Immortal Paladin

[POV: Jia Sen]

Before the Empire was ever forged under the Final Emperor, there was a man who descended from the Heavenly Temple carrying a sealed decree and the quiet weight of obedience. His name was Jia Sen, the one later hailed as the Founding Patriarch of the Cloud Mist Sect, the Yunwu Sect (云雾宗).

He had once stood at the heart of the Empire’s birth, ordered by the Seers of the Heavenly Temple to build a Sect that would act as a counterbalance to the rising power of the mortal sovereign known only as Nongmin. Jia Sen had not questioned the Temple’s caution; he understood his place within Heaven’s hierarchy. So he sought a sacred mountain wrapped in perpetual mist, refined its core with his immortal essence, and upon that ethereal peak he built his Sect.

From there, he forged a doctrine.

“Cloud and Mist, Yet Never United.”

The motto served as a reminder that Yunwu was to remain elusive, unbound, never attached. A shroud that could conceal but never cling. It was, in truth, his own way of staying detached from the mortal realm, for his heart belonged to the Heavenly Temple.

Yet his disciples had taken the words differently. To them, the cloud and mist symbolized transcendence: lofty, pure, and untouchable by worldly concerns. They lived their lives in stillness, cultivating serenity. Jia Sen had often watched their meditations from the clouds, quietly amused by their earnestness. Though they annoyed him with endless questions and philosophies, their small insights were his rare entertainment in his long existence.

But that was long ago.

Now, standing at the summit of the Yunwu Mountain, the ancient patriarch gazed over his Sect one last time. The mists that had once felt like home now drifted cold and distant.

He sighed softly. “Alas… the time has come for me to cut ties with this part of my life.”

Below, the once-tranquil Sect convulsed in chaos.

Disciples and elders alike fell to their knees, their faces twisted in agony as glowing marks flared upon their chests, the very sigils of loyalty that Jia Sen had bestowed upon them centuries ago. Now they pulsed with devouring light.

“Patriarch… please! Mercy!” cried an elder, his voice breaking as white strands of hair turned to fine fur. “We have served faithfully—!”

A young disciple clutched at his chest, tears streaking his pale face. “Master, I haven’t even reached the Soul Recognition yet… please, don’t take it back!”

Their pleas rose together with hundreds of voices, desperate, pleading, but Jia Sen heard none of it. His gaze remained calm, detached, as though watching distant clouds drift past a quiet horizon.

“Your devotion has not been in vain,” he murmured. “Your essence shall not be wasted.”

With a gesture, the sigils upon their bodies ignited. Blue fire burst forth. It was cold, unnatural flames that froze the very air. The disciples screamed as their flesh hardened, then burned in frost.

White fur sprouted from their skin, shedding like falling snow as their bodies convulsed. One by one, they collapsed into vapor, mist returning to mist.

The air thickened with a fog tinged silver and blue, swirling toward Jia Sen.

He opened his arms, his robe flaring as a vast, black vortex appeared behind him, a gaping World Devouring Maw that drank in the storm of fading souls.

Within that swirling darkness stirred the shape of a fox, nine tails faintly outlined in divine flame, its eyes burning with immortal hunger.

Jia Sen’s voice was soft and reverent. “Be still, my little one. Feed well… and awaken.”

The Immortal Art: World Devouring Maw roared silently. The mist of his Sect from their lives, dreams, and faith flowed into the maw, then into him.

When the last wisp vanished, the mountain fell eerily silent. The sacred grounds of the Cloud Mist Sect had vanished beneath a still sea of fog. Only Jia Sen remained, standing at the peak, eyes glimmering with a faint reflection of foxfire.

“Cloud and Mist, Yet Never United,” he whispered, a faint smile curling his lips. “I have kept my word.”

He raised his hand, and the blue flames that consumed his disciples flared brighter, burning colder. The mountain trembled beneath the pressure of his will.

“The Mist must return to the Cloud,” he continued quietly. “And the Cloud… must rise higher still.”

Two streaks of light broke through the fog above Yunwu Mountain, parting the mists as though the heavens themselves had opened a gate. From the rift descended two figures riding upon clouds. It was an ancient movement art, unmistakably belonging to the Heavenly Temple.

