The mountain mists swirled, bathed in the hues of dawn, radiating a hazy glow. Morning dew rolled upon the grass blades, each drop glistening like crystal under the rising sun. The air was fresh with the scent of vegetation, and the warmth of sunlight embraced the land. Little Rascal set off, his back turned to the ravaged earth behind him as he strode toward the distant horizon. Finally, steeling his heart, he broke into a sprint—racing like the wind against the dawn, brilliant as a meteor streaking across the land, leaving behind the land of sorrow forever.
The fall of the Heaven Mending Pavilion sent shockwaves through the world, a cataclysmic event that shook the entire Wilderness. “Is the great chaos coming?” people trembled. That was an ancient sacred land, a legacy of countless ages, yet it was wiped out in a single night. “Such a terrifying battle—could this be an omen of the world’s upheaval? Perhaps that day is not far off!” Whether human or other beings, all ancient powers felt unease. After the battle, the Heaven Mending Pavilion lay in ruins.
Once hailed as a sacred land, it had endured from antiquity till now, surviving even the most brutal wars of the sages. Yet in this era, the mighty sect was reduced to ashes, erased from existence. Many sensed a foreboding—the Wilderness was restless, simmering with violence. True turmoil was about to begin.
“Hard to imagine even the Heaven Mending Pavilion, an ancient sect of such grandeur, could fall. Indeed, even the most glorious legacies must one day wither and meet their end.”
“The Tuoba Clan, the Western Tomb Beast Mountain, and other ancient families struck together—who could withstand such a force? Destruction was inevitable.”
“Most crucially, the ancient divine mountains made their stance clear. Sacred peaks like Mount Yi and the Southern Fall Divine Mountain sent their mightiest. Their will decided everything!”
The world buzzed with discussions. The fall of the Heaven Mending Pavilion was too significant. The actions of the ancient divine mountains also gave pause—golden beasts were dispatched to slaughter, a terrifying declaration that heralded a great calamity.
“The Divine Seed is a treasure beyond compare. The ancient vine nurtured it for eons, its Dao runes refined to a point even gods would covet.” Without it, perhaps the supreme powers would not have acted.
Yet the Heaven Mending Pavilion’s fate was sealed. The ancient vine, having endured since antiquity, could no longer sustain itself. Its enemies seized the moment.
This was a storm that swept across the land, leaving all who spoke of it pale. A sacred land, gone in an instant—beyond anyone’s expectations. The shockwaves trembled through the entire Wilderness.
“Few could have escaped the Heaven Mending Pavilion’s calamity. That was a coalition of sects—even Marquis-level figures would struggle to survive.”
“Rumors say only a few small fry slipped through. The rest perished.” Some sighed; others gloated. Reactions varied across the world.
In this battle, the Pavilion’s leaders—its master, Mu Yan, Elder Liu—were primary targets, hunted down to prevent them from escaping with disciples via great divine arts.
“Too tragic. One elder was slain, and the hundreds of disciples he carried with him perished in the explosion.”
The Pavilion’s retreat was a desperate gamble. Concentrating disciples around the leaders proved fatal—scattering would have offered better odds.
Beyond the leadership, the Pavilion’s prodigies were also marked for extermination. Lin Mu, Wu Feng—all fell, their blood staining the ruined earth.
“The Heaven Mending Pavilion is finished. Its elders are gone, its geniuses fallen. Only common disciples escaped in the chaos—but they matter little now.”
“What of that holy terror? With his terrifying talent, did he survive?”
“Unlikely. The four great clans hunted him relentlessly. Those they target rarely live.”
Outside, the world remained unsettled. The shockwaves lingered, discussed for days.
In the mountains, Qing Feng’s eyes were red with tears. The Pavilion was now scorched earth; so many had died. “Wuu… those senior brothers and sisters—gone. Just days ago, we drank together.”
Little Rascal clenched his fists, silent. Memories flooded back—stealing wine, standing united against the four great clans. Many seniors had pinched their cheeks, urging them to grow strong, to protect the sacred land.
Now, all was lost. Senior Brother Lin Mu had burned himself to cover the retreat of juniors. Senior Brother Wu Feng, and countless others—unnamed heroes who turned back to buy time for the younger ones.
The once-lively sacred land was now shrouded in death, its ruins a graveyard for those they loved.
“The dead cannot return. Grieve, but do not drown in it,” Er Meng sighed. Since ancient times, countless glorious sects had fallen—even peerless ancient kingdoms.
“I will train harder! One day, I will avenge our masters, elders, and senior brothers and sisters!” Qing Feng wiped his tears, his small face fierce.
Outside, rumors swirled like storm winds.
