And in that waiting, the city seemed to darken.

He spent long hours alone, staring at the horizon. Sometimes he thought he could hear whispers in the wind—memories from another world, the laughter of those he could no longer reach. They came and went like dreams, each leaving behind a faint ache.

Then, one morning heavy with grey clouds, Grey made his choice.

He approached the captain's quarters, his expression calm. "I'll be leaving Sky Mist City for a while."

The captain regarded him in silence. Her gaze lingered, searching his face for something unspoken. Perhaps she remembered the fight with Bao, or the storm that followed. But she said nothing, only nodded.

Permission was given.

Grey turned to leave. The magic ship he had once flown still rested under her care. He had no need for it now.

At the merchant's square, he bought a Transformation Talisman. The talisman paper was brittle, its runes faded yet alive. When he poured spiritual energy into it, light flowed across his skin like ripples on water.

A new face emerged.

A middle-aged man with dark hair and hollow cheeks. His eyes were voids, his aura muted. Even so, those who passed him instinctively stepped aside. The weak sensed danger without knowing why.

Sky Mist City was vast—a sprawl of stone and spirit light, watched over by nine towering peaks that pierced the heavens. Bridges of white stone stretched between them, carrying the weight of centuries. To some, it was a holy place. To Grey, it felt like a cage of clouds.

He walked toward the teleportation district.

The crowd thickened, yet silence followed him. Qi Accumulation cultivators moved aside, pretending not to see. Foundation Establishment cultivators hid their attention behind calm expressions, unwilling to provoke whatever lingered beneath his skin.

At the heart of the plaza, the teleportation array waited—a circle of ancient runes glowing with pale blue light. The air around it trembled faintly, as if space itself feared to draw too close.

Grey approached and handed over his token. The attendant accepted it with both hands, lowering his head in silent respect.

The runes began to hum. A low vibration filled the air, deep and steady, like the heartbeat of the world.

Blue light rose, wrapping around Grey in a slow spiral. His robes fluttered though there was no wind. His outline shimmered, becoming faint.

He did not step away.

He raised his head and looked toward the horizon one last time. The nine peaks of Sky Mist pierced the heavens, their tips lost in stormclouds. Mists coiled around them, veiling their ancient grandeur in secrecy.

His eyes lingered there—cold, steady, distant.

For a brief moment, a sigh escaped him. Not of sorrow or hope, but of something quieter. A release.

The teleportation light brightened, painting his features in ghostly hues. His body flickered—half shadow, half soul.

Then, as the formation reached its peak, his figure began to fade. The light swallowed him whole, leaving behind only a faint echo of spiritual energy and the soft hiss of air collapsing into silence.

The wind moved through the plaza, carrying away the last trace of him.

Above, the clouds shifted. The peaks watched. The city continued to breathe—unaware that one of its shadows had departed.

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