Immortal Paladin

[POV: Ding Cai]

Life had once been simple for Ding Cai.

She cultivated. She failed to break through. She got called a retard by seniors who pretended enlightenment was generosity rather than luck. She got scolded by her aunt, whose voice was sharp but whose hands were always warm when Ding Cai returned bruised and hungry. It was a cycle of humiliation, effort, and survival, but it had been stable and predictable.

Then she met her master.

From that moment on, time seemed to lose its shape. Events stacked atop one another without mercy, compressing years into days, and days into breaths she barely had time to take. Memories assaulted her in fragments: the floating city drifting like a miracle made real; ten thousand ships blotting out the sky; the first tremor of invasion that turned awe into dread.

It was such a terrible sight.

Her master, engulfed by his own power, devoured not by an enemy but by something far more incomprehensible. His qi had surged, folded inward, and erased him from the world as if reality itself had rejected the excess.

After that, everything went downhill.

Her big sister tried to shield her from the worst of it. Tried to stand between Ding Cai and the accelerating violence, the widening war, and the things she had never known to be possible. But protection had limits. Even love did.

“Stay behind me,” Ren Jingyi said, blood already staining the corner of her mouth.

Ding Cai barely had time to nod before Ren Jingyi burst her qi from her dantian. The surge was violent as if her body itself protested the decision.

“It’s crude,” Ren Jingyi muttered, voice tight with pain, “but it’ll have to do.”

She drew a sharp breath and spoke again, each word carved out with will rather than breath.

“Exalted Renewal: Half-Step.”

Power exploded outward.

Ren Jingyi’s presence skyrocketed, force bending the air, crushing lesser cultivators outright. But Ding Cai saw cracks spiderwebbing across Ren Jingyi’s arms, her shoulders, and even along her neck. Flesh and spirit alike were being pushed past their limits.

Ren Jingyi didn’t slow.

She tore a path straight into the Heavenly Temple’s ranks, her hand gripping Ding Cai’s wrist like an anchor.

“Don’t let go,” she said, and then there was no more room for words.

Above them, the sky had become a battlefield unto itself. Lady Wu Chen’s plant spells coiled like living continents, roots piercing clouds. Fearsome Jue Bu moved like a calamity given form. And beyond them, the cultivators of the Heavenly Temple answered with forces that made Ding Cai’s teeth chatter even from afar.

Then everything lurched.

Ren Jingyi hurled Ding Cai forward, straight toward the industrial complex of New Willow.

“Get in!” she shouted.

The world tilted, and Ding Cai slammed into cold metal. The Phantom, an enormous, grotesque puppet of steel and sigils, sealed around her just as the sky darkened.

A black sun bloomed overhead.

Swords rained like judgment.

Lightning detonated in overlapping roars.

New Willow shattered.

From within the armor, Ding Cai watched as the flying island broke apart into burning debris, its structures torn free, its people swallowed by fire and void. The interface before her eyes flickered, struggling to process the scale of destruction.

“This… this can’t be happening,” she whispered, hands trembling against the Phantom’s controls.

Just before consciousness slipped away, she saw it.

An enormous figure, wrought entirely of bone, rose between the devastation and the dying New Willow. Dark flames and heavenly thunder struck its form, only to fail. “MY NAME’S JUE BU AND THIS IS MY RESOLVE!” It raised its arms, impossibly gentle for something so monstrous, and gathered the shattered debris as if collecting fragile glass.

The island reassembled.

Souls that should have been lost were wrapped in translucent barriers, cradled, and returned.

Through the machine’s interface, Ding Cai saw New Willow become whole again.

And then everything went dark.

The last thought that crossed her mind, as she sank into nothingness, was her aunt.

There were so many things she had never said. Apologies she had swallowed. Gratitude she had assumed there would be time for later. She wanted to call her sister again, to hear her voice just once more, but Peng Cai was long dead.

She was Ding Cai now.

And mortality was something she had cherished only after it was gone.

When she opened her eyes, warmth greeted her first.

Sunlight spilled through a narrow crevice above, illuminating drifting dust. Beneath her palms, the sand was cool, almost comforting in its solidity. Her limbs felt heavy and unresponsive as if they belonged to someone else.

The space around her was dim and enclosed.

She tried to sit up.

Pain tore through her abdomen.

Ding Cai gasped and fell back, her vision swimming. Jagged pieces of metal were embedded in her torso, half-fused with flesh, darkened with dried blood. Each breath sent sharp reminders through her body that she was very much still alive.

She forced herself to look ahead.

Scattered across the sand were broken plates of armor, twisted joints, and shattered sigils. It was the Phantom or what remained of it.

Around her, a dome of compacted sand enclosed the space. Thick roots slithered through its walls, intertwining with debris, as if some unseen force had hastily reinforced the shelter to keep it from collapsing.

