Chapter 1
The snow had been falling all night. Mount Celestia lay cloaked in perpetual ice, its peak shrouded in the dark, swirling mists of the Demon. Among the ethereal clouds, the heavy snowfall whipped around Catherine Ravenswood, each flake piercing her delicate shoulders like needles. She felt a chilling sense of foreboding, as if she were on the verge of death itself. It had been ten days since the seal of the Chasm of Fire was broken, Lucian vanished without a trace, and the Shrouded Peaks fell to darkness. Just ten days ago, she had been weaving sword tassels for her Brother Lucian as she always did. Catherine took a deep, trembling breath, her fingers tightening around the hilt of a sword she had pulled from her chest. The blade shimmered like water, and the emerald-green tassels rang softly as they swayed. The markings of the Sir Alaric Brightstone glimmered faintly, their light growing dimmer but still striving to wrap her in a warm embrace. The sword’s spirit still had a consciousness; it meant that Brother Lucian was not dead. “Sir Alaric… Sir Alaric… please do not use your powers again,” she whispered, pressing the sword close to her heart, her pointed chin resting against the hilt as she trudged deeper into the Elderwood Forest. The sound of her voice came out cracked and flat, every breath she took feeling like it was wrapped in layers of sable. “Catherine Ravenswood of the Shrouded Peaks, seeking an audience with Young Sorcerer Alaric Brightstone…” She called out repeatedly, her voice weak and barely audible against the howl of the wind. “Catherine… Catherine Ravenswood, I need to see… Young Sorcerer Alaric…” Young Sorcerer Alaric Brightstone belonged to a time steeped in legend. Years ago, during the turmoil of the Three Realms, a once-in-a-millennium Demon known as Icarus arose from the Chasm of Fire, the Shadowborn wreaking havoc in their wake. All who encountered their malice were left broken and battered. Chaos reigned as the Shadowborn terrorized the land, capturing many capable warriors and wise sages as mere shadows under their dominion. At the moment when despair settled in the hearts of all, Young Sorcerer Alaric emerged, wielding a blade that parted the darkness, vanquishing eight evil spirits at once. With sheer will alone, he re-sealed Demon Icarus back into the Chasm of Fire, giving humanity a chance to breathe once more. But the reasons for his self-imposed exile remained a mystery. Catherine moved slowly through the deep snow, her calves sinking into the white blanket until she could no longer feel them. It seemed as if the Elderwood Forest housed powerful wards; each step deeper only amplified the sense of pressure around her. It felt as if something was choking the air from her lungs. She forced herself to breathe but remained breathless, the weight pressing down on her throat transforming her warning into a solid form, constricting her. Mount Celestia had long been deemed Forbidden Grounds, and Young Sorcerer Alaric had announced years before that any Demons should steer clear, sealing off the mountains to the world. Her venture here was more desperate than hopeful. Yet she had no choice; the Shrouded Peaks had fallen, the barrier of the Chasm of Fire shattered, and her brother had been captured by Demon Icarus. She racked her brain, realizing only Mount Celestia stood as her last chance of salvation. At that moment, hate surged through her veins as she cursed her own existence, lamenting that she was but a mortal. Why couldn’t she wield any magic? Why couldn’t she protect Lucian? Why did she feel so utterly powerless? Had she any magic, even a mere skill in energy manipulation, she could touch the wards, find a way forward. Now, she found herself feeling lost and like a fool falling deeper into despair. The snow continued to pile up. Logic urged her to seek shelter, to wait out the storm, let it pass so she could clearly see a way around the Demons before setting out again. But Catherine pressed against her chest, feeling the fading glow of the sword flicker dimmer than the snow beneath her. The White Scribe would soon fall into slumber. She pulled her cloak tighter around her and planted her staff firmly into the snow before resolutely moving forward. “Young Sorcerer Alaric Brightstone. Young Sorcerer Alaric,” she called out into the storm, her voice an echo lost among the raging winds.
