Void Saint: Eternal Ascendancy

The sky above Yulan Province had turned gray—not the gentle ash of dusk, but a hue born of spiritual decay. Even the clouds seemed hesitant to move, hanging like damp paper against the heavens. Villages that once echoed with laughter now stood empty. The silence, unnatural. The trees did not rustle, and not a single beast stirred. It was as though the land had been swallowed whole by something not quite dead, but not living either.

The elite cultivator teams from the Spirit Surge Alliance descended like silent meteors. Sect flags rippled in midair: Skycloud Pavilion, Baiyun Academy, Iron Whisper Pavilion, and—arriving last—Qingling Sect. Their flying vessel landed with a ripple of spiritual light.

Ling Xuanye stepped off the ship first, flipping midair with theatrical flourish, riding a glyph of thunder down to the cracked stone platform. His robes of black and silver swirled behind him like smoke.

Yuè Chányīn, snow-pure in her elegance, landed beside him without sound. Behind her came the rest of the Qingling squad:

Feng Ruo, embers dancing in her eyes.

Huo Shan, a mountain disguised as a man.

Shui Lin, holding a formation scroll like it was part of his hand.

They were young—only seventeen to eighteen—but the spiritual pressure they carried silenced murmurs from the surrounding teams.

A steward elder, Xun Gaoyuan, approached, his crimson robes stiff with age and rank. His gaze lingered on Xuanye with disdain.

"So the Sect Master sends his son," Xun said coldly. "How... diplomatic."

Xuanye gave a long, slow bow. "Qingling sends heart and sword alike. I hope the battlefield does not require both."

Xun's face twitched. Around them, sect elders whispered behind fan-shaped talismans. The balance of power between the sects had always been political as much as martial, and Ling Tianlan, Sect Master of Qingling, had long made enemies with his compassion and reformist ideals. He believed in nurturing spirit over control, insight over hierarchy.

Some saw this as wisdom. Others saw it as weakness.

From a crystal mirror hidden in a formation above, those same elders now observed the youth.

"Watch the boy," said one elder. "If he survives this mission too easily, we may need to... rebalance the contest."

"He is his father's son. Sentiment disguised as genius," another added.

But none noticed how Sect Master Ling Tianlan stood quietly at the edge of the pavilion, gazing toward the cursed province with a faint, fatherly smile—and a storm sealed beneath his sleeves.

The Qingling team was assigned the most dangerous zone: Lanxu Village. Officially, it had been lost to demonic energy. Unofficially, no one who entered had returned.

They flew in under protective glyphs. The fields surrounding Lanxu were untouched by flame but scorched by absence. Trees were hollow. Houses were untouched by rot, yet their doors hung open like mouths mid-scream.

They entered.

Cultivation levels of the team at this point:

Ling Xuanye – Peak Foundation Establishment (with signs of forming his Core Realm soon)

Yuè Chányīn – Mid to Late Foundation Establishment, expert in Frost Echo Sword style

Shui Lin – Mid Foundation, formation specialist

Feng Ruo – Late Foundation, dual fire core attribute

Huo Shan – Early Core Formation (brute strength and defensive tank role)

That night, demons arrived.

Not as beasts. Not as warriors. But as echoes. Whispers. Murmurs that crawled inside bone and soul.

The first real battle took place under the rotting peach trees of Lanxu's shrine.

Xuanye's lightning was precise, unpredictable. Yuè Chányīn's strikes carved arcs of silver light, freezing specters mid-form. Feng Ruo's whips set the air ablaze, and Huo Shan struck the ground so hard, demons were buried alive beneath the rupture.

Shui Lin trapped their escape routes with mirror-illusions, disorienting the swarm.

At dawn, the demons were dead. Soul cores, corrupted but recoverable, were harvested.

Xuanye took ten. Chányīn, seven. Ruo and Lin shared six. Huo Shan kept only three—his were massive.

To be continued...