On the wedding day, the capital wakes beneath banners of red and gold.
During the day, Merin stands beside Yu Diexin and participates in the rites of this world's wedding ceremony, his posture steady, his expression composed, every movement precise and without error.
Incense burns.
Vows are exchanged.
He feels the weight of countless gazes settle on them, measuring, judging, reassessing the balance of power the moment the final ritual concludes.
Yu Diexin's hand is warm in his, her grip calm but firm, as if anchoring herself as much as presenting unity to the world.
When the sun finally sets, the atmosphere changes.
Lanterns bloom like constellations brought down to earth, music fills the estate, and Merin steps into the role of host.
He entertains guests, exchanges cups of wine, and accepts congratulations from nobles, ministers, and clan heads, his smile practised and unhurried.
Yet unease creeps in.
He notices it first as pressure.
Then, as a glance held too long.
Then, as naked hostility.
The Seventh Prince watches him across the crowd, eyes sharp, jaw tight.
When the prince approaches, he does not bother with pleasantries.
He leans close, voice low, teeth clenched.
"Take care of Wenji," the prince says.
"Otherwise…"
The threat is left unfinished.
The prince turns and walks away without waiting for a response.
Merin remains still, wine cup halfway raised, bewilderment flickering briefly across his face before it is smoothed away.
He watches the prince's retreating, puzzled rather than angered.
After a moment, he exhales softly and resumes mingling as if nothing occurred.
As the evening deepens, Ye Wen steps half a pace behind him and murmurs, "Lord, the man near the east pavilion—he calls himself Chu Feng, a nobleman from Mian Province."
Merin's gaze shifts.
He sees him immediately.
Chu Feng stands apart from the densest clusters, posture relaxed, expression mild, wine glass held loosely in one hand.
Memory stirs.
The first meeting, years ago, when Merin cleared a slaver den.
Chu Feng had introduced himself then as an ordinary citizen.
Even at the time, Merin had noted something off—his etiquette too refined, his composure too measured for a civilian.
Merin had not cared.
Then Ye Wen speaks again, quieter this time.
"Lord, Chu Feng is also a friend of the Lady."
Merin's thoughts snap into alignment.
Cangzhou Mountains.
That second meeting.
Chu Feng had not been alone then.
A woman wrapped tightly in a cloak, no skin exposed, presence hidden.
Merin's eyes narrow slightly.
"That woman," he thinks, "was Yu Diexin."
As if sensing his attention, Chu Feng turns.
Their gazes meet.
Chu Feng lifts his wine cup and walks toward him.
"Congratulations, Lord Duan," Chu Feng says, inclining his head politely.
"Thank you," Merin replies.
"Chu Feng, I hear you are a friend of my wife."
Chu Feng's expression remains composed, but beneath it Merin senses turbulence—emotion tightly restrained, compressed like coiled wire.
Calmly, Chu Feng answers, "Dongji Province lies near my homeland. For the past two years, I was responsible for procuring spiritual materials from there."
"By chance, I met Yueqing and Wenji, and we became friends."
Merin nods once.
"I am not interrogating you," he says evenly.
"You needn't explain in such detail."
Then, after a brief pause, he adds, "I am glad my wife has friends who roam the world to maintain justice for the people."
Chu Feng smiles, a touch awkward.
"Lord Duan, I came to give you an invitation."
He produces a sealed envelope.
Merin accepts it, raising an eyebrow as he glances briefly at the seal.
"My family is returning to the capital," Chu Feng explains.
"It is an invitation to our party."
"Please come to support me."
"I will," Merin says without hesitation.
Chu Feng bows lightly and withdraws into the crowd.
The night continues.
Merin speaks with ministers, clan heads, and one by one, the king's sons.
Each prince measures him differently—some with curiosity, some with caution, some with undisguised ambition.
As the celebration winds down and guests begin to depart, a commotion stirs near the entrance.
Voices hush.
Bodies shift.
Merin turns and sees Prince Yuan, the king's brother, arriving late.
Merin walks to greet him.
Prince Yuan congratulates him formally, his tone appropriate, but Merin notices the solemn weight beneath his words.
As they speak, Merin senses it clearly.
The prince cannot perceive his true cultivation.
To Prince Yuan's senses, Merin appears only at the minor stage of Inner Refining.
Yet despite that, unease flickers in the prince's eyes.
Instinctive.
Primal.
As if his body warns him of something his perception cannot grasp.
Merin keeps his aura suppressed, his golden-tinged white skin hidden beneath layered robes, his presence carefully contained.
Still, he feels it.
Prince Yuan senses danger.
He masks it well, but the instinct does not lie.
After offering his congratulations, he departs without lingering, his steps measured, his expression calm, yet his presence leaves behind a faint pressure, like the echo of a drawn blade.
Merin watches him go.
He understands.
No important guests will be coming tonight.
The ones who matter have already seen enough.
Merin turns, finds his younger brother, and places a hand on Duan Lin's shoulder.
"You handle the remaining guests," he says quietly.
Duan Lin nods, eyes bright with a mix of pride and excitement, and immediately steps into the role.
Merin leaves the banquet hall and returns to his room.
—
The next day, Merin wakes at noon.
Sunlight spills across the floor in a pale sheet, filtered through layered curtains.
Yu Diexin lies beside him, her breathing steady, her body relaxed in a way that speaks of complete exhaustion.
They have made a habit of it since the wedding.
Last night, however, she had been unusually relentless.
Merin had not refused.
He had helped her burn through her energy until dawn claimed them both.
Now, with practised care, he disentangles himself and rises, dressing quietly so as not to wake her.
