Jingxuan helps the princess slip out of the camp unnoticed at dawn. Rain falls steadily, softening the world into mist. Li Niyue pulls her white cloak close, her hood shadowing her face as they move away from the flickering lights of the camp.

“Did he leave?” she asks quietly.

Jingxuan understands—she means Wenrui, and whether he’s gone to their meeting at Spark Waterfall inside the Thunderstorm Mountains. He stretches his senses, but Wenrui’s aura is nowhere within the camp.

“He’s not inside his tent,” Jingxuan says.

Li Niyue nods. “I’ll meet him alone. Follow from behind—don’t let anyone trail me.”

Jingxuan inclines his head without question. She turns toward the mountains, and the rain swallows her silhouette.

When she steps into the forest’s edge, Jingxuan reverses his gravity, lifting silently into the air. Hovering high above, he follows her slow advance through the veiled ridges until the roar of the Spark Waterfall cuts through the storm.

From above, he sees the glimmer of “spark fish” climbing the waterfall, their scales flashing silver with lightning arcs. Beside the water’s base stands Zhang Wenrui, waiting. But hidden around the cliffs, he senses dozens of faint auras—men masked by the downpour, their bodies steeped in strange, corrupted energy.

Weird energy.

Jingxuan narrows his eyes. These are weird worshippers—mortals who, lacking talent for warlock cultivation, surrender their faith to awakened weirds in exchange for a fragment of their power.

His gaze sharpens as he recalls another truth: inside Zhang Wenrui lies the remnant of a Weird Lord’s body, a weird tied to the Demon Hall.

When the ambushers notice the princess stepping into view, they hesitate. Jingxuan instantly understands—their target isn’t her. It’s Wenrui.

The moment Li Niyue reaches him, a thick fog surges up, sealing them within a barrier. Then, the worshippers attack.

Jingxuan doesn’t dive in. He hovers above the fog, his spirit sight piercing through the veil.

Inside, divine light flares. Li Niyue wields her divine bow and armour with fluid grace, arrows of pure radiance slicing through shadows. But what holds Jingxuan’s attention isn’t her.

It’s Wenrui.

He expected Wenrui to unleash the Weird Lord’s power—but instead, a field of silver energy envelops his fists, flickering with mysterious force. The same energy expands and contracts around him like a living shield, striking back at every blow.

Jingxuan’s eyes narrow. That’s not weird energy… It’s something else.

Intrigued, he remains above, watching instead of intervening. The rain dulls against his energy field as he studies the flow of the silver light around Wenrui. Its rhythm, its density—it’s unlike spiritual or weird energy.

After a few minutes of close observation, he reaches a conclusion. A form of physical qi. Refined to such purity that it manifests like a force field. But how it transformed into this state—he can’t yet understand.

Below, the divine light around Li Niyue begins to dim. Her divine bow flickers weakly, and the radiance of her armour fades. Jingxuan knows the truth—she does not power the divine weapons, and their borrowed energy has nearly run dry.

He exhales softly. “Then I’ll end it.”

Drawing on the wind core, he channels weird energy through it. Instantly, the air around him bends to his will. A vast blade of wind forms, its edge humming with violent precision. He swings it down.

The barrier shatters with a deafening roar. Fragments of wind twist into countless smaller blades, guided by Jingxuan’s control. They tear through the fog and carve clean crimson lines across the necks of every worshipper.

Below, Wenrui and Li Niyue freeze. The fog disperses, revealing bodies collapsing one by one, clutching their throats as blood spills into the rain-soaked ground.

Wenrui instinctively raises his guard, unaware of who attacked, until Jingxuan’s silhouette descends through the mist. When he lands, Li Niyue exhales in relief.

“What made you come so late?” she asks.

Jingxuan steps to her side and places a palm lightly on her back, sending a stabilising flow of energy through her. The gesture makes Wenrui’s eyes tighten.

Seeing the flash of jealousy, Jingxuan smiles faintly. “Brother Wenrui’s strength drew my attention,” he says. “I was… distracted.”

Wenrui’s jaw hardens. “Commander Jingxuan, I don’t deserve to be called your brother.”

“How could you not?” Jingxuan replies easily. “You’re the princess’s friend, and she is my future wife. So, naturally, we’re friends.”

Wenrui trembles, anger barely contained. His gaze shifts to Li Niyue, whose silence and continued closeness to Jingxuan strike him harder than any weapon.

“Princess,” Wenrui says through gritted teeth, “you called me here for this?”

Li Niyue steps forward, stopping Jingxuan’s hand before it touches her back. She knows she must make Wenrui forget her—but not now. The empire’s survival comes first, and for that, she needs his help.

“Not for this,” she says quietly, forcing her tone steady. “I called you to ask for your assistance.”

