After the laughter and awe of the Nine Divine Flying Dragons Array trial faded, Haotian withdrew from the gathering. While the sect still buzzed with shock at dragons circling the skies, his mind was already upon another matter.
Their cultivation heritage was as beautiful as it was deadly—elegant, fluid, swordwork like lotus petals drifting upon water, hiding blades sharp enough to pierce mountains. Yet during the River Trial, Haotian had seen their weakness: their swords, while finely made, were far from enough for what was coming. Against saint-level enemies, ordinary steel would break like reeds in a storm.
He resolved then: when he next returned to the Moon Lotus Sect, he would bring them blades worthy of their art. His swords.
But as he approached the forges of the Azure Dragon Sky Sect, his steps slowed. The forge fires hissed faintly in the distance, their glow beckoning him. Yet he did not step forward. His fingers tightened at his side.
It had been too long.
Years of cultivation, battle, and formations had carried him away from the anvil and hammer. The memory of fire and steel still burned in him, but forging was not only about memory—it was rhythm, refinement, technique. And in this time, techniques had evolved.
Instead of entering the forge, Haotian turned away, his robes brushing the stone floor as he made for another destination.
The great iron doors parted with a deep groan as he entered. The scent of aged parchment, oil, and faint iron dust filled the air. Rows upon rows of shelves stretched into the distance, crammed with scrolls, jade slips, and leather-bound volumes. Lanterns glowed softly, their flames steady, casting long shadows over the accumulated wisdom of centuries.
Haotian walked slowly, eyes gliding over titles: On the Tempering of Spirit Iron.Meld of Beast Bone and Steel.Runic Infusion: Seven Schools of Thought. He traced his fingertips along the spines, the faintest smile curling his lips.
He drew several scrolls and tomes, laying them upon a wide wooden table at the library's heart. Then he read.
Hours passed in silence broken only by the rustle of pages. His gaze moved steadily, devouring diagrams of hammer sequences, elemental resonance arrays, forging runes designed to stabilize molten cores, and new compression techniques that allowed metals to breathe with chi rather than resist it.
At one point he paused, eyes narrowing upon a triple-spiral forging array etched across the page. Its design condensed elemental resonance within a blade's marrow, harmonizing flow and edge. Perfect for jian forged for fluid sword arts. He committed the pattern to memory, tracing it once in the air with his finger before letting the light fade.
By the time he closed the last scroll, the library was quiet save for the faint flicker of lanterns. Haotian rose, the lanternlight catching in his golden eyes.
"Good," he murmured. "When I return to the Moon Lotus Sect, their blades will be ready. Not steel to break—but swords that sing."
He left the library with calm steps, the knowledge etched into his mind like fresh runes upon steel. The forge would wait until he returned to Moon Lotus—but when he stood there, hammer in hand, the flames would know him again.
The Azure Dragon Sky Sect slept under a quiet dawn, but deep in its heart the forge roared awake.
Haotian stood before the grand forge, sleeves tied back, hair bound high, his expression calm but resolute. He had studied, prepared, remembered the rhythm of hammer and flame — now came the true work. The sect had released their finest metals, crystals, and essences at his request, the vaults emptied into crates stacked high along the walls. To others, it was wealth unimaginable. To Haotian, it was simply fuel for what had to be done.
"Hundreds," he murmured, running a calloused hand across the first ingot of moonsteel. "Each one not just a sword, but a bond. A legacy."
He cast it into the forge. Flames roared like a dragon waking from slumber. The ingot glowed, softened, then melted into white-hot liquid. He added lotus silver, marrow crystal shards, and powdered jade dust, each screaming as they fused. Sparks lashed outward, etching temporary runes into the forge floor.
Then Haotian gripped his hammer.
The runes inscribed on its head pulsed in resonance, glowing faintly as if recognizing its master's hand. His first strike fell.
CLANG!
The sound shook the chamber. The molten mass folded under his will, pulled into form.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The hammer's rhythm rang like divine thunder. Each strike was not just force — it was intent, chi pulsing down the handle into the steel, weaving runes into its marrow. Sparks flew, showering the hall like falling stars.
Haotian's movements flowed into the Runic Compression Spiral method he had memorized. Each spiral he etched into the blade's spine compressed chi within its veins. Each folding strike infused marrow crystal, birthing elemental resonance deep inside. Each engraving carved lotus-petal arrays into the steel's skin, harmonizing the blade with the sect it was meant for.
Hours passed. Sweat slicked his temples, his breath steady but deep. His arms moved tirelessly, every blow precise, as though the heavens themselves struck through him.
