Immortal Paladin

Bai Rong, the leader of the White Clan, stood as one of the seven pillars that upheld the glory of the Empire, the Seven Imperial Houses. In appearance, he resembled a young man in his prime, his long white hair cascading like snow under moonlight, his skin unblemished and youthful. Yet, despite that eternal visage, he bore an ancient weight within his gaze forged through millennia of cultivation and mastery. Among his peers, none seemed more vibrant than he, a testament to the depth of his immortal arts.

Draped in pale robes that shimmered faintly with spiritual radiance, he exuded a calm intensity that of the stillness before a storm.

Beside him knelt an elderly figure, Bai Bai, his most trusted subordinate and caretaker of the clan’s sacred grounds.

“Patriarch, you came to see me,” Bai Bai said, bowing low, his frail voice quivering with both reverence and fear. “How may I be of service to your greatness?”

Bai Rong sat languidly upon an ivory throne, being fed slices of a glimmering Immortal Fruit by a trembling attendant. Her hands shook as she cut the fruit, terrified by the sharp tension that clung to the air and by the cold fury hidden behind her master’s serene expression.

“How is the Immortal Tree doing?” Bai Rong asked, his voice low but heavy with pressure.

At once, Bai Bai fell to his knees, forehead striking the marble floor. “Forgive me, Patriarch! I have failed you, greatly! This humble gardener was unable to help the Immortal Tree recover!”

Bai Rong’s tranquil demeanor shattered. “You useless cur!” he thundered, his foot slamming into Bai Bai’s chest. The old man was flung backward, landing several paces away with a dull thud. “This is unacceptable!”

The attendant flinched, retreating swiftly as Bai Rong’s glare swept past her. The basket beside him toppled with a swift kick, spilling out its contents of rotting Immortal Fruits, their once-luminous skins now dulled and lifeless.

They should have pulsed with Immortal Qi, brimming with celestial essence, but now… there was nothing. Only decay.

“Bring me to the Immortal Tree,” Bai Rong commanded coldly.

“Yes, yes, Patriarch,” Bai Bai wheezed, crawling forward on his knees, still bowing as he spoke. “This unworthy one shall lead the way…”

Deep within the White Clan’s ancestral grounds lay the Evernight Garden, a domain veiled by ancient formations and shrouded in drifting silver clouds. Even the threads of fate could not pierce its concealment. It was said that only those of White blood could find passage into that hidden realm, the sanctuary of their most sacred inheritance.

At its center stood the Evernight Tree, an ancient and withering giant whose roots once pulsed with boundless Immortal Qi. Its bark shimmered faintly with residual light, and the few remaining fruits clinging to its branches flickered dimly, like dying stars in a darkened sky. This tree was no ordinary divine relic for it was a remnant of the Immortal Era, gifted to the White Clan by their forebear, who had ascended beyond mortality. Every fruit it bore contained a fragment of eternity itself, capable of elevating mortals into gods.

When the Grand Ascension Empire descended upon the Evernight Continent, Bai Rong had bent the knee in submission to a power rivaling mountains and seas. It was not cowardice but calculation. The Emperor, Nongmin, whose might surpassed even the Tenth Realm, would have coveted the Evernight Tree and crushed the White Clan to dust had he known of its existence.

Thus, Bai Rong sealed his own cultivation, masking his aura as that of a mere Seventh Realm weakling, forcing his clan to do the same. Warriors who once commanded incredible power now cloaked themselves in mediocrity, suppressing their power by three realms to veil their bloodline’s strength. For centuries, they endured, awaiting the day the Empire would weaken enough to be devoured.

But that dream now withered as the Evernight Tree did.

Its fruits, once radiant and brimming with celestial life, were turning hollow. Without them, the clan’s legacy and Bai Rong’s grand ambitions would fade into dust.

“Did you even do anything at all!?” Bai Rong’s voice echoed through the garden, fury shaking the very air.

