CHAPTER 168: CH-168: CORE THAT STIRRED

The night after the tribulation bled slowly into dawn.

Outside the cultivation chamber, the Feilun Sect was restless. Elders had not slept; disciples whispered nervously as though afraid the sky itself might crack again. The heavens had screamed during Tian Shen’s breakthrough—lightning so violent the mountain’s protective wards had nearly splintered. Such things did not go unnoticed.

The sect grounds felt tense, every pine needle and stone carrying the residue of a storm that had not been born of weather, but of one man.

Tian Shen.

Within his chamber, the silence weighed heavy. Tian Shen sat unmoving, though inside him the Utopian Core thrummed with an untamed rhythm, as though mocking the stillness. His breath was calm but shallow, every inhale dragging against the storm lingering in his veins.

He opened his eyes.

The silver threads in his pupils flared faintly, and for a heartbeat, the chamber seemed too small to hold him. The qi in the air recoiled from his presence. The faint glyphs carved into the chamber walls—designed to stabilize cultivation fluctuations—were hairline cracked.

It wasn’t just his power that unsettled the air. It was the nature of it. Too sharp, too wild, as though he carried a fragment of tribulation lightning within him, one that wanted nothing more than to split heaven from earth.

He stood slowly. His limbs trembled at first, then steadied as qi surged to reinforce his muscles. Each movement whispered of raw force barely reined in.

The Utopian Core pulsed harder, feeding violent suggestions into his mind. Consume. Assert. Show them you are above.

He pressed his palm against his chest. "Not yet."

...

The door creaked open.

Feng Yin stepped back inside, her eyes sharp as ever. She studied him for a long moment in silence, as if assessing not the wounds on his body but the state of his spirit.

"You didn’t rest," she said flatly.

He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. "The Core doesn’t sleep. Why should I?"

Her frown deepened, but she said nothing of it. Instead, she gestured. "The elders summon you. Already the sect feels your storm. To ignore them would be to invite suspicion—and fear left untended grows teeth."

"Fear already has teeth," Tian Shen replied, brushing dust from his scorched robes. "But fine. Let them gnash."

The walk from the secluded chamber to the sect’s grand hall felt longer than usual. Disciples stopped mid-step as he passed. Some bowed hurriedly, others avoided his gaze entirely. Murmurs trailed behind him like whispers of leaves in wind:

"Did you feel the heavens split last night?"

"They say he endured nine bolts of tribulation lightning."

"No one survives nine. No one."

"His aura—it doesn’t feel human anymore."

He heard every word. The Core inside him swelled with their fear, feeding off it, urging him to claim dominance. But Tian Shen kept his stride steady, his jaw tight.

When he entered the grand hall, the murmur stilled into silence.

The elders of Feilun Sect sat in a half-circle, their robes heavy with authority, their gazes sharper than swords. At the head, Sect Master Yan Zhen, a man with hair white as frost but eyes burning with the clarity of a hawk.

Tian Shen stepped into the center, his presence pulling the qi of the hall taut. Even seasoned elders shifted uncomfortably. His aura pressed outward, not intentionally—but like a storm cloud that cannot help but darken the land beneath it.

Yan Zhen’s voice cut through the pressure. "Tian Shen."

"Sect Master," he answered, bowing just enough to show respect, but no more.

"You broke through," Yan Zhen said simply. His gaze narrowed slightly. "The heavens bore witness. And so did the sect. Tell me—what have you brought back from lightning’s judgment?"

The words were not mere curiosity. They were an inquiry into his nature—was he still Tian Shen, or something else entirely?

Tian Shen let silence stretch before he spoke. "Power," he said at last. "But power with a price. I will carry it."

A ripple went through the elders. Some frowned, some whispered, but Yan Zhen remained unreadable.

One elder, sharp-faced and brittle-voiced, leaned forward. "That aura you exude... it is not stable. It reeks of hunger. Will you endanger your own sect with your... half-tamed storm?"

The Core inside him flared at the insult, whispering violence, urging him to silence the elder with blood. His fingers twitched before he stilled them.

"I endured the storm," Tian Shen said evenly. "It did not consume me. That is proof enough that it cannot."

"Arrogance," the elder hissed.

"Confidence," Tian Shen corrected, his gaze cold.