Her throat felt dry.

Her voice came out hoarse, small, almost swallowed by the enclosed space.

“Hello?” she called. “Anyone… there?”

A hoarse voice answered her.

“Here…”

Ding Cai stiffened. She turned, squinting through the dim light, and finally noticed what she had missed before. An enormous tree was rooted deep into one side of the sandy dome. Its trunk was pale and scarred, bark split and mended unevenly, as if it had been torn from the sky and forced to grow again in hostile ground. Around it lay heaps of debris: shattered platforms, twisted metal struts, and fragments of formations that had once been part of New Willow.

Her heart thudded.

Bracing herself, Ding Cai pushed to her feet. Pain flared through her abdomen, sharp enough to steal her breath, and she had to pause, one hand pressed to her wound as she inhaled slowly. Even as a Sixth Realm cultivator, her steps were unsteady. The weakness frightened her more than the pain, since it told her just how close to death she must have been.

She limped toward the voice.

Climbing over the debris was agony. Each movement tugged at the metal lodged in her flesh, and sweat beaded on her forehead as she gritted her teeth and forced herself upward. By the time she reached the top of the pile, her vision swam.

Finally, she saw the tree.

Her breath caught in her throat.

It was the same special tree in New Willow.

“Lady Bai…” Ding Cai croaked.

Nestled among the roots was Bai Zemin.

Several thick roots had pierced her body as if they were the only things keeping her alive. The woman Ding Cai remembered as elegant, composed, and radiant with quiet authority was gone. What remained was gaunt, skin pale and drawn tight over bone, her breathing shallow and uneven.

Bai Zemin’s eyes fluttered open, and she managed a faint smile.

“You found me,” she said softly.

Ding Cai hurried forward, dropping to her knees beside her. “What happened? Why are you—this—”

“When New Willow was torn apart,” Bai Zemin said, her voice barely above a whisper, “Jue Bu tried to gather everything back together. But even he couldn’t reach it all. Some fragments fell… this tree, included.”

She coughed, dark blood staining her lips.

Ding Cai’s gaze flicked around them. “Where are we? And this dome—”

“To hide us,” Bai Zemin replied. “For as long as I could manage.”

Another cough wracked her body, and Ding Cai instinctively reached out. “Please, stop talking. Save your strength.”

Bai Zemin shook her head weakly. “There is no time.”

The tree behind her shifted.

With a soft, organic sound, the trunk parted, and something slid forward from within the hollow. Ding Cai’s breath caught as she saw the unconscious figure revealed by the opening bark.

He looked like her master, identical in face, in bearing, and even in the faint sense of familiarity that tugged painfully at her chest.

“…Jue Bu,” Ding Cai whispered.

She had heard of him from Ren Jingyi: once an enemy, now an ally; a being of terrifying strength who shared her master’s face for reasons no one fully understood.

Bai Zemin followed her gaze. “I did what I could,” she said. “But the tree is still young. Its power is limited… and so am I.”

Ding Cai swallowed hard. “What about Senior Ren? Lady Wu Chen?”

Bai Zemin’s eyes dimmed. She shook her head, the motion barely perceptible.

Ding Cai understood then. Bai Zemin’s condition, this slow, deliberate wasting, was no accident. She had poured everything she had into keeping Jue Bu alive.

“Why?” Ding Cai asked, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. “Why would you go this far?”

Bai Zemin smiled again, faint but sincere.

“My clan once stood on the brink of ruin,” she said. “Because of the actions of one of our own, the empire was plunged into strife. We should have been erased for it, our destinies cut short, and our lives taken.”

Her gaze softened. “But His Majesty showed us kindness. He did not sever our future. He allowed us to live… to atone.”

She coughed again, blood staining the sand this time.

“I am only returning that kindness.”

One of the tree’s branches slowly lowered, leaves rustling softly. Nestled among them was a single fruit, luminous and whole, radiating a quiet, mysterious power.

“You will need strength for the journey ahead,” Bai Zemin said. “Eat it.”

Ding Cai stared at the fruit, her throat tight.

“Go on,” said Bai Zemin. “Eat.”

Ding Cai did not hesitate.

She grasped the fruit and bit into it.

Warmth flooded her mouth, rich and fragrant, dissolving into pure vitality the moment it touched her tongue. The power surged through her body in a roaring tide. She gasped as the jagged metal embedded in her abdomen was forced outward, pushed free by newly awakened flesh. Blood welled, then sealed. Pain flared, then vanished, replaced by a sensation so profound it left her trembling.

She felt renewed.

When Ding Cai turned back, her breath caught.

Bai Zemin was gone.

Where the woman had been, petals drifted gently to the sand, pale and luminous, carrying the faint scent of blossoms. The tree’s roots had withdrawn, leaving nothing behind but scattered flowers and an echo of quiet resolve.