Within minutes, he leaves the room and enters his office.
The space is orderly, familiar.
On the desk, placed neatly at the very top, lies an invitation letter.
Merin picks it up.
Qionghua Salon.
Three days later.
The invitation is addressed to both him and Diexin.
Chu Feng's seal rests at the corner.
Merin sets the letter aside without comment and turns his attention to the family documents stacked beside it.
Reports.
Accounts.
Territorial matters.
Clan correspondence.
He reads with calm focus, his mind moving faster than his eyes.
Since speaking with Ye Weiran, the concept of faith has taken root in his plans.
Not vaguely.
Not abstractly.
Precisely.
In a few months, he will request a transfer order from Commander Di.
Not east.
Not south.
But west—northwest.
Wein Province.
The borderland near the Magoon Mountains.
In the Song Kingdom, and even across the neighbouring realms, faith is weak.
People rely on law, lineage, and power, not gods.
Even if he advances to Saint, belief would not spread easily here.
But the mountain tribes are different.
They already worship.
Totems.
Spirits.
Ancestors.
All he needs to do is replace the totem.
Not erase belief.
Redirect it.
The Magoon Mountains are perfect.
Remote.
Fragmented.
Faith-rich.
By the time he advances to Saint, the foundation must already be laid.
Satisfied with the outline of his plan, Merin continues reviewing documents until nothing urgent remains.
He leans back slightly and closes his eyes.
Introspection.
His consciousness sinks inward.
Within his dantian, a vast Sea of Qi churns gently, crimson tinged with gold, deep and heavy with power.
Swimming through it is the Dream Gu.
It moves freely now.
Not restrained.
Not resisting.
Like a fish in water.
The Dream Gu is still in its first form.
Most natal spiritual items can evolve.
A Gu, being alive, can evolve even further.
Merin's control over it is absolute.
The Gu is no longer merely an external tool.
It is closer to a clone.
An extension.
Merin opens his consciousness to it.
Instantly, perception shifts.
The world fractures into overlapping layers—dream, reality, memory, fear.
Threads stretch outward from the Gu, invisible yet present, mapping emotional imprints across space.
Merin observes calmly.
He does not act.
Not yet.
His consciousness settles deeper, syncing with the Dream Gu as if slipping into a second pulse. He feels its body—not as flesh, but as instinct, hunger, potential—and begins circulating his Qi with careful intent. This time, he does not feed it blindly. He guides it.
An evolution direction takes shape.
In his mind, an image forms with absolute clarity.
A purple Gu, its surface scattered with star-like golden points, each one pulsing faintly like distant constellations. Its body grows larger, longer, and more defined. Hundreds of legs unfold beneath it, layered and jointed, built for stability and grip across dream and reality alike. Its teeth harden, becoming serrated, crystalline, and capable of tearing through mental defences. Its skin thickens, gaining a metallic sheen—not rigid, but adaptive, like living armour.
When the image completes, the Gu responds.
Threads spill from its mouth.
Not silk.
Not web.
But something closer to dream-substance, half-real, half-illusory.
The threads wrap around its own body, layer by layer, spinning inward until the Gu seals itself within a cocoon. The cocoon pulses once—then begins to breathe.
Each breath draws in Merin's Qi.
Not violently.
Not greedily.
But steadily, rhythmically, as if the Gu has learned restraint.
Merin opens his eyes briefly, noting the faint tug within his dantian, then closes them again.
He lets it continue.
—
By the time dinner arrives, the cocoon remains intact, its surface faintly glowing with alternating purple and gold light.
Merin does not interrupt it.
Instead, he turns his focus to Ye Weiran's scripture.
The words are dense, layered with implication rather than instruction. Cause and effect intertwine with fear, puppetry folds into transformation, and each concept overlaps like strands of a web viewed from different angles. Merin does not try to memorise it. He dissects it.
He strips away Ye Weiran's intent.
Keeps only the structure.
At dawn, he wakes without opening his eyes.
Cultivation resumes.
Spiritual energy flows into him through breath, through pores, through the subtle resonance between his body and the world. His Sea of Qi responds immediately. Crimson rain falls from the thinning Qi cloud above, each droplet striking the sea below and vanishing into it.
The sea expands.
One millimetre.
Then another.
Each second, another fraction is added.
Slow.
Relentless.
Measured.
He knows the threshold.
When his Sea of Qi reaches one kilometre in breadth within his dantian, he can break through to the next realm.
The Origin Seal Realm.
Also called the Origin Core Realm.
But he has no intention of breaking through immediately.
As with the Inner Refining Realm, the outer realm is not defined solely by reaching the minimum requirement. The Qi can be refined further.
Bronze Sea of Qi.
Silver Sea of Qi.
Gold Sea of Qi.
Each stage compresses, purifies, and sharpens the Sea of Qi, increasing both density and quality. The reward is immense. Breaking through with a Bronze Sea pushes the Origin Core directly to the third stage. Silver reaches the fifth. Gold—seventh.
The power difference is not linear.
It is crushing.
But the cost is just as clear.
Heavenly tribulation.
The more refined the Qi, the more violent the thunder.
Many warriors do not even refine to Bronze.
They fear the lightning.
Merin does not.
He plans further.
If he refines his Sea of Qi to Gold before breaking through, then survives the thunder tribulation, the next obstacle will not be heaven.
It will be humanity.
Human tribulation.
Interference.
He wants it all at once.
He wants to break through directly into the ninth stage of the Origin Core Realm—
And from there, step into Soul Awakening without pause.
Merin continues refining.
The cocoon within his dantian breathes in sync with his Qi.