The first blade emerged — slender, silver-blue, gleaming faintly like moonlight over a lotus pond. He quenched it in lotus-infused water. Steam hissed upward, fragrant, as though lotus blossoms themselves bloomed in the air.
When the hiss faded, he lifted the sword. Its edge shimmered, scattering a faint halo of chi-petals. The guard bore a lotus sigil, its core humming with hidden resonance. The first Yuehua Jian.
Haotian's lips curved faintly. "One."
He did not rest.
The second blade soon joined it. Then the third. Then the tenth. His hammer sang without pause, sparks falling like constellations across the forge hall.
Day faded into night. Lanterns were lit, but their glow paled before the brilliance of the forge. Disciples dared peek from afar, their breaths catching as they saw not just one or two, but rows of swords beginning to line the anvil stands — each glowing faintly, humming like a living thing.
On the second day, the forge still burned. Haotian did not stop. His body moved with mechanical perfection, each strike merging spirit, marrow, and steel. Crates emptied. Metals vanished into the roaring mouth of the forge, only to emerge reborn as moonlit blades.
By the third day, dozens of swords gleamed across the racks. The hall now smelled of lotus and ozone, air shimmering with the resonance of the blades. Some vibrated faintly, petals of chi drifting off their edges without being wielded.
By the fifth day, the forge hall itself seemed transformed. Rows upon rows of Yuehua Jian gleamed in the dim light, silver-blue edges catching firelight and scattering it like rippling moonbeams. When the wind brushed through the hall, the sound was not of steel rattling — it was of petals scattering across a pond.
On the seventh day, Haotian finally set his hammer down. His robes clung with sweat, his hands raw with calluses reopened and healed again by circulating chi, his body heavy yet unbowed. Before him stretched racks upon racks of finished swords — hundreds of Yuehua Jian, each one unique in resonance yet bound by the same design.
They hummed together like a choir. The forge chamber glowed with moonlight not from the sky but from the swords themselves, their silver-blue sheen lighting the hall like a still lake under the full moon.
Haotian exhaled, golden eyes sweeping across his work. For a long moment, he stood in silence.
Then, softly, he named them:
"Yuehua Jian."
The word seemed to ripple across the hall, the swords themselves resonating faintly, as though acknowledging their name.
When he returned to the Moon Lotus Sect, he would not arrive empty-handed. He would bring them a legacy.
Hundreds of Yuehua Jian, forged in moonlight and lotus, to raise their sect into legend.
By the seventh day, word had spread.
At first, only the forge disciples knew — whispers of hammer blows that never ceased, of sparks that fell like stars even in the dead of night. They spoke of a man who neither rested nor faltered, who hammered from dawn until dusk, and from dusk until dawn again.
Soon, curiosity overcame fear. Disciples began to creep toward the forge hall in secret, peering through cracks in the great doors.
What they saw stole their breath.
The forge blazed like the heart of the sun, yet the hall itself glowed like the surface of the moon. Racks upon racks of swords shimmered in silver-blue radiance, their edges humming with resonance. The air was filled with the faint fragrance of lotus blossoms, carried by steam still rising from quenching basins.
Hundreds of jian stood as though awaiting their masters, each humming faintly, each scattering ghostly petals of light into the air. Together, their resonance layered into a symphony of moonlit harmony.
One disciple gasped, pressing both hands over his mouth."They're alive… every blade feels alive."
Another whispered, eyes wide, "This isn't a forge hall anymore. It's a sacred field."
The sound of Haotian's hammer rang once more — a deep, resonant clang that made the disciples tremble. Then silence followed. When he finally lowered the hammer, the glow of the forge dimmed, leaving only the shimmering radiance of the swords.
At that moment, several figures appeared at the end of the corridor. Elders of the Azure Dragon Sky Sect, drawn by the rumors, had come to see for themselves. Their steps slowed as the doors creaked open wider. Light spilled out, bathing them in silver-blue.
The eldest among them — his beard long, his cultivation aura steady as a mountain — froze. His eyes darted across the hall, over the rows of swords gleaming like a lake of moonlight. His lips parted, but no sound came.
An elder beside him whispered hoarsely, "This… this is no mass forging. This is a legacy creation. He's… he's rewritten the meaning of our craft."
Another shook his head, stunned. "Hundreds of swords… and not one flawed. Not one wasted. Each hums as if a divine weapon."
The eldest finally spoke, his voice trembling. "No… not as if. They are. Divine-grade… every single one."
The disciples behind them sank to their knees, overcome by the weight of the scene. Some wept quietly, not from fear but from reverence, as though standing in the presence of a sacred miracle.
