Shàng Guān Zhě moved without haste.
The mountain paths beneath her feet bent subtly, roots shifting, stone receding, as though the land itself understood her destination and chose not to obstruct her. The qi here was ancient—old enough to have forgotten obedience. It did not resist her presence.
It acknowledged it.
Ahead, rising beyond the mist and the fractured peaks, stood the colossal tree.
Calling it a tree was an insult born of limitation.
Its trunk was wider than fortress walls, its bark layered like petrified time, each ring faintly visible and inscribed with natural formations that no cultivator could reproduce. Its crown pierced the clouds, branches stretching outward like veins of the world itself.
Shàng Guān Zhě stopped at its base.
She removed her gloves.
Pressed her palm to the bark.
Then—three fingers.
One after another.
Not with force.
With intent.
Three Constitution Points were offered.
The tree accepted them.
The bark shuddered, veins of dim crimson light pulsing outward from her touch. A low, resonant sound echoed from deep within the trunk, like a heartbeat remembering itself.
Slowly, seamlessly, a vertical seam appeared.
The bark parted.
A door opened.
Shàng Guān Zhě stepped inside.
The interior was hollowed not by tools, but by time.
A spiral staircase wound upward, carved directly from the living trunk. The air was cool, heavy with an old, metallic scent—blood long since dried, memories long since fermented.
As she ascended, the walls changed.
Mounted upon them were heads.
Preserved, stabilized, each suspended within faint, translucent formations. Their expressions varied—terror, defiance, resignation, even peace.
Cultivators.
Beasts.
Entities whose origins could no longer be easily classified.
Predators who had once believed themselves untouchable.
Each head was placed carefully.
Intentionally.
Shàng Guān Zhě did not slow.
Until she reached an empty space.
A perfectly shaped recess.
Unoccupied.
A small jade plaque beneath it bore a single name:
Zhao Ming
Her masked gaze lingered.
"Soon," she said softly.
Then she continued upward.
At the top of the Tree, the world opened.
The chamber was vast, circular, open to the sky. Sunlight filtered through the branches above, breaking into gentle patterns across the polished wooden floor. A simple table sat at its center.
Upon it rested a porcelain tea set.
Steam curled lazily upward.
Seated at the table was a woman.
She wore a plain white dress, unadorned, covered loosely by a red robe that draped over her shoulders like spilled blood. Her long white hair fell freely down her back, untouched by ornament. Her eyes—frivolous, vivid red—held no sharpness.
Only distance.
She lifted her cup, sipping calmly, as though the world beyond the Tree were not on the brink of motion.
Around her sat three others.
One wore a fox mask, its expression carved into a perpetual, knowing smile.
One wore a massive bear mask, rough and heavy, his presence alone distorting the qi around him.
One wore a sleek crow mask, feathers etched in obsidian lines, her posture relaxed yet coiled.
As Shàng Guān Zhě stepped forward, all four hunters turned.
She knelt.
"The Owl returns," said the fox-masked man lightly. "Did the mountain entertain you?"
"I found traces," Shàng Guān Zhě replied, rising. "And interference."
The bear snorted. "Everything interferes eventually."
She turned her masked gaze toward the woman at the table.
"The One That Views from Above reports," she said formally.
The lady did not look up.
"Speak," she said softly.
"There is no sign of Zhao Ming yet," Shàng Guān Zhě said. "But his shadow remains active. Someone erased his trail deliberately."
The fox chuckled. "Elder Zhao, perhaps. Or fear."
She continued. "I encountered a boy named Chen Yuan."
The fox's fingers paused mid-motion.
"Oh?" he said. "That name surfaces often lately."
"He does not impress me," Shàng Guān Zhě said evenly. "He adapts, but he lacks depth. His growth is reactive, not predatory."
The bear leaned forward. "Then kill him."
"I did not," the owl replied. "He is not yet worth the effort."
The fox laughed quietly. "Careful. That is how interesting prey begins."
"The deal with the elders proceeds," the fox continued. "I will side with them temporarily. Lies are most fertile when power believes itself secure."
Shàng Guān Zhě inclined her head. "I will assist. Searching Zhao Ming. Removing Chen Yuan if necessary."
The bear's masked gaze turned toward the horizon beyond the Tree. "Once your deal is done, I move."
The fox raised a brow. "Toward what?"
"The elders," the bear growled. "Their minds are weak. Their convictions brittle. I cannot stand it."
The crow spoke for the first time.
"I will not interfere," she said calmly. "I will wait."
"For orders?" the fox teased.
"For clarity," the crow replied.
The lady lowered her cup.
The porcelain clicked softly against the table.
She stood.
Instantly, all four hunters rose.
Not from fear.
From instinct.
"Do whatever it is that you seek," the lady said.
Her voice was gentle.
Fragile.
Yet it carried through the Tree, through the roots, through the mountain itself.
"But do not interfere," she continued, red eyes lifting slowly, "with The Seed of Destruction."
The words settled like ash.
No one questioned them.
The lady turned back toward the sky, as though the conversation had already ended.
And in that moment, it was clear—
She was not merely seated within the Tree.
She was part of it.
Far below, on the Ascendant Grounds, Chen Yuan continued to climb—unaware that his name had been spoken among hunters, weighed, and set aside.
For now.
But the Tree had noticed him.
And the Tree never forgot.