“I… I did all I could, Patriarch,” Bai Bai stammered, trembling as he pressed his forehead to the mossy ground. “I sacrificed thousands of mortals and inferior cultivators to it—”

“Then why hasn’t it changed!?” Bai Rong roared, his eyes glowing faintly with suppressed might. “Did you even use the Art of Rejuvenation properly? If thousands were not enough, then use tens of thousands! Do you even understand the importance—”

“B-But Patriarch,” Bai Bai quivered, “the realm of Evernight holds only so many… I have already stolen away mortals from—”

“How dare you cut me off?”

The old man froze, horror dawning in his eyes.

“Pathetic,” Bai Rong muttered coldly. “Perhaps your final use shall be of worth.”

With a flick of his hand, a spear of translucent glass materialized, gleaming with condensed spiritual essence. He thrust it forward without hesitation. The weapon pierced through Bai Bai’s chest, and as he screamed, ethereal roots erupted from the ground, wrapping around his frail body.

The Art of Rejuvenation stirred.

The roots pulled, draining his vitality, cultivation, and soul essence… Every drop of power he had ever accumulated in his long life was then fed to the tree. His body shriveled into a dry husk, and faint luminescence crept up the Evernight Tree’s bark. For a brief moment, one dying fruit pulsed weakly with light.

Then, nothing.

Bai Rong exhaled sharply, clicking his tongue in disdain. “A Ninth Realm cultivator… and it barely stirred.”

His gaze lifted toward the fading canopy. The fury in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a colder, darker gleam.

“If the tree demands more… then I shall give it more!”

Patience, Bai Rong… He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

The Immortal Fruit had been the White Clan’s greatest blessing and, now, their cruelest mockery. It was a rare, potent treasure forged of condensed heaven-and-earth essence. A single bite could lift a cultivator by a whole realm, mend a shaky foundation, awaken latent potential, and lengthen a lifespan by decades, even centuries, if refined correctly. Legends whispered that Perfect Immortals sought whole orchards of the fruit; successfully tempering one was said to be a sure path toward true immortality. In Bai Rong’s youth it had carried him within sight of the Tenth Realm and gifted him powerful arts with little toil. Rotten now, however, the fruits were little more than sickly husks.

Bai Rong’s mind drifted back to the beginning of the decline. The Civil War had begun a hundred years ago, and with it the world’s qi had thinned until even the air felt impoverished. If he had been a monk he might have called it karma; as a scholar of hidden arts he suspected a deeper cause. Whatever the reason, the Evernight Tree’s withering meant his schemes would founder unless something changed.

He turned to his attendant. “Send letters to the Clan Heads of the other Houses,” he ordered. “Accelerate our plans, with or without Jia Sen.”

Jia Sen’s sudden flight, some vague claim of being summoned by superiors, had stung Bai Rong’s vanity and strained his resources. Jia Sen’s superior cultivation had been the only thing that let the alliance between the Seven Imperial Houses hold a line against Da Wei; without him, they looked weak. The attendant hesitated; Bai Rong’s patience thinned.

“Go, or do you want me to sacrifice you to the Evernight Tree?” he asked coldly.

“Y-yes, Patriarch,” she stammered, and fled.

As she left, one of Bai Rong’s wives stepped forward. He treated his wives as instruments, breeders and political trinkets, and kept them at arm’s length for their scheming tongues. Still, she dared to speak.

“I’ve come to brave your wrath in place of the others,” she said. “Are we safe?”

Bai Rong’s eyes flared. “How dare you ask me, woman! I am Bai Rong, Patriarch of the White Clan, Bright Glory of the Evernight Continent. You ask if you are safe? Ask whether your tongue keeps you so!”

She persisted, voice steady. “I care little for my life. I have neither children nor those you could torment. I ask because I care for the clan. The enemy grows monstrous. Da Wei… he halted a Hell’s Gate himself, sundered the Summit Hall’s Four Powers and survived. Rumors say the Emperor even bowed to him. This is no ordinary feud; our old tactics may be insufficient.”

“I DEMAND SILENCE!” Bai Rong screamed, bloodshot and furious. He spared her only because she had shown boldness in service to the clan; challenge him again and he promised to rend her.