Chapter 2
Catherine Ravenswood fought through the searing pain in her chest, her voice rising in a desperate scream, more jarring than the distant cries of crows. Tall cedar trees reached for the sky as Catherine pressed on, the biting cold wind chilling her to the bone, and a ringing in her ears that echoed the chaos around her. She could barely withstand the intensity of the Mysterious forces swirling within her. A sharp pain lanced through her throat, forcing her to cough violently, blood streaming down her chin and staining the Snowy Fields beneath her. Gazing at the crimson splatters on the white snow, her vision blurred. At the brink of life and death, she wiped her chin with her hand, smearing blood onto the blade of the White Scribe sword. “So much blood, wasted…” she thought. Her ability to remain in the Shrouded Peaks, despite being merely human, was grounded in her rare spiritual bloodline and the hidden blessings from her brother, Lucian. Her blood gathered like a stream, coalescing into the shape of a mystical seal. Catherine's heart raced as she used the sword to slice her palm, causing the blood to flow even faster. The Snowy Fields ignited with an eerie cold light, wrapping around her in a complex web of Sir energy, dense and intricate. A backlash from the binding spell struck her. The White Scribe sword flared bright, pulling her backward. But it was too late; she was slow to react. A sword darted towards her with unstoppable force, as swift as a shooting star, its tip pressing against her forehead with a chilling aura that spoke of Sorcerer Alistair’s cold touch. The intruder stood tall and graceful, adorned with a grand robe and a crown, left hand clenched into a fist, while his right arm was bound by an ornate sash, intricate seals glinting at his palm, slowly pressing into the ground. The seals fell back into place, summoning a surge of demonic energy. As darkness crept in, she caught the echo of the person’s voice, smooth as a fine jade, like snowflakes falling softly. “Kunlun greets the Mysterious.” ＊ Mount Celestia, the Retreat of Warmth. The spacious residence was round, its walls dotted with countless jade mirrors reflecting the figures of the Mysterious spirits, each fragment casting a soft light on the central figure. This man possessed high cheekbones and thin lips, a crimson mark across his forehead, his complexion slightly pale, with delicate eyelids that held deep indigo lashes. In the quiet, eerie air, sporadic flickers of green fire danced across his profile, casting an uncanny glow. His hair hung disheveled, draped in a dark azure robe, the wide sleeves pooling at his pallid arms, droplets of blood flowing from his fingertips, splattering onto the cracked stone floor. If Catherine were still conscious, she would be utterly shocked. The stone floor hissed as if in pain, and the blood fell dark as coal, resembling sulfur, carving a small, shallow crater in the ground. The man paused his breathing for a moment, only to soon become restless. The entwined bones of the celestial being in his chest emitted a faint light of Sorcerer Alistair, twisting and writhing as they pierced through flesh, enveloping the corrupt spirit within a deep, dark essence. He possessed a heart filled with wicked intent.
Chapter 3
Catherine Ravenswood felt herself enveloped in a chaotic dark void, the coppery tang of her own blood filling her senses as the cold wind swept through, carrying only a faint trace of something sweet and lingering. It was unclear how long she had been here, but as her mind slowly sharpened, she could make out the sound of footsteps approaching. "How long has it been since a living soul wandered into Kunlun Mountain? And who might this cowardly fool be, to have brought a stranger here?" a voice muttered playfully, tinged with youthful innocence. The sound was mischievous and youthful, and instinctively, Catherine relaxed a little. She felt something cool and sticky glide across her fingertips, and panic surged through her. Instinctively, she began to struggle, only to discover that she couldn't even open her eyes. "Why pretend to be unconscious again?" the voice taunted, dripping with condescension. "It's hard to understand where you find your confidence, given that you have no spiritual power at