And at the center of it all, Haotian stood. His robes were scorched, sweat slicking his body, his hands raw from days of relentless hammering. Yet he stood tall, golden eyes calm as he looked upon his work.
He did not bask in their awe. He simply turned to the elders and spoke, voice low but steady:
"These are Yuehua Jian. They will go to the Moon Lotus Sect. With them, their blades will never again be outshone, nor will their disciples fight with steel unworthy of their art."
The hall remained silent for a long time.
Then, almost in unison, the elders bowed deeply. Not to the swords, but to the man who had birthed them.
One whispered into the still air, words that spread like wildfire through the sect before the day was done:
"Not just a cultivator. Not just a forgemaster. He is… a founder."
And from that moment on, the disciples of the Azure Dragon Sky Sect began whispering a new title:
Haotian, the Moonlit Forger.
The forge hall lay quiet, its brilliance dimmed now that the fire was finally quenched. Rows upon rows of Yuehua Jian lined the racks, gleaming faintly in the silver light of dawn. The Azure Dragon Sect disciples stood in reverent silence, their eyes locked on the swords, their hearts shaken by what they had witnessed. Elders gathered in the courtyard beyond, waiting. Even the Sect Master himself stood at the center, hands folded within his robes, his expression grave.
Haotian emerged from the hall, robes still darkened by soot, his hands bandaged from days of relentless forging. Yet his posture was upright, his golden eyes clear. He walked forward, each step ringing against the stone like a bell tolling in the stillness.
The Sect Master inclined his head. "Haotian. You have honored us beyond words. What you have given to the Moon Lotus Sect will echo through generations."
The elders bowed. The disciples followed, the weight of their respect pressing down upon the courtyard like an unseen tide.
But Haotian raised a hand, stopping them. His voice rang out, not harsh but steady, carrying across the courtyard.
"Raise your heads. Do not bow to me. If you must bow, bow only to the future you must carve."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. His gaze swept across them — elders, masters, disciples, even the Sect Master.
"You have seen it," Haotian continued, gesturing toward the forge hall behind him. "The Yuehua Jian were born not because of me alone, but because of what lies ahead. A storm is coming. The demons will return. Their shadows already stir beyond the Sea Bridge. These blades are preparation, yes… but blades are only as strong as the hands that wield them."
He paused, letting his words sink into their bones. His golden eyes burned.
"You must become stronger. Every disciple, every elder, every hand that carries the Azure Dragon Sky Sect's name must rise higher than they are now. I can buy you time — I will fight at the front and keep the storm at bay — but I cannot shield you forever. When the tide comes crashing, it will demand everything of you."
The courtyard was silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Then, slowly, disciples clenched their fists. Elders straightened their backs. The Sect Master's eyes narrowed, his aura stirring like a mountain waking. The fire Haotian had lit burned within them all.
A young disciple whispered fiercely, "I will not falter." Another followed: "I will reach higher." Soon the courtyard was alive with voices, rising together into a roar:
"We will become stronger!"
Haotian's lips curved faintly. He gave a single nod, then turned to the Sect Master.
"My task here is finished. Take care of the swords until I return to deliver them to Moon Lotus Sect. And prepare your sect — the time will come when every hand will be needed."
The Sect Master bowed low, this time without hesitation. "We will not fail you."
With that, Haotian turned. His robes whispered against the stone as he stepped away, the disciples parting before him as though the sea itself yielded to his path.
The great gates of the Zhenlong household swung open, lantern light spilling over the courtyard stones. Haotian crossed the threshold, his steps steady, his robes still darkened by the soot and sweat of forging. Yet for all the awe that had followed him through sects and mountains, his heart beat faster now than in battle.
He ignored the calls and bows of servants and kin rushing to greet him. His path carried him straight through the familiar halls until he stood before the residence where he knew they waited.
The doors slid open with a soft creak.
There, bathed in lamplight, stood Bai Lianhua. Her violet eyes glistened with emotion she had long held back, her lips curving into a trembling smile. And in her arms was a small bundle swaddled in pale-blue silk.
A child.
Their son. Tianlan.
Haotian froze, his breath catching. All the storms he had endured, all the trials he had conquered, paled before this moment. He stepped forward slowly, as though afraid the vision would vanish if he moved too fast.
Lianhua's smile softened. "He's been waiting for his father."
Haotian reached out, his large hands hesitant, almost trembling, before Lianhua gently placed the child into his arms.