Within the towering marble hall of the White Clan, the air trembled with the presence of power. Four figures stood before Bai Rong’s throne. It was the surviving Clan Heads of the once-mighty Seven Imperial Houses.

At the forefront was Lu Wang of the Road Clan, a venerable elder draped in flowing robes of imperial purple. His thin white beard reached his chest, and his cloudy eyes gleamed with calculating wisdom. He carried himself with the quiet arrogance of one who had long survived through cunning rather than valor.

Beside him stood Kang Nuan, the young Matriarch of the Fighting Clan. Her scarred yet lithe body was partially bare, muscles taut beneath the dim light of the hall. A bronze circlet rested on her brow, and her expression bore the confidence of one who had fought greater warriors and lived. Her navel and arms were exposed, a silent display of pride in her strength.

To her right waited Xun Li, known as the Sword Pilgrim of the Seeker Clan. Once a famed duelist, he now bore only a single arm, the left sleeve of his robe hanging empty. His aura was sharp as a blade unsheathed, calm yet deadly.

Lastly, Feng Shuren of the Wind Clan, his long silver hair and blue-green robes swaying lightly as though stirred by a constant breeze. His eyes were gentle but unreadable, a storm hidden behind a serene sky.

All four radiated the unmistakable pressure of the Tenth Realm, the pinnacle of mortal cultivation, a state few achieved without divine fortune. Yet Bai Rong knew their secret: each of them had tasted his Immortal Fruits, gifts once given to secure loyalty and favors he had deemed necessary at the time. They owed their might to him.

Bai Rong leaned back upon his throne, the white jade armrests cool beneath his hands. “We need to discuss how we will deal with the traitors,” he said, his voice even but edged with threat. “If you have ideas, then feel free to share them with the rest of us.”

Lu Wang chuckled softly, the sound dry and brittle like old parchment. “Of course, Patriarch Bai. We came to address our strategy against the insipid mongrels who dare question our rule.” His tone shifted subtly, amusement curling his words. “But we also came for a bit… of your charity. Of course, you would be well compensated.”

The words hung in the air like venom.

Bai Rong’s eyes narrowed. His calm expression darkened as he clenched the armrest, the veins in his hand standing out like pale cords. “You dare come for my Immortal Fruit?” he said, voice low but shaking with restrained rage.

Among the Seven Imperial Houses two seats already stood empty by fate and force: Matriarch Hei Yuan of the Black Clan had perished, and Tian Meng, the head of the Sky Clan, had been captured. The Black Clan had not even sent a representative. Bai Rong suspected their household was reeling from inner turmoil and grief. The Sky Clan, with their matriarch taken and Da Wei’s terror still fresh in their cities, had fallen into paralysis and bitter indecision.

Those who remained, however, all bore agendas sharpened by loss and ambition; each had come with thoughts of the Immortal Fruits. Xun Li, blade-arm concealed, waved the empty sleeve like an accusation. “The last time we set that ambush against Da Wei we lost terribly. Most of us were grievously wounded. We need to heal… your Immortal Fruit is the best elixir for that.” The memory of facing two Perfect Immortals without Jia Sen still stung; the plan had collapsed when Jia Sen failed to appear.

Kang Nuan’s voice was raw with hatred. “Let me taste the Immortal Fruit once more so I may raise my realm. I fear neither the Void’s touch nor madness if it means vengeance on the Emperor and Da Wei for what they did to my clan.”

Feng Shuren spoke with the calm of a strategist. “Distribute a few to talented soldiers and raise their realms. The campaign against the Riverfall Realm would be far easier… we could crush their forces.”

Their pleas all boiled down to the same thing: power, recovery, and advantage. Bai Rong watched them, the Evernight Tree’s decay a bitter taste at the back of his mind. He closed his hand into a pale fist and answered flatly, “No.”

Lu Wang, the old patriarch of the Road Clan, rubbed his beard and let out a heavy sigh. His eyes gleamed with both exhaustion and quiet defiance. “It seems you do not understand our situation, oh, our glorious leader.” He smiled thinly. “Maybe it’s time we elect a new one.”

The words landed like stones cast into still water.