all and dared to test the mountain's protective array... And now I have to waste my time healing you." The burn of forbidden magic slowly eased, and she sensed the figure drawing closer, their warm breath teasing her skin as they inhaled deeply, as if savoring the air around her. "Heh, how greedy of you to want a taste of her blood," he said softly, a tone that bordered on mocking. Catherine, fueled by a surge of desperation, summoned the White Scribe Blade from her side. It shimmered with a brilliant light, slicing through the air before grazing his arm with a clear warning. "Ow, how rude," he stepped back, gripping a feeble sword of his own, his fingers pausing at her forehead. "Wake up." Catherine opened her eyes to find herself lying on a rough stone surface in a dimly lit Thatch Cottage, her old cloak beneath her, with its material scratchy against her skin. She curled into herself against the wall, tucking her chin into her cloak to reveal only her bright, clear eyes. The person who had harbored such a morbid curiosity about her blood appeared to be a young boy, around fourteen or fifteen, clad in a crimson outfit, his youthful features still hinting at sharpened potential. "Uh... can I have the White Scribe Blade back?" Catherine croaked, immediately tasting the metallic tang of blood in her throat again, which she swallowed down carefully. The youth scoffed at her attempt to speak. "You’re amusing, aren't you? If we had hostile intentions, you wouldn't be alive right now." With a dismissive flick, he tossed the sword back to her. She quickly caught it, hugging it tightly to her chest. "I need to see Young Sorcerer Alistair..." she murmured. Rumors of Young Sorcerer Alistair from Kunlun Mountain spoke of his noble spirit and merciful heart. "Do you think you can just see him whenever you want? Seriously, how clueless can you be? You barged into his domain, broke the wards, and interrupted his meditation! Do you even realize how much havoc you've caused?" Catherine gripped her sword tighter, her voice trembling. "I'm sorry. But the outside world is in chaos—the Shrouded Peaks have fallen, Demon Icarus and others have broken free. Only Young Sorcerer Alistair can save us.” “Enough!” Catherine was taken aback by the suddenness of his anger. “It’s always like this. Whenever crisis strikes, you people flock to him. It was that way a hundred years ago, and it’s still the same now," he snapped, spinning away from her, a hint of crimson fury flickering in his eyes. "Look at what you’ve turned him into because of your endless problems! I’ll let you see him, but hurry down the mountain.” With that, he revealed massive scarlet wings from his back, eyes dark like obsidian, claws outstretched toward her. Legends spoke of the Scarlet Bishop, a fierce creature of flame, not meant to dwell in the icy realms of Kunlun Mountain. Catherine gasped in surprise, unable to react before a blast of red light burst before her, exploding in a flash of color. She hit the ground, coughing, while a man stood protectively in front of her. His voice resonated like polished jade, sharp yet soothing. "Bishop Garret, today’s outburst earns you five lashes on the Back Mountain." Catherine’s vision swam as she adjusted to the brightness, finally taking in the figure. Leaning against a glowing wall, he wore a sky-blue robe, white hair cascading, his sword dangling at his waist. His hands were tucked within his sleeves, and his brows elegantly arched, with eyes that reflected the calm depths of a tranquil lake, placid yet piercing. A trace of crimson marked his brow, while delicate jade hung from his ears. During her time in the Emperor’s palace in Catherine's realm, she had encountered many handsome and brilliant young men, especially those from the Shrouded Peaks, where aesthetics reigned supreme. Even her brother Lucian was uniquely noble. Yet, there was something different about him. His presence brought a sense of ethereal distance, as if he hailed from another world, enveloping those around him in an ocean of tranquility. Catherine snapped back to focus as he asked, “Can you read?” She could only nod in response. "I can read..." He lowered his gaze, coldly stating, "You didn’t see the sign outside the Kunlun border that reads ‘No Unauthorized Entry’?"