The first was a towering man, his bronze skin marked by faint sigils that pulsed like molten veins. His frame was massive, every muscle honed and carved through divine warfare, an Asura-born cultivator, body forged for battle. His expression was calm but carried a faint arrogance, as though the weight of the world rested comfortably on his shoulders.

Beside him, a woman descended more gracefully. She carried a plain parasol that shielded her from the ethereal sunlight. Her face was unremarkable, neither beautiful nor ugly, yet her presence was chillingly serene, as if her soul had long since transcended emotion. Her steps upon the cloud left faint ripples of light in the air.

Though their arrival was quiet, their power was not. Both radiated unmistakable spiritual pressure of the Tenth Realm, the realm of nascent immortality. They were among the new generation, those raised after the calamity that had ended all Eleventh Realm masters during the pre-Empire age.

The man folded his hands respectfully and bowed. “This humble one is Wei Qigang of the Asura Lineage, Grand Elder Jia Sen,” he said in a deep, measured tone.

The woman inclined her head lightly. “And I am Deng Wuying, of the Lotus Veil Hall,” she said softly, her voice like falling mist. “We greet the Grand Elder of the Heavenly Temple and offer our reverence.”

Jia Sen regarded them from the terrace, his expression unreadable. His robes rippled gently in the mountain wind as he studied the pair, his thoughts faintly sour.

‘So these are the new ones,’ he mused. ‘The Heavenly Temple’s replacements for the fallen… made, not born. Molded by that unseen hand.’

The Heavenly Master, their leader, had long been a mystery, even to the oldest among the Temple’s ranks. Few had ever seen him; fewer still spoke of him. Only the Seers and the Children were said to stand in his light.

And these two, Wei Qigang and Deng Wuying, were among those Children.

He lifted his gaze to them. “So,” Jia Sen said evenly, his voice calm and ancient, “what is it that the Children want with me?”

Wei Qigang bowed again. “We were sent by decree of the Heavenly Master to assist you, Grand Elder,” he said respectfully, though there was steel in his tone.

Deng Wuying added, “The Heavenly Temple has taken great interest in your mission. We are here to ensure your success.”

Jia Sen’s lips curved faintly not in gratitude, but in quiet derision.

‘Assist me?’ he thought, the words tasting bitter. ‘The Heavenly Temple sends me guardians now, as though I were a failing child?’

He smiled thinly, though it never reached his eyes. “I see. So the Heavenly Master has seen fit to send me his… creations.”

Internally, his mind whispered with disdain: ‘Help, they say. More like supervision.’

For centuries, the Heavenly Master had been a silent god, a distant sovereign whose decrees rarely touched the mortal or immortal planes. The Grand Elders ruled as they pleased, carving their fiefs of influence and bending Heaven’s mandate toward their personal interests.

Yet recently, the silence had broken.

The Heavenly Master had begun to move.

At first, it was whispers and strange orders descending from the Seers, new mandates from the Children, and sudden mobilization across the higher courts of Heaven. The change had begun roughly around the time a name had resurfaced in the mortal world… Da Wei.

Coincidence, perhaps. But Jia Sen had lived too long to believe in coincidence.

Fate, he often mused, was a river with its own current, pulling everything toward its center. Some called this “gravity.” Jia Sen, however, had another name for it.

“Destiny,” he murmured as he stood at the edge of the Yunwu Sect’s sacred mountain, the place he once called home. “The unrelenting tide that drags even gods into its depths.”

He took a single step forward, and in that step, he soared into the heavens. His robes unfurled like storm clouds as he ascended. Behind him, the two Children, Wei Qigang and Deng Wuying, followed in perfect synchrony, riding clouds of their own.

Below, the mountain was silent… waiting.

Jia Sen extended his hand, and blue foxfire bloomed from his palm, cascading downward like a rain of azure comets. The flames devoured everything until all that remained was mist and ash.

“Cloud and Mist,” Jia Sen whispered. “Now, nothing but fog.”

For a moment, his thoughts drifted. A faint shadow in his memory… Jia Yun, his daughter. He sighed softly, and the mist stirred with it.