Before Bai Rong could reply, Feng Shuren stepped forward, robes rippling with a faint gust that followed his every movement. His voice was calm, but behind that calm brewed frustration and despair.

“We are being outmaneuvered by powers far greater than our own,” he said. “The enemy fields Immortals, Bai Rong. The Riverfall Realm commands an army of dragons.” His voice grew louder and angrier. “And Da Wei… he has yet to even reveal himself! His armies, few though they are, wreak havoc across our borders unchecked! Two of our allied clans have folded under the pressure, though they lack the courage to admit it! Our losses are mounting by the day!”

He took a step closer, his expression grim. “We need a win, Bai Rong.”

The White Patriarch rose from his throne, robes flaring with a sudden surge of killing intent. “Don’t you raise your voice to me, boy!” he thundered, and the spiritual pressure in the hall thickened until the air itself trembled. “Without me, you would still be a lowly Eighth Realm strategist, drowning in the failures of your so-called tactical brilliance! A brilliant mind, yet one that couldn’t even conquer a backwater province!”

He turned sharply, pointing a trembling finger at Lu Wang. “And you, old fox! Without me, you would’ve rotted away years ago, dying a shriveled corpse dreaming of the Tenth Realm! It was my Immortal Fruit that saved your decrepit soul from decay, that gave you another taste of power you never earned!”

Bai Rong’s eyes burned now, veins standing out on his temples as he swept his gaze toward Kang Nuan, who stood defiantly even under the weight of his fury. “And you, little girl! You would still be a mindless barbarian stuck in the Seventh Realm if not for me! My Immortal Fruit awakened your pitiful talent, allowed you to dual cultivate with me and made you what you are! Do not forget who your master is!”

Finally, he turned to Xun Li, the one-armed Sword Pilgrim, whose calm expression faltered for the first time. “And you, wandering cripple, dare speak of needing more of my fruits? Where is that Hollow Star your clan worshiped? That treasure said to make its wielder god of the world? Where is it, Sword Pilgrim?” Bai Rong’s laughter cracked with bitterness. “Maybe if you’d found it, we wouldn’t be wallowing in this humiliation!”

His words echoed through the hall, venom and frustration interwoven like smoke and flame.

Suddenly, the world shuddered.

Bai Rong froze mid-breath as the sky outside darkened, the light in the hall dimming to a sickly amber hue. The walls trembled as quintessence flooded the air. The clan heads turned, eyes wide, as the floor beneath them thrummed like a living heart.

A bat darted across the edge of the hall’s ceiling. Bai Rong’s gaze snapped to it just in time to see it dissolve into black smoke, vanishing as though consumed by unseen flame.

“What—?”

Before any could speak, the heavens split open.

A blinding golden sword descended from the clouds, tearing through the sky like the wrath of an ancient god. It plunged into the sands far beyond the palace walls, and when it struck, a shockwave of divine radiance rolled outward. The light burned so fiercely that all shadows fled, and when it faded, the desert had been turned into an ocean of pure glass.

The clouds above boiled with darkness, lightning without thunder threading through their depths. And from them descended a figure… a skeleton, immense and radiant, its bones wrapped in a halo of holy light. Wings of bone spread wide, vast enough to blot out the moon, each rib reflecting the glow of distant stars.

The creature’s empty sockets burned with golden fire. Its presence pressed down upon the land like judgment itself.

Bai Rong staggered back a step, breath catching in his throat. The clan heads stood paralyzed, unable to muster a word.

Then the being spoke, its voice reverberating not through air, but directly through their souls.

“I am Ezekiel—Herald of the Great Guard,” it said, each syllable ringing with dreadful finality. “Judgment and Destruction now walk this realm. If you seek the favor of Heaven, or the mercy of annihilation, come to me upon Mount Qingshi.”

The clouds above rumbled, and the halo flared once more before the creature vanished into motes of light, leaving behind only silence and the faint echo of its divine decree.

Bai Rong stood frozen, the words echoing in his mind like thunder: Judgment… Destruction… Mount Qingshi.

For the first time in an age, the Patriarch of the White Clan felt something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.

Sheer dread.