The hall thickened with tension, qi rising as if blades might be drawn. But Yan Zhen lifted a hand and silence fell instantly.

"Enough." His voice carried the weight of a mountain. His eyes lingered on Tian Shen. "Power such as yours will draw eyes—both allies and enemies. And not only from within Feilun Sect."

At that, Feng Yin, standing at the edge of the hall, spoke for the first time. "Foreign sects already stir. I’ve sensed their spies in the outer markets. They heard the storm too."

The hall rustled with unease. Foreign sects—always circling like vultures at the scent of weakness, or the rise of dangerous talent.

Yan Zhen’s gaze sharpened further. "Then understand this, Tian Shen. Your Core is no longer yours alone. The moment you broke through, you became both a blade and a target. How you wield yourself will decide whether Feilun Sect thrives—or burns."

Later, as the hall emptied and elders dispersed in whispers, Tian Shen lingered beneath the high rafters, staring at the sect banner fluttering faintly.

Feng Yin approached quietly. "They fear you."

"As they should," he answered, voice low. "Even I fear me."

Her gaze softened for a fleeting instant. "Good. Fear means you haven’t forgotten restraint."

He gave a short laugh. "Or it means I haven’t yet lost the war inside."

That night, Tian Shen stood alone on the cliff’s edge overlooking the sect grounds. The mountains stretched endless beneath the starlit sky. His Core pulsed violently as he inhaled the night air, qi surging with every breath.

And then—he felt it.

A presence. Not one of Feilun Sect. Foreign qi, sharp and cold, probing from beyond the wards. A watcher.

His eyes narrowed, silver gleam flashing. "So soon?"

The Core surged hungrily. Kill them. Feed.

He clenched his fists, holding the whisper at bay. "No... not yet."

But his lips curved into something between a snarl and a grin. If foreigners had already come, then the storm that began with his tribulation would not be contained.

The heavens had tested him. Now, the world would.

And Tian Shen—scarred, half-broken, and dangerous—welcomed it.

The following days uncoiled like drawn bows.

Disciples avoided his path, even those who had once trained alongside him. In the training yards, whispers of his storm grew into stories: lightning beasts had descended, the mountains had almost split, Tian Shen had devoured the sky. Myths sprouted before the dust had even settled.

Some disciples looked on him with awe. Others with fear. None with indifference.

The elders kept their watch. Some argued quietly for his promotion, others for his isolation. But Yan Zhen, always sharp-eyed, allowed silence to be his verdict—for now.

And beyond the sect’s walls, shadows stirred.

Spies whispered of a young cultivator who bore lightning’s inheritance. Foreign sect envoys began to linger near the borders. Merchants carried tales to cities where hungry powers listened. The storm Tian Shen carried in his chest was no longer his secret.

It had become a beacon.

...

One evening, Tian Shen sat cross-legged atop the sect’s northern cliff. Feng Yin stood behind him, silent sentinel.

The Core inside him rumbled violently, restless. Phantoms stirred again, clawing for release.

He grit his teeth, forcing them back.

Feng Yin finally spoke. "You won’t be given peace. Not by the Core, not by the sect, not by the world."

"I know."

"Then what do you want, Tian Shen?"

His eyes opened, silver streaks flashing under the moonlight. His answer was steady, carved from the storm itself.

"War."

The word rang out, carried by the wind, swallowed by the night.

And in the darkness beyond the mountains, foreign eyes gleamed, already moving toward Feilun Sect.

The beast within him purred.

The heavens above were silent.

For now.

The silence did not last.

At dawn, the first clash of foreign qi struck the outer wards. It was subtle, like a testing hand pressing against paper, but Tian Shen felt it instantly. His Core surged, answering the provocation with a violent pulse that rattled his bones.

Feng Yin’s voice cut through the rising tension. "They’ve come to probe, not to strike. Yet."

Tian Shen rose, robes fluttering in the mountain wind. His silver-threaded eyes burned as he gazed beyond the sect’s borders. "Probing or not, they’ve already crossed the line."

Below, disciples rushed to reinforce the barriers, their fear sharp as the storm in the air. Elders whispered hurriedly, debating whether to confront the intruders directly.

But Tian Shen’s lips curved into a grim smile.

"Let them come closer," he murmured. "The storm doesn’t chase. It waits—until it breaks."

And deep inside, the Core purred with anticipation.