Chapter 4
The stone tablet stood tall, looming several dozen feet above the Mountain Gate, and Catherine Ravenswood felt the weight of its magical prohibitions pressing down on her even as she moved forward. She was keenly aware of the dangers that lay ahead, yet she had braved the path with reckless determination. No one could deny her audacity in this matter. Despite understanding the seriousness of her actions, she had no cards left to play and was too far gone to feel fear. With a deep breath, she lowered her gaze and wrapped her cloak tighter around herself, her voice barely a whisper, “I see it…” Before anyone could respond, she extended an arm from within her cloak, revealing a portion of her shoulder marked with red scars—evidence of her injuries from the backlash of a powerful formation. Her skin, pale and delicate, contrasted starkly with the angry welts, painting a picture of fragility. Young Sorcerer Alistair, his brow furrowed, glanced at her only briefly before turning away. "Bishop Garret," he said with a tone laced with authority. Bishop Garret, recovering from the residual shock of their earlier combat, muttered indignantly. He dared not challenge Alistair openly, but he certainly didn’t want to shoulder the blame for this situation. “It’s not my fault! She's the one the village women sent for help,” he protested, frustration bubbling within him. "The girl doesn’t have a single good spot left on her; her talent is dim, her spirit meridian in disarray. Given how long she has been drained of her spiritual energy, can you really expect her to wear any clothes?" With a resigned sigh, Young Sorcerer Alistair didn’t bother to engage further. “You need to focus on your training, or I’ll have to increase your punishment. Five extra lashes this time,” he said sternly. The prospect of punishment was enough to make Bishop Garret nearly spring into action, but upon realizing he was under a silencing spell, he slammed his eyes shut in frustration. Turning his attention back to Catherine, Young Sorcerer Alistair’s hands began shaping intricate patterns in the air, and rippling waves of energy formed. As they flowed around her, she chanced a glance up at him. His expression was calm, his gaze focused on the pulsating light in his palms, a soft glow illuminating the features of his face, revealing a depth of wisdom in his usually indifferent demeanor. Not long after, the unbearable pain she had felt began to fade, and her wounds began to knit together. To an ordinary person, the healing process would have taken only a fraction of the time, yet Catherine felt an awkwardness, realizing she was healing slower than expected. She saw the look on Young Sorcerer Alistair’s face change as he assessed her condition. Catherine's dark hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and her delicate jawline appeared even more defined in profile, gently flushed with warmth, the tip of her nose shimmering with a bead of sweat. She sat still, fearful even of her breathing. Once the healing was complete, she instinctively wrapped herself tighter in her robes. Alistair turned his back to her, retrieving a set of clothes from nearby and placing them on the edge of the bed. “You have crossed into forbidden territory, and while I understand your noble intentions in risking yourself for others, it cannot go unremarked,” he said impassively. “I’ll remove your memories of this encounter. You shall not venture into Kunlun again.” Catherine, in a flurry of anxiety, dressed quickly, dropping to her knees and looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Why won’t you leave the mountain? If you care…” Her voice trembled, the quiver of desperation evident, “The Southern Sea has been under siege for so long, but the Dragon Kin are fighting amongst themselves, and the Maiden has usurped power. They are too preoccupied to stop Icarus’s advance.” Alistair, still facing away, remained composed. “There are other realms to consider—Qingqiu, Garret’s alliances, Penglai, the Ancient Ruins… In times of chaos, only the bold thrive. Focus on your survival; I will not impose my worries on you.” But Catherine’s heart was heavy with the thought of Icarus conquering the lands, spreading demonkind chaos. She knew her motivations were selfish, that her mission all along had been to summon Young Sorcerer Alistair from his seclusion to rescue her brother, Lucian. Yet the Young Sorcerer Alistair before her was not quite the benevolent savior legends spoke of... Color drained from her face as the memories flooded her mind, her words tumbling over one another. “But centuries ago, it was you who sealed Icarus away! Don’t you realize who has the power to stop him now?…” She recalled Lady Elenora—Lucian’s cherished ally whose spirit had been shattered by the dark lord's might, her blood staining the battlefield. “No more,” she thought, refusing to dwell further on the nightmares that threatened to consume her. Catherine, still kneeling, was silently sobbing, tears flowing freely, as though they were treasures to be extracted by grief. With a quiet sigh, Young Sorcerer Alistair turned back towards her, finally unable to ignore her distress. “It’s not because I decline…” he started, speaking with earnestness, yet she caught the weight behind his words. Catherine’s reddened eyes reflected a mix of fear and hope as she gazed up at him. Alistair unbound the delicate fabric from his arm, revealing intricate, gleaming lines of magic tracing down his skin, hints of the great power contained within. “You can see—my abilities are sealed. I’m no longer the Young Sorcerer Alistair of a century past.” His tone was calm, void of sorrow or joy. “All earthly ties have been severed for a decade. Spare me this time and refrain from dwelling upon it.” After laying his cards on the table, he lifted his hand, preparing to cast a spell that would wipe her memories clean. Catherine, in a moment of instinctual dread, raised her arms to shield herself. ——