She glances at Jingxuan, who stands with deliberate ease, his calm meant to provoke. When he takes another slow step closer, she shoots him a sharp glare before turning back to Wenrui.

“We need your assistance.”

Her tone hardens, leaving no room for mischief. Jingxuan straightens, realising she’s serious, and drops his teasing air. “Yes,” he says, “we truly need your help.”

Wenrui draws a slow breath, fighting the tremor of anger in his voice. “What kind of assistance?”

Li Niyue explains everything—the placement of the divine posts, the true goal of their mission, and the danger that comes with it. Wenrui listens in silence until she finishes.

“So,” he says, “you need me to place the divine posts around the mountains so the empire can send divine armies directly inside.”

She nods once. “Will you do it?”

His gaze lingers on her, then shifts to Jingxuan. “For you,” he says softly, “I’ll do anything.”

Jingxuan’s jaw tightens, his aura rippling faintly before he forces it still. Every instinct in him screams to crush Wenrui where he stands—to erase the man who dares speak to his woman that way—but he swallows the urge. His voice, when he speaks, is even.

Li Niyue takes a small bag from her waist. The faint hum of divine and spatial energy from it makes Jingxuan glance at it with recognition—a divine treasure.

She extends it toward Wenrui. “I’ll transfer control to you.”

She murmurs a spell. A ray of divine light flows from her chest into his, binding the treasure’s ownership. Wenrui’s eyes close for a moment as he feels the connection form, then he exhales.

“Can I leave now?” he asks.

Jingxuan steps forward. “Wait,” he says, his tone calm but eyes sharp. “I have a question for you.”

Both Li Niyue and Wenrui look at him in confusion.

“What?” Wenrui asks.

Jingxuan’s gaze pierces him. “Your cultivation method—tell me about it. How did you break the limit of your mortal body?”

Wenrui’s frown deepens, unease flickering across his face.

“Jingxuan,” Li Niyue says sternly, warning in her voice.

He lifts a hand lightly. “If it’s a secret,” he says, “you don’t have to tell me.”

Wenrui hesitates, unsure if he should tell Jingxuan about the National Martial Arts. He has already shared it with his close friends, so it isn’t exactly a forbidden secret—but this is Jingxuan.

As he ponders, Kratos’s voice echoes in his mind. “Tell him.”

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Wenrui frowns inwardly. “Why?”

“Because you’re already thinking of the next realm after Kong Jin,” Kratos replies, calm but firm. “And he can help you.”

Wenrui scoffs, I don’t need his help.

“Don’t be a brat,” Kratos snaps. “You hesitate because of the princess. But if she truly is Ming Yi’s reincarnation, you should remember how she died.”

A vivid image flashes through Wenrui’s mind—the explosion, the blinding light, her calm smile as the blast consumed them both.

“You couldn’t protect her then,” Kratos says coldly. “And with your current strength, you won’t be able to protect her now. But Jingxuan can.”

Wenrui’s hands tighten. He doesn’t want to admit it, but Kratos is right. He lacks the power to shield her. Even if he doesn’t understand how Jingxuan could help him, he acknowledges Jingxuan’s monstrous talent.

After a long pause, he says quietly, “I practice a cultivation path called National Martial Arts.”

He continues, “It’s divided into six realms—Ming Jin, An Jin, Hua Jin, Dan Jin, Shen Jin, and finally, Kong Jin.”

Jingxuan’s eyes narrow slightly. The names sound familiar. Then he remembers—they were mentioned in a novel from the main body’s past life. He doesn’t find it strange, though.

This world lies within the inner dream space—a void realm shaped by fragments from the dreams of living beings.

Wenrui continues, “In the Ming Jin realm, martial artists master the power in their muscles."

" In An Jin, they master the power of bones and tendons."

" In Hua Jin, they refine both energies until they can dissolve attacks or redirect them, freely using their strength for both offence and defence."

" In Dan Jin, they form a core in their dantian that stores energy, allowing them to regain peak combat power even in old age."

" In Shen Jin, they completely master their mortal body and begin to temper their spirit—awakening their Fist Intent."

" Finally, in Kong Jin, they combine all their strength into one path, creating a personal force field.”

Jingxuan visualises a body in his mind and runs the National Martial Arts cultivation method through it. Energy flows, patterns align, and he raises his palm.

A silver force field shimmers into existence around him.

Wenrui freezes, shock twisting his face. “How can you…?”

Jingxuan studies the shifting force field around his palm. “What’s so surprising? Before I became a warlock, I’d already strengthened my body to the mortal limit.”

Wenrui nods slowly, remembering the hunt when Jingxuan leapt to take the arrow meant for the princess. He hadn’t done the same because his strength fell short. If he had, the emperor might have granted him the princess’s hand.

