The fifth day of Han Xiao's rest began with an unusual silence. Usually, the Seventh Peak was alive with the distant echoes of disciples practicing their shouts or the rhythmic clashing of wooden training swords. But today, the air felt heavy, like the sky was holding its breath.
Han Xiao woke up in his small shack. He didn't use a jade bed to gather spiritual energy. He slept on a simple mat of woven straw. He spent the first hour of his morning just sitting by the open door, watching a spider weave its web across the corner of the eaves.
[System Notification]
[Day 5 of Rest: The Harmony of Internal and External.]
[Task: Walk the 'Path of Thousand Year Echoes'.]
The Path of Thousand Year Echoes was a restricted area—a narrow bridge of natural stone that connected the Outer Sect to the Forbidden Peaks. It was said that the wind there carried the whispers of the sect's founders. Most people avoided it because the pressure of the "Ancestral Intent" was enough to crush a weak cultivator's mind.
Han Xiao walked toward it. He wasn't wearing shoes. His feet, toughened by a century of walking every inch of the mountain, felt the texture of every pebble. To him, the ground wasn't just dirt; it was a story written in minerals and time.
As he reached the stone bridge, he saw a group of men. They weren't disciples. They were Sect Protectors—men in heavy iron armor, their faces hidden behind visors. They were at the Foundation Establishment level, guarding the bridge against anyone who might try to sneak into the forbidden zones during the chaos of the Great Trial.
"Halt, mortal," one of the guards said, his voice echoing inside his helmet. He lowered a spear that glowed with a faint, threatening blue light. "This path is not for servants. Turn back before the Ancestral Pressure shatters your soul."
Han Xiao stopped. He looked at the bridge. The wind was howling across the chasm, creating a high-pitched whistling sound.
"I'm not here to enter the Forbidden Peaks," Han Xiao said quietly. "I'm just here to listen to the wind. It's been ten years since the wind hit this bridge from the North-West. It has a different song today."
The guards laughed. It was a harsh, metallic sound. "The wind is just wind, boy. Move along. We don't have time for crazy talk."
Han Xiao didn't move. He looked at the guard who had spoken. He noticed a small, hairline crack in the man's breastplate—right over the heart. He also noticed that the guard was breathing shallowly, his Qi stagnant in his chest.
"Your armor is too tight," Han Xiao said. "And your 'Frost-Core' cultivation is leaking. If you stay on this bridge for another hour, the wind's vibration will hit that crack and shatter your ribs."
The guard stiffened. "How do you—"
Before he could finish, a sudden gust of wind roared through the canyon. It wasn't magic; it was just nature. The wind hit the stone bridge, creating a low-frequency vibration that made the very air tremble.
Ping.
The crack on the guard's armor suddenly split wide. The man gasped, his face turning pale as his own Qi began to rebel. He stumbled back, his spear clattering to the ground.
Han Xiao stepped forward. He didn't attack. He simply placed a single finger on the guard's cold, iron-clad shoulder.
"Exhale," Han Xiao whispered.
It wasn't a technique. It was a suggestion. But to the guard, it felt like a mountain had just moved off his chest. The stagnant Qi in his body suddenly found a vent and flowed out. His breathing became deep and rhythmic. The danger of a Qi deviation vanished instantly.
The other guards raised their spears, terrified. They didn't understand what had happened. They only saw a servant boy touch their captain, and the captain had collapsed into a state of deep meditation.
"Stay back!" one shouted.
"I'm just passing through," Han Xiao said, his voice as calm as a pond.
He walked onto the bridge.
The "Ancestral Pressure" that people feared hit him immediately. It was a mental weight, the collective ego of a thousand dead masters demanding that the living bow down. To a normal cultivator, it felt like being submerged in deep water.
Han Xiao didn't fight the pressure. He didn't try to resist it with his own will. He simply became "transparent." He let the pressure flow through him like light through glass. He didn't offer any resistance, so there was nothing for the pressure to crush.
He walked to the center of the bridge and sat down, dangling his legs over the edge of the thousand-foot drop.
Below him, the clouds moved like white rivers. Above him, the sun was a distant, golden eye.
"You guys really were loud," Han Xiao whispered to the empty air, talking to the "Echoes." "Always talking about being 'Number One' or 'Ascending to the Stars.' Didn't you ever just enjoy the way the fog looks in the morning?"
The wind seemed to huff in annoyance, then it settled. For the first time in centuries, the Path of Thousand Year Echoes became truly silent. The Ancestral Intent didn't vanish; it just stopped shouting. It was as if the dead masters had finally met someone who wasn't impressed by them, and they didn't know what to do other than listen.
Han Xiao sat there for six hours. He didn't meditate. He didn't circulate Qi. He just watched a hawk circle a distant peak. He watched the shadows of the clouds move across the valley floor.
By the time he stood up to leave, the guards at the end of the bridge were staring at him in total silence. They didn't raise their spears. They didn't shout. They stood aside, their heads bowed slightly, not out of respect for his power—because they still couldn't feel any—but out of a strange, instinctive fear.
They felt like they were looking at a piece of the world that had decided to take a walk.
Han Xiao walked back to the Outer Sect. As he passed through the market, he saw people crying and cheering over the results of the Trial. He saw more "geniuses" being carried away on stretchers, their foundations ruined by their own greed.
He shook his head.
"Five days," he muttered. "The mountain is getting restless. They can feel the silence, and it scares them."
He went to bed early that night. He didn't dream of gods or dragons. He dreamed of a broom that never got tired.