“Grand Elder,” Wei Qigang called from behind him, voice steady but cautious, “do you believe you can kill Da Wei this time?”

The words cut through the silence like a blade. Even Deng Wuying’s gaze flicked toward her companion, a frown breaking her otherwise serene expression.

Jia Sen did not turn around, but his tone hardened as cold as the void between stars.

“Child,” he said, “speak with care. To utter his name so casually is to invite disaster. Do you understand the weight of that question?”

Wei Qigang bowed immediately. “This subordinate misspoke.”

Jia Sen’s aura swelled, his presence expanding, rippling through the atmosphere. His cultivation revealed itself like a moon emerging from behind clouds.

A Perfect Immortal, his spirit half a step into true immortality. Not yet a true Ascended Soul, but the fox within him was. Its nine tails shimmered faintly in the depths of his qi sea, each tail coiling with restrained divinity.

“Confidence,” Jia Sen said softly, “is a fool’s word. But preparation… that, I have.”

The three of them flew in silence for a time, leaving behind only the burning mist of the Yunwu Sect’s end. Below, the lands of the Empire stretched endlessly with rivers gleaming like serpents and cities drowned in the echoes of war.

Deng Wuying finally spoke, her tone even, her parasol tilting toward the horizon. “Our chosen side in this civil war fares poorly. The factions we supported are breaking. Even the Seers whisper that the tide has turned.”

“Their incompetence has cost us dearly,” Jia Sen replied. “The Empire was meant to fracture, not strengthen. Instead, Da Wei’s influence tightens its hold. The Heavenly Temple’s patience grows thin.”

Wei Qigang exchanged a look with his companion. “Then what will we do, Grand Elder? What is our next course?”

“What we must always do,” Jia Sen said simply. “Adapt.”

He looked ahead, his eyes narrowing as his divine sense swept the distance. There, beyond the dunes, he could feel the concentrated pulse of power of six remaining clans gathered together, their pride and desperation seeping into the very air.

“The Seven Imperial Houses are convening,” he said. “It is time to rejoin them.”

Wei Qigang hesitated, then ventured, “Will others from the Heavenly Temple join us?”

Jia Sen tilted his head slightly. “That depends. Who else has the Heavenly Master decided to send?”

Deng Wuying answered this time. “The Heavenly Temple has prepared to deploy the Heavenly Legion, a new divine army, created with angelic methods. Tens of thousands strong. Each soldier forged from celestial remnants, capable of matching lower immortals in battle.”

Jia Sen stopped mid-flight, the cloud beneath his feet trembling at his stillness. “A divine army?”

“It is said to be the Heavenly Master’s greatest creation,” Wei Qigang explained. “No need for mortal ascension or cultivation. Faith, essence, and divine will combined into one form… beings of obedience, not ego.”

A slow smile curved across Jia Sen’s lips, though it was without warmth. “So, the Temple now makes its own immortals.”

He resumed his pace, the air bending around him as the clouds carried them westward. “When Heaven begins manufacturing divinity, one must wonder what becomes of those who earned it through blood.”

Neither of the Children replied. They flew on in silence, the hum of spiritual pressure and distant thunder their only companions. Far ahead, the desert glimmered like molten gold. From its heart rose a gathering of qi so thick it distorted the clouds. 

“It looks like we arrived just in time,” Jia Sen murmured.

Below, the Evernight Continent stretched like a golden ocean of sand and stone, restless under the eternal wind. The armies of the Seven Imperial Houses stood in a fractured semicircle across the dunes, each bearing its own color and banner. The White Clan’s pale silks gleamed faintly beneath the sun; the Road Clan’s violet insignia rippled with authority; the Fighting Clan’s crimson standard snapped like a flame; the Wind Clan’s azure plumes spun in the air; and the Seeker Clan’s dull silver banners stood stiffly beside the empty spaces where the Black and Sky Clans should be.

Beyond the sands, across the dark river that marked the border between Evernight and Riverfall, lay their enemy. The Riverfall Continent was fertile and luminous, veins of dragon qi coursing beneath its soil. It was a land overflowing with vitality. Upon its plains, Da Wei’s army had gathered, their fortifications gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen.

