Whispers turned to rumors, and rumors began to take shape as fear. Children were told not to speak his name aloud. Monks prayed against omens. The skies above the empire seemed to darken with each of his breakthroughs. Where once the heavens had celebrated his rise with rainbow light and falling petals, now there came only silence, or worse—thunder.
At Cloudveil Academy, two disciples sat beneath a plum tree, their tones hushed and anxious. "Did you hear? Li Fan conjured a lightning storm just by breathing. They say his qi burned a meditation hall down."
His name no longer inspired awe—it triggered unease. Fear rippled through sects like wildfire. The Golden Whisper Sect quietly withdrew support. The Flame Orchid Pavilion closed its gates to his emissaries. Even wandering cultivators gave his path a wide berth.
Li Fan returned briefly to Scarlet Moon City for supplies. There, a merchant hesitated to sell him spirit pills. "Forgive me, Young Master," the merchant said, not meeting his eyes. "I'm… out of stock."
Li Fan's gaze drifted to the shelves, stacked full. A flicker of disappointment crossed his face, but he said nothing.
That night, in a secret council chamber beneath the imperial capital, the Emperor's Grand Strategist laid out a star map. Red markers pointed to every sect Li Fan had visited.
"We cannot allow another wilden to emerge," he said grimly. "The last brought about the Great Scorching War. Entire provinces burned."
A general frowned. "But he's just a boy."
"A boy who commands heavenly tribulation every few cauldrons," the Strategist replied. "His path must be… corrected."
The Emperor, cloaked in gold and silence, nodded once. An imperial decree was drafted that night, and a shadowy envoy was dispatched. Their mission: observe, report… and, if needed, eliminate.
Meanwhile, Li Fan sought shelter in the Ruins of Silver Hollow to continue his cultivation. Wen Rourou, traveling discreetly a few paces behind, kept a journal.
"Day 12," she wrote. "He saved a deer caught in a hunter's trap. His kindness remains intact, but the people no longer see it. They only see what he might become."
As they moved through the next village, peasants bowed deeply but kept their distance. One elderly man offered a flower, then trembled and dropped it before running away.
Li Fan picked up the bloom, silent.
"What am I becoming?" he whispered.
Wen Rourou walked beside him. "You're becoming what they fear. But fear is often blind."
Later, as they set camp beside a silver stream, Li Fan stared at the stars, trying to find comfort in their ancient stillness. But even the constellations seemed to shift away.
That night, in a dream, he stood before a blazing cauldron. Voices echoed from the past—caution, warning, despair. And somewhere deep within, a voice—his own, but changed—whispered, "What they fear is not you… but the mirror you hold up to their cowardice."
The moon overhead was full, but behind a veil of storm clouds.