The news of Long Xiyue's coronation did not arrive as a formal announcement. It came as whispers. First among the outer disciples. Then the inner courts. Then the elders.
None knew what she had done, only that the Crown Chamber had been opened. And that it had accepted her.
The fire above the highest peak of the sect had blazed for three nights—never dying, never dimming. That alone had been enough to confirm what many feared, and others hoped.
The Dragon Empress had not been a myth.
She had returned.
And she had a name.
Xiyue walked among them as before—but everything had changed.
Where once the disciples looked at her with disdain or wariness, now they looked with awe. She said nothing. Wore no crown. Spoke no commands. Yet the air itself shifted when she passed. The winds slowed. The flames leaned toward her.
Even the elders said little now.
Not because they had accepted her.
But because they feared what would happen if they did not.
Still, silence was a poor mask for politics. And while the sect plotted its next move, a stranger arrived.
He came not by gate or path, but by storm.
The skies darkened without warning. Thunder cracked across the clear daylight like a whip. Lightning licked the peaks of the mountains.
And through it walked a youth in white.
His robes shimmered with threads of blue and silver. His eyes burned with stormlight. At his side hung a blade of crackling obsidian.
His name was Wuyan, prodigy of the Thunder Sect.
He did not bow.
He did not ask.
He simply stood at the heart of the training fields and called out:
"Long Xiyue. I challenge you."
The disciples froze.
Not even the elders moved.
And yet, from the far edge of the field, she came.
No entourage. No preamble.
She wore a plain robe. No armor. Her sword sheathed across her back.
Yanluo slithered behind her like a silent river. The crimson wyrmling perched on her shoulder.
Wuyan's mouth curled into a slow smile.
"So you're the one."
She said nothing.
He studied her. "You don't look like a tyrant."
She tilted her head. "You don't look like a storm."
His laughter cracked like thunder.
"I like you already."
Then, without further word, he moved.
Lightning surged from his blade as he drew it, the air itself splitting as his Qi roared forward.
He was fast.
But she was flame.
Their battle exploded across the field.
Wuyan's style was elegant—refined arcs of thunderclap strikes, each blow dancing with electric edge. He didn't waste movement. He didn't rely on brute strength. He danced.
Xiyue, by contrast, fought like fire incarnate. Her steps were unpredictable, her flames weaving around his strikes like silk. She used her environment—igniting the earth beneath him, rerouting the wind.
For minutes, they were evenly matched.
Then Wuyan smirked.
"Let's see what the Empress bleeds like."
He raised his sword—and the storm answered.
Clouds gathered unnaturally fast. Bolts of lightning twisted around his body, channeling into his blade.
"Fifth Form: Heavenbreaker."
He swung down.
The sky shattered.
A pillar of lightning struck the field, engulfing everything in a scream of light.
The disciples cried out, shielding their eyes. Elders rose, alarms half-raised.
When the glow faded—
She still stood.
A wall of flame had wrapped around her like a dome. Her robe smoldered. Her eyes were molten.
And her brand was glowing.
She drew her blade.
"No more holding back."
She stepped forward.
And the world moved.
The air rippled around her. Not with heat—but pressure. The same weight felt in the Flame Crown chamber now coiled around her limbs.
She vanished.
Not teleported—moved faster than the eye could track.
Her blade collided with Wuyan's mid-swing, sending him flying backward through stone and sigil alike.
He rolled, coughing, then laughed again.
"Yes! That's it! That's what I came for!"
Lightning surged again, but this time it was met by a torrent of golden flame. It wasn't wild. It sang—in harmony with her breath, her spirit.
The battlefield lit up in waves of fire and thunder.
Spirit beasts clashed in the background—Yanluo wrapping around the thunder serpent Wuyan summoned, both locked in primal contest.
Above them, the sky darkened.
The sect had never seen power like this.
And it frightened them.
The battle lasted hours.
Neither side relented.
When finally the dust settled, both stood—wounded, but upright.
Wuyan's blade was cracked.
Xiyue's sleeve was torn, her shoulder bleeding.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
And then he bowed.
Not in submission.
But in recognition.
"You are no disciple," he said.
"You are a force."
She nodded. "And you are no fool."
He laughed again, softer this time.
"I'll see you again, Empress."
And then, with a burst of wind, he vanished.
The disciples stood stunned.
The elders met in secret.
And Long Xiyue returned to her quarters, silent, pensive.
The duel had not been about victory.
It had been a declaration.
Not just hers.
But the world's.
The heavens were watching.
And soon, they would break.