Chapter 5
A faint light enveloped her forehead, yet she felt as if nothing had happened. The spell designed to erase memories seemed to be ineffective against her. "Your constitution appears unusual," mused Young Sorcerer Alaric Brightstone, lowering his hand after a moment of contemplation. Bishop Garret, standing nearby, shifted mysteriously, as if he had something to say. With a wave of his hand, Alaric dispelled Garret's silence spell, and Garret exclaimed loudly, "Sir, her blood smells particularly sweet." For a Feykin to comment on a mortal girl's blood being fragrant was quite offensive, though Garret, being young and blunt, added, "It’s intoxicating, sir. Can’t you smell it?" Before he could continue, he caught Young Sorcerer Alaric's serious gaze and wisely chose to keep quiet. To suppress the King spirit growing within him, he had already sealed his five senses; he had merely sensed the presence of sweetness in the air. Catherine Ravenswood understood this but also felt a bit embarrassed, keeping her head down as she replied softly. Alaric looked down at her, remaining silent for a long time before gently asking, "May I see your meridians?" For him, this 'look' might merely mean a glance. Catherine felt bold and extended her hand, revealing a delicate vine-like tattoo wrapped around her slender wrist. "In my childhood, when my kingdom fell, my mother had no choice but to send me and my brother Lucian to the Shrouded Peaks," she began, gathering herself to speak as she stood, her voice shaky. “But I’m a waste of a spirit root; I couldn’t even endure the spirit energy in the mountains and was on the verge of death. Then, Lucian found the Ninefold Blossom for me, and after I took it, I transformed.” She seemed accustomed to this now, extending her arm. “If you need to drink, many took my blood to brew potions back when I was in the Shrouded Peaks; it was quite effective.” However, Alaric visibly frowned at her statement. While potion-brewing was concerning, the mention of 'Ninefold Blossom' appeared to grab his attention even more. The Kunlun Mountains, known as the Mount of the West Town, were perpetually snow-capped and formed a formidable range, reputed for being the origin of the Demonkin. A flower that blossomed once every thousand years was revered as the source of spiritual energy. It was indeed a companion spirit herb of the Kunlun Mountain Foxes, but unfortunately for him, being of the Celestial Clan, the day he was born, no such flower had bloomed. It wasn’t until ten years ago, when his King energy surged dramatically, overwhelming him and revealing his true self, that a small bud finally appeared atop Kunlun, only to be snatched away by a bloodied little boy. The young man Thorne, born of the Demonkind, held immense potential and had an almost reckless tenacity when he was after something. Young Sorcerer Alaric pondered for a bit before asking, "Is your brother Lucian known as Lady Elenora?" Catherine's eyes widened, "You know her?" He nodded, though in an understated manner. Perhaps it was Catherine's intense gaze that prompted Alaric to calmly add, “We had a brief encounter.” He had no intention of divulging the backstory, but Bishop Garret, still on the ground, interjected angrily, "Sir, that little Elder stole your spirit herbs, causing you to isolate yourself for years, suffering from backlash. You should just throw her off the mountain. It’s superstitious." Alaric, having experienced his King spirit’s first attack, stood weakened to almost nothing, and branding Lady Elenora as a thief was indeed true. Catherine Ravenswood was taken aback by Garret’s harsh words and clenched her fists, "I—I didn't know. This was something my brother took…" Alaric could tell that Elder Elenora was genuinely annoyed. He cast a spell on Garret, reproving, “Bishop Garret, is there even a trace of decorum left?” A halo of light burst forth, transforming Garret into a miniature crane, with his fiery red feathers drooping pathetically. Alaric must have felt some fatigue, as he told Catherine, "Your ability to enter the mountain gate suggests the energy of the Ninefold Blossom is resonating within you." Catherine nodded, lowering her gaze and fiddling with her palm. Suddenly gathering immense courage, she tugged on Alaric's broad sleeve nervously and asked, "You mentioned earlier that ten years ago, all earthly ties were severed." Alaric’s arm stiffened as he felt her grip. He found himself at a loss; releasing her wouldn’t be right either, so he simply nodded. Catherine’s voice grew small, laced with determination as she continued, “You have yet to sever ties…” "My brother took your spirit herb and used it on me. I’m alive now, which is a consequence.” She looked slightly bashful, her ears tinged with pink. “Now… I came to find you, wanting to use my blood to heal you. This is the result.” “Sir Alaric, we share a connection through this cause and effect.”
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