Kratos’s voice cuts through his thoughts. If you had, you’d be six feet under by now and rotting.

Wenrui ignores him as Jingxuan continues, “The first four realms of National Martial Arts help mortals systematically reach their physical limit. The next two focus on spirit and willpower. Warlocks cultivate both—if either is weak, they fall under the influence of the weird cores they refine.”

Wenrui nods, then asks, “What about Fist Intent?”

Jingxuan answers, “It’s the expression of your understanding of the world through spirit and willpower. In the Shen Jin realm, it manifests as a mental attack. Only in Kong Jin does it become physical—an attack and defence formed through the force field.”

Wenrui stands silent, stunned by how quickly Jingxuan grasps the art after hearing it only minutes ago.

Jingxuan withdraws the silver force field into his body, closes his eyes, and merges with his spirit world. The screams of weird wills echo from the cores within his mind. As he listens, a realisation forms—the true purpose of National Martial Arts. He opens his eyes and studies Wenrui carefully.

Wenrui frowns at the strange look in Jingxuan’s eyes but shakes his head, dismissing it. “Commander Ji, can you give me some advice about my future path?”

Jingxuan smirks, his gaze sweeping up and down Wenrui. “The world wants you to be an antivirus. Your path is to destroy the weird. For that, you must open your spirit space with your Fist Intent and shape your mental landscape from your understanding of the world.”

Wenrui stiffens, struck silent by the word antivirus.

Jingxuan turns toward Niyue and places a hand on her arm. “Let’s go. He needs time to process.” He leads her toward the exit of the mountain, leaving Wenrui deep in thought.

In Wenrui’s mind, Kratos says, Why are you stuck on the word ‘antivirus’? Try Jingxuan’s method. I’ve already opened your spirit space—refine it with your Fist Intent and start building your world within it.

Kratos pauses, frowning. “What does the word antivirus even mean?”

Wenrui replies, “You already checked my memory—you should know the word is from my world.”

Kratos sounds surprised. “I didn’t look into your memory. That illusion I built before was shaped with your help. You always linger on the moment of your death in your past life—I only guided that thought to form the illusion.”

Wenrui’s tone softens. “In that illusion, you saw mobiles and computers. They can fall sick because of a disease called a virus. To keep them safe, we created something called an antivirus.” He sends the concept directly into Kratos’s mind.

Kratos goes quiet for a moment as understanding settles in. “He was right—you truly are an antivirus for this world, fighting against the weird energy. Now I understand why, even after you borrow my power in battle, you’re able to erase its traces afterwards.” His voice hardens. “Don’t let anyone know. If the weirds discover what you are, they’ll all turn on you.”

Wenrui nods, then asks the question weighing on him. “How did Jingxuan know the word antivirus?”

Kratos’s tone turns evasive. “Stop thinking about it. Refine your spirit space with your Fist Intent. You’ll get your answers when you’re stronger.”

Wenrui sighs at another of Kratos’s vague replies, but he knows the god is right about one thing—he’s still too weak. He closes his eyes and sinks into his spirit space, releasing his Fist Intent to envelop it completely.

Meanwhile, Jingxuan and Li Niyue walk out of the mountains, their figures fading into the rain-soaked horizon.

As they make their way toward the camp, Niyue breaks the silence. “What did you mean when you said Wenrui’s national martial art is an antivirus for the world?”

Jingxuan’s eyes stay on the muddy path. “Nothing. Forget about it.”

Her voice sharpens. “Tell me—will he be in danger because of it?”

He glances at her, meeting her pleading gaze. “Even if he is, you can’t do anything.”

Her expression falters, and the rest of the walk passes in silence. When they return to the camp, every pair of eyes follows them. They separate only when they reach the centre, heading toward their respective tents.

Ju Funan, standing nearby, steps forward with forced calm. “Commander Ji, even if the emperor granted your marriage to the princess but you’re still not. So, you shouldn’t be travelling alone with her.”

Before Jingxuan can answer, a golden radiance bursts from the camp’s heart. The soldiers immediately kneel, the officials bow, and the air hums with reverence.

A deep, commanding voice echoes from the light—the Emperor’s. “Hear me! On the twenty-third of autumn, my sister, Princess Li Niyue, shall be wed to Ji Jingxuan, son of the Ji family. All subjects shall offer prayers for their union on that day.”

The crowd roars in unison, “Congratulations, Your Majesty!”

The golden light fades, leaving stunned silence in its wake.

Niyue stands frozen, disbelief clouding her face. Her brother had promised to delay the marriage for two years—yet now it was set for barely a month away.