Jia Sen’s gaze swept across the sight of two continents locked in breathless anticipation.

“Impressive,” he whispered. “It looks like our enemy had prepared well.”

He lifted a single hand, and mist billowed outward from his sleeve. A silvery fog rolled across the sky, devouring light and shadow alike until even the wind seemed muffled. The three of them vanished within it as Jia Sen shrouded himself entirely, his presence erased from both mortal and immortal senses.

Turning to his companions, he spoke through the still mist, his voice layered with qi. “Stay in the clouds. Watch, listen, and do not interfere unless I command it. Your task is to observe, not to act.”

The two Children bowed deeply, their figures fading back into the cloudbank, mere whispers of divine presence.

Jia Sen descended through his fog like a drifting wraith, reappearing upon the outer edge of the massive war camp. Before him stretched a colossal dais, a raised platform built from white jade and sand-hardened glass. Upon it stood the remaining Clan Heads with Lu Wang, Kang Nuan, Xun Li, Feng Shuren, and Bai Rong. Their voices were raised in bitter argument.

“We should wait,” Lu Wang said, his tone weary but sharp. “Our forces are not ready. The Riverfall’s dragons have been stirring… I can feel their qi rising. To charge in now is folly.”

“Folly?” Xun Li’s voice cracked like thunder. His one arm clenched the hilt of his sword. “You call this hesitation wisdom? Every moment we delay, Da Wei grows stronger! The Hollow Star may already be in his grasp!”

Feng Shuren’s eyes narrowed. “The Hollow Star again? You speak of it as though it were the only key to victory. We’ve yet to confirm that he even has it.”

“He does,” Xun Li growled, stepping forward. “If that relic should ever sit upon Da Wei’s brow, none of us will survive his reign. The moment it binds to him, he will become a god that Heaven itself cannot chain.”

A hush rippled through the gathered leaders. Even Kang Nuan, who had until then looked bored, straightened with a scowl.

“We can’t afford to wait,” Xun Li continued. “Every delay feeds our doom. We must strike now, before the stars align!”

Lu Wang slammed his staff against the dais. “And march straight into his trap? I have lived long enough to know when Heaven is setting snares for the arrogant!”

Jia Sen remained unseen, drifting closer to the edge of the dais, his mist coiling along the marble floor. His eyes narrowed faintly.

Cutting through the storm of arguments was a cold and imperious voice. “What do you think, old fox?” The words rang clear and deliberate. The Clan Heads froze, heads snapping toward the source, and so did Jia Sen.

There, standing at the base of the dais, was Bai Rong, robed in pale silk that fluttered in the desert wind. His once-gentle expression carried the weight of tempered fury and grim resolve. Though his Immortal Qi was faint, his eyes gleamed with dangerous clarity.

For a moment, Jia Sen was caught off guard. ‘He sensed me? Impossible.’ Bai Rong was merely a Tenth Realm master of inferior base; the man should not have been able to perceive him at all. Yet there Bai Rong stood, smirking faintly, his gaze locking directly onto the fog that cloaked Jia Sen’s form.

A soft ripple of amusement touched Jia Sen’s lips. “Still as impudent as ever…”

He stepped out of the mist, allowing his silhouette to solidify before them. A murmur swept through the gathered leaders with awe, confusion, and no small measure of fear. Even the air thickened beneath the weight of his presence.

“Patriarch Bai,” Jia Sen said evenly, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve grown perceptive. I trust you remember your manners?”

Bai Rong bowed stiffly, though there was defiance in the gesture. “When the Empire burns, what need is there for formality? We need wisdom, not arrogance.”

The two locked eyes. The tension between them was palpable, drawing the attention of every soul upon the dais.

After a moment, Jia Sen’s tone softened, though his expression remained unreadable. “Very well. If you wish for my counsel…”

He turned his gaze toward the distant horizon, where Da Wei’s banners fluttered like a storm tide. “Then hear this: we should not charge blindly into enemy territory with just fighting spirit. Send a messenger to the enemy commanders. There is always value in a conversation before a slaughter.”