“Let’s eat. Spirit hound meat is delicious!” Little Rascal said. Over the fire, golden prey sizzled, its tender aroma irresistible.
“I’ll eat—I’ll eat fiercely!” Qing Feng gnawed with determination.
This was a spirit hound from the four great clans, sent to track them. They had narrowly escaped multiple times. Thankfully, the scent of Little Rascal’s orchid grass had faded, breaking the trail.
Mao Qiu chirped, its mouth glistening with grease.
Half a month passed. As children, their grief dulled with time. If they didn’t dwell on it, sorrow wouldn’t consume them.
Little Rascal and his companions journeyed through the Wilderness, training as they went. They weren’t rushing, but their goal was clear—to return to Stone Village.
A month later, the gloom lifted. Childlike smiles returned to their faces.
“Where are we now? How far to Stone Village?” Qing Feng asked.
“We’re in the Stone Nation’s territory. Another three to four hundred thousand miles to the western border, then another three hundred thousand west to reach home,” Little Rascal replied.
Being in the Stone Nation inevitably brought the Rain Clan to mind—Yu Feng and his vile kin. They had studied at the Heaven Mending Pavilion, yet instead of gratitude, they stabbed it in the back, slaughtering its disciples.
“A marquis clan—beyond our reach for now. Otherwise, I’d wipe them out,” Little Rascal sighed. His grudge ran deep—not just for the Pavilion’s fall, but for the stolen Supreme Bone of his infancy, taken by a woman of their clan.
Qing Feng nodded. Even his pure heart burned with the urge for vengeance. Many seniors had died not by enemy hands, but by the Rain Clan’s.
This was blood debt—to be repaid in time.
And back in the Western Border’s Second Ancestral Land, it was the Rain Clan who had bribed servants to cripple Qing Feng’s leg.
“If we can’t touch their leaders, we can at least collect some interest,” Er Meng drawled.
“Full of bad ideas—I like it!” The Red Bird cackled, smacking Er Meng’s head in excitement.
“True. We can take some interest along the way,” Little Rascal agreed.
They plotted, gathering intel on the Rain Clan’s territories. Attacking their main stronghold was impossible—unless they became marquises.
Instead, they aimed for simpler targets—raiding the Rain Clan’s outposts.
“Here—Phoenix Fall Ridge. It’s on our way back west. A perfect stop!”
A vital Rain Clan territory, rich in resources—black gold mines, spirit herb fields, even a ridge of auspicious beasts.
They wouldn’t overreach—one raid, then gone.
Phoenix Fall Ridge. Legend spoke of a true phoenix nesting here in antiquity, its fall imbuing the land with potent spiritual energy.
Twenty thousand miles from the Stone Nation’s western border, it was a rare treasure.
“Heavily guarded. This won’t be easy. Mao Qiu, it’s all on you,” Little Rascal said, tossing it a large hide sack. “Just fill it up.”
Mao Qiu squeaked indignantly—the sack was enormous!
Phoenix Fall Ridge sprawled with ancient forests, ideal for spirit herbs. The soil, stained by phoenix blood, held unique vitality.
The Rain Clan had fought hard for this land.
“Tricky. Heavy security,” Little Rascal muttered.
Perhaps only Mao Qiu could pull this off—its thieving instincts had even stolen eggs from the Five-Colored Peacock, a primordial beast.
Mao Qiu scouted for days, its beady eyes calculating.
Little Rascal studied the defenses, seeking flaws.
“Something’s off. The guards are shifting constantly—like they’re bracing for something,” Little Rascal noted.
After days of observation, the outer defenses seemed neglected—something big was happening inside.
“Now’s our chance. Go, but be careful,” Little Rascal urged, handing Mao Qiu the Broken Sword—in case it needed to cut through runic traps.
With a *whoosh*, Mao Qiu vanished into the ridge, a golden blur no bigger than a fist, invisible in the grass.
“Over there! Chase it!”
“Don’t let it escape!”
Shouts erupted from the ridge. Little Rascal and Qing Feng paled—had Mao Qiu been caught already?
But the voices continued:
“It’s been two months! We *will* catch it this time!”
“Such a creature—rarer than dozens of spirit herbs combined! The clan elders must have it!”
Little Rascal blinked. They weren’t talking about Mao Qiu.
Something else was loose in the ridge—something priceless.
The entire territory was in chaos, all hands mobilized to capture… something.
“Must be some legendary creature—maybe a shape-shifting sacred herb? The Rain Clan’s going mad for it,” the Red Bird mused.
Little Rascal’s curiosity burned. What could be so valuable?
Hours later, rustling grass announced Mao Qiu’s return—its belly swollen to bursting, rolling rather than walking.
It had succeeded.
And the Ridge was in uproar over something far more precious.
The hunt was on.
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