Jingxuan’s gaze drifts toward Ju Funan, whose face has turned crimson. The imperial decree might as well have been a public slap; the emperor’s words left no room to reverse the match without sparking an empire-wide scandal—unless something as great as a Ji family rebellion occurred.

Jingxuan exhales softly, a faint smirk touching his lips as he turns and walks toward his tent. Around him, the officials bow deeply and speak in unison, “Prince Consort.”

Li Niyue stands frozen, her mind struggling to catch up with what just happened. She comes back to herself only when Xu Shiyi steps forward with a smile. “Congratulations, Princess, on the upcoming marriage.”

He turns to Ju Funan. “General Ju, begin the assault. We must end this rebellion within a month—so we can all drink the princess’s wedding wine.”

Ju Funan bows. “Yes, Minister.” He leaves with clenched fists, hiding the humiliation burning in his chest.

When Niyue returns to her tent, she stops in surprise—Jingxuan stands outside, waiting.

“I have a gift for you,” he says calmly, “for our wedding.”

Confusion and curiosity flash in her eyes. “A gift?”

Jingxuan raises a finger. A faint golden light glows at the tip as he points to her forehead. She doesn’t resist; her divine armour remains dormant, meaning it’s no threat. The light touches her skin, and suddenly her head throbs as streams of information surge into her mind.

It’s a cultivation technique—profound, balanced, and clear.

Before she can speak, Jingxuan turns and steps inside his tent, fastening his armour, preparing for war. His duty is to stop the enemy’s Dark Sun Realm warlock from interfering with the imperial forces.

When he emerges again, the rain has lessened. Niyue stands where he left her, eyes closed, practising the technique he shared.

Unlike Wenrui’s version, which focuses on movement and flow, Jingxuan’s technique is still rooted in breath and inner stillness, refining power from silence itself.

Without a word, Jingxuan takes flight, vanishing into the clouds above, his presence blending into the mist as he watches over the camp from the sky, waiting for the army to march into the mountains.

Wenrui returns to the camp as the sun hides behind the grey mountains, his spirit space still trembling from the effort of building his mental landscape. The world inside him is faint, hazy like morning fog, but alive. He walks through the busy camp, soldiers shouting orders as they prepare to march into the mountains.

As he passes, he feels eyes following him—curious, judging, pitying. Whispers crawl around him like insects. When he reaches the tents where his group stays, one of his companions rushes to him, excitement and unease mixing on his face.

“Brother Zhang, you didn’t hear? The emperor announced the wedding. The princess and Commander Ji—one month from now.”

Wenrui freezes. The air feels heavy. His lips move, but no sound comes out. Inside, his heart feels like it’s caving in.

He forces a smile, nods once, and walks into his tent. Alone, he sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the ground until his vision blurs.

His fists tremble, not with anger, but helplessness. Even if he wanted to fight fate, he had no power to defy it.

Above the clouds, Jingxuan watches as the imperial army begins its march. When the banners vanish beneath the stormy ridges, he follows silently, hidden in the mist.

Thunder growls between the mountains as the army finally meets the rebels. Steel clashes, and the smell of blood spreads through the wet air.

Jingxuan moves with the wind, cutting down enemy warlocks before they can cast. The first mountain post falls by dusk.

The army splits into three divisions to seize strategic locations. Jingxuan shadows one group, hovering unseen as they clash with rebels guarding a fortified ridge.

Amid the chaos, a pulse of violent energy spreads through the storm. Jingxuan’s eyes narrow—Dark Sun Realm. He vanishes from sight, appearing before the enemy warlock in a burst of wind.

The man wrapped in purple lightning laughs. “You’re Jingxuan, aren’t you? The emperor’s future son-in-law.”

Jingxuan’s eyes stay cold. “Yes.”

“I am Lei Quan Zhen,” the man says, his voice echoing through the storm. “You killed my brother’s warlock last night. But I didn’t come for revenge. I came to deliver a message.”

Lightning falls around them like rain. Jingxuan deflects each strike with layered wind barriers; his counterattacks are made of compressed wind blades wrapped in earth essence. The mountain shakes beneath their exchange.

“What message?” Jingxuan demands.

Lei Quan Zhen’s eyes flash. “Tell your emperor this—the Lei family never wanted to rebel. We were forced to because of the Soul Hall.”

Jingxuan’s brows tighten. “What is Soul Hall?”

Lei Quan Zhen smirks, thunder crackling around him. “That’s your problem to find out.”

He unleashes a massive bolt that shatters the cliffs and uses the explosion to retreat, vanishing into the storm.

Jingxuan stands still, wind howling around him, his thoughts heavy. Soul Hall…

He looks down. The imperial forces have begun repairing the captured fort, blood washing down the stones with the rain. He decides not to chase. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the horizon where Li Niyue is and flies off into the mist.

She needs to know.