Frost that weeps, Fire that grows.
Yue Shilan's body had healed. Her cultivation had soared. Her skin still bore the faint Sutra glow on her collarbone, like a brand no one could see—but everyone felt. The Saintess of Verdant Flame no longer moved like an untouchable goddess. She moved like a woman who had been broken open… and had liked it.
And that truth haunted her.
She had meditated every day since that night. Cold qi swirled around her like a defensive wall. But inside, her spiritual sea was no longer still. Haaron's essence was there now—entwined with hers. When she tried to suppress it, her pulse raced. When she ignored it, her thighs warmed. When she accepted it… her core throbbed with want.
She was no longer just bonded by the Sutra.
She was possessed.
And she hated how much it thrilled her.
Every time Haaron claimed another woman, her body reacted. The Sutra tugged. Her breath would hitch, her vision blur. She knew who he was with even before the bond completed. And the shame twisted her stomach each time jealousy bloomed in her chest.
She'd mocked Lian Rou for her submission.
Now, she understood it.
Worse—she craved more.
In the Pavilion, changes were no longer subtle. Disciples who spent even a few minutes within Haaron's cultivation field emerged with flushed cheeks and sharper eyes. Some cried after meditating. Some moaned in their sleep. Several had already advanced realms they'd been stuck in for years.
The elders noticed.
Elder Fen, once fiercely skeptical, stood at the gates of Cold Ember's inner court and watched a line of junior disciples wait outside Haaron's courtyard just to offer him fruit, tea, or questions.
She clenched her fists.
"He hasn't taken them," she muttered to herself. "And still… they fall."
Elder Bai had it worse. Three of his personal disciples had already begun inscribing makeshift Sutra glyphs onto their clothing. One had even carved a half-formed version into the handle of her blade. When asked why, she said, "It makes me feel… closer to him."
He sent her into seclusion—but not before she reached Mid Core Formation.
Without pills.
Without manuals.
Just proximity.
The elders held a meeting.
And Yue Shilan listened.
"We're no longer in control," Elder Qun said. "They meditate near him and break through without formal guidance."
"The Sutra network is feeding his presence into the mountain," said another. "The Pavilion's leyline is starting to resonate with his qi."
Elder Fen stood. "We should silence him."
"Then what?" Yue asked, voice like ice. "Face the consequences when a hundred of our most gifted women rebel overnight?"
Silence.
She rose. "You call it corruption. I call it evolution."
"And if it continues?"
She looked toward the north peak—where Haaron's residence glowed faintly with Sutra light.
"Then this mountain will no longer belong to Cold Ember Pavilion."
"It will belong to him."
Cold Ember Pavilion's inner halls weren't silent anymore.
Qi trembled in the walls.
The Leyline beneath the sect—the spiritual artery Cold Ember had relied on for centuries—was no longer icy and still. It pulsed. Warmer. Hungrier. Shifting in harmony with Haaron's meditations, flaring subtly with each Sutra-bound climax, echoing the rhythm of his breathing.
The Pavilion's mountains weren't just sheltering him.
They were responding to him.
The land itself whispered his name.
And far away, beyond the Verdant Flame Sect's reach, others had begun to listen.
The Obsidian Lance Domain, a growing power bordering the lower eastern provinces, had dispatched informants to observe Cold Ember weeks ago. They returned with disturbing accounts:
"A rogue dual cultivator…"
"No official sect backing…"
"He refines enemies into pills mid-battle…"
"He's building a living formation made of women."
And worst of all:
"His qi is rewriting the structure of their mountain. Without any formal conquest."
Sect Master Zhen Mo, a stoic man known for never raising his voice, crushed a jade scroll in his bare hand after the report.
"This man is not just a threat," he said. "He is an infection."
"Should we send assassins?" one of his lieutenants asked.
"No. That would only draw retaliation. We'll test him first."
"Test, Master?"
"Send the frozen shadow beast. Let's see if the stories are true."
Back in Cold Ember, Haaron stood shirtless beneath the spirit tree again, meditating with his Sutra net cast passively across the upper courtyard.
He felt Yue Shilan on the rooftops, watching him again.
He felt Lian Rou's soft steps on the wind.
He even felt the subtle tremble of the disciples aligned to his presence—each one a spark waiting to ignite.
Then, the mountain roared.
The eastern forest exploded.
A creature emerged—a black-ice beast with crimson veins, twisted horns, and spirit fangs longer than sabers. Its qi was vile. Malevolent. It had no natural source—this thing had been bred, refined, and unleashed to do one thing: kill.
Disciples screamed.
Elders flew to their balconies.
Yue Shilan drew her blade—
But Haaron raised one hand.
"No.
He walked forward Alone.
The beast sensed his power and charged—fast, brutal, heavier than any low-rank Nascent Soul beast should've been.
It roared.
He smiled, His palm glowed.
"Refining Sutra—Pulse Gate Opening."
The beast struck—only for Haaron to sidestep and slam his hand into its chest.
A suction force ignited.
The monster screeched as its spirit core was sucked out of its body—not all at once, but slowly. Painfully. Haaron refined the beast alive. Its muscles melted. Its bones twisted. Its breath faltered.
One minute later, it collapsed into dust.
In Haaron's hand sat a newly formed pill—dark, pulsing, still warm. He swallowed it, and broke through.
The mountain quaked.
Dozens of disciples fell to their knees, gasping as Haaron's breakthrough surged across the Sutra bond. Three of them advanced realms instantly, moaning aloud from the overwhelming qi resonance.
From her perch, Yue Shilan climaxed mid-meditation, her robes clinging to sweat-slick skin.
And far away, in Obsidian Lance's inner court, Sect Master Zhen Mo opened his eyes for the first time in two weeks.
"So. He's real."