Tianlan stirred, tiny fingers uncurling. He opened his eyes — dark yet luminous, a faint golden flicker deep within them, as though the bloodline of dragons had already awakened in his veins. His gaze met Haotian's without fear, without hesitation.
A lump rose in Haotian's throat. His golden eyes softened, a warmth breaking through his normally unyielding gaze.
"My son…" he whispered. His hand cradled the boy's small form with reverence, as though holding the most fragile treasure in the world. "Tianlan."
The child gurgled faintly, one tiny hand curling around his father's finger. At that touch, Haotian's heart clenched — the sovereign, the forgemaster, the cultivator who had battled saints and demons alike… was undone by a child's grasp.
Lianhua leaned against his shoulder, her voice hushed. "He has your strength already. He'll need it for the world ahead."
Haotian kissed his son's brow, his voice low and firm. "No storm, no demon, no heaven or earth will harm him. Not while I live."
The following days passed in a rhythm of peace Haotian had nearly forgotten existed.
He spent mornings cradling Tianlan as they walked the garden paths. He would pace slowly, telling stories of rivers and mountains to a child too young to understand, yet who gazed at him with wide, intent eyes as though listening to every word. The boy laughed when Haotian summoned sparks of golden chi above his palm, little bursts of light dancing in the air.
Afternoons were spent with Lianhua. Sometimes she guided his clumsy attempts at fatherhood — how to hold the boy when he cried, how to soothe him with the gentle rhythm of a lotus lullaby. Sometimes they simply sat together beneath the lantern tree, Tianlan nestled between them, their hands touching as they watched their son sleep.
Evenings belonged to the household. Relatives came to glimpse the child, elders murmured blessings, cousins whispered of his bright future. Yet even amidst family, Tianlan seemed to cling most fiercely to Haotian's presence, small hands reaching whenever his father drew near.
And through it all, Haotian felt the weight of the world ease, replaced by a warmth fiercer than any flame: the love of family.
Moonlight spilled across the Zhenlong household. Inside Haotian's chamber, Tianlan slept in perfect peace, the soft breaths of an infant undisturbed.
But across the room, his parents had long since abandoned restraint.
Haotian and Lianhua tumbled together onto the bed, lips locked, hands roaming, robes forgotten. Months of longing burst into fire, their passion raw and unstoppable. And as their bodies joined, the Union of Dual Souls Sutra awakened.
At once, threads of gold chi unfurled from Haotian, and blue chi spilled from Lianhua. They twisted together above the bed, glowing with rainbow flares of the ten elements, before plunging back into their joined bodies.
The first cycle began.
Pleasure unlike anything ordinary lovers could imagine tore through them. Their voices broke in unison as the merged chi completed its loop, climaxing together in a rush of light and sensation.
But the Sutra did not stop.
The golden and blue threads pulsed again, twining tighter, merging deeper. The second cycle surged through them, forcing another wave of release, even more powerful than the first. They cried out, bodies trembling, but there was no pause, no respite.
Each cycle demanded another climax.
By the tenth, their bodies shook violently, sweat pouring down their skin, but their embrace only grew more desperate. The Sutra multiplied their pleasure threefold, leaving them helpless against the torrent. Each pulse of chi left them gasping, hearts pounding, eyes locked with tears of passion.
By the twentieth, the room was in chaos. Threads of rainbow chi lashed the walls, cracking the floorboards, making the entire chamber tremble. Their cries echoed with every cycle, their bodies writhing together in endless waves of ecstasy and cultivation.
By the thirtieth, their strength faltered, yet their passion burned fiercer. They clung to one another as the Sutra drove them forward. They were slaves to the cycles now, their bodies arching again and again as the flow of gold and blue merged into rainbow brilliance, climax after climax shattering through them.
By the fortieth cycle, they could take no more. Their bodies convulsed in one final overwhelming release, the rainbow chi erupting outward in a blinding column that blasted through the roof and into the heavens.
And then, at last—
Exhaustion claimed them.
They collapsed together, slick with sweat, their limbs entwined, their chests heaving. The rainbow glow faded slowly into their skin, the chi threads sinking deep within. The chamber lay ruined around them, but within their bodies their cultivation surged, foundations reforged, bottlenecks shattered.
Lianhua pressed her face weakly into Haotian's chest, her voice trembling with exhaustion."Every time… every cycle… it feels like dying and being reborn…"
Haotian kissed her damp hair, his golden eyes half-lidded but steady."And every time, we endure. Stronger. Closer. Until the next storm comes."
They drifted into sleep at last, wrapped in each other's arms, the scent of sweat and the glow of cultivation lingering in the air.