Ding Cai clenched her fists.

Even someone like Lady Bai could perish like this.

She swallowed the ache in her chest and did not allow herself to linger. Bai Zemin had bought her this chance with her life. Wasting it would have been an insult.

Ding Cai crossed her legs and sat down amid the debris.

The power of the fruit rolled through her meridians, dense and abundant. She guided it carefully, gathering essence with practiced focus. There was no resistance. The essence flowed naturally, obediently, until the threshold was reached and surpassed.

Essence Gathering was complete.

She did not stop.

With the accumulated essence surging at her command, Ding Cai pushed forward and challenged the next realm.

The Seventh Realm. Bloodline Refinement.

Agony followed.

Her bones screamed as they were tempered, structure breaking down and reforging itself. Her blood roared, heat flooding her veins until it felt as though it might boil her alive. Flesh expanded, contracted, then settled into a new, denser harmony. Ding Cai bit down hard, refusing to cry out, refusing to yield.

Slowly, clarity came to her.

Information surfaced within her consciousness, not as fragments to be deduced, nor riddles to be interpreted, but as an answer plainly given.

She understood her bloodline.

She was human.

Not merely human in name, but a true human being, her humanity blossomed to its fullest expression. Some would call it a high human. Others might name it enlightened human.

It was not enlightenment itself. Enlightenment was a fleeting instant, a single revelation that brushed the greater truths of existence before fading. An enlightened human was different. It was someone who had crossed that threshold once and would continue to cross it, again and again, throughout their life.

They saw essence with a glance.

They learned ten from one lesson, a hundred from ten, and so on.

They were, quite simply, born geniuses of existence.

Ding Cai exhaled slowly.

She rose and gently lifted Jue Bu, hoisting his unconscious body onto her back. His weight was solid and grounding.

She faced the crevice above.

Her master had done this countless times. Her senior sister as well. In the past, she had only copied them clumsily, mimicking what she did not truly understand.

Now, she understood.

“Zealot’s Stride,” Ding Cai said.

Golden light bloomed beneath her feet. She ascended toward the crevice, passing through the threshold without resistance. Beyond it, she continued rising, carried higher and higher on controlled bursts of power.

She glanced down.

The dome Bai Zemin had created lay hidden beneath her, blended so perfectly with the Great Desert that even from this proximity it was nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding sands.

Ding Cai steadied her breathing, maintaining altitude with Zealot’s Stride. Her qi and stamina were finite. She would not waste them.

She scanned the horizon, calculating where civilization might lie.

Nothing revealed itself.

Being enlightened did not grant precognition.

After a brief pause, Ding Cai chose a direction and soared with Zealot’s Stride.

Days passed, and the world did not change.

Sand stretched endlessly beneath Ding Cai’s feet, dunes rising and falling like frozen waves. The sky burned white during the day and fell into bitter cold at night. Her throat grew dry, lips cracking despite her attempts to regulate her breathing. She discovered quickly that this land offered her nothing. There was no essence to draw upon that matched her path, no fire or abundance she could harmonize with. Even the air held little moisture. She could not condense water, nor could she replenish herself through cultivation.

She rationed her strength and kept moving.

Weeks later, she began to find signs of war.

Shattered hulls half-buried in sand bore the colors of New Willow’s skyfleet. Broken banners marked the fallen of the Promised Dunes and the Federation. The ground was scarred with craters and lingering spiritual residue. Heavenly Temple formations remained intact in many places, pristine in their cruelty. The imbalance was obvious. This had not been a battle. It had been a purge.

Ding Cai knelt beside the wreckage, her enlightened perception piecing together trajectories, formations, and retreat paths. She had no tracking arts, but she did not need them. The land told its story to anyone willing to listen.

She chose her path and continued onward.

Months passed.

At last, she found civilization.

Or what remained of it.

A city lay in ruins before her, its streets cracked, towers collapsed, and walls blackened by divine flame. Heavenly Temple cultivators patrolled the wreckage openly. Ding Cai barely had time to retreat before someone sensed her presence.

They recognized Jue Bu.

The moment his face was seen, shouts rang out. Blades and talismans were unleashed. Ding Cai fled without hesitation, Zealot’s Stride carrying her just far enough to survive. From then on, there was no refuge. Villages turned her away. Cities barred their gates. In some places, stones were thrown before words could be spoken.

Da Wei’s name followed her everywhere.

Years passed.

Rumors grew darker with time. Da Wei was called a tyrant, a mad god, and a butcher who drowned continents in blood. The Heavenly Temple’s narrative had taken root, watered by fear and grief. Ding Cai listened, memorized, and moved on.

She did not despair.

Despair was inefficient. It clouded judgment and wasted energy. Her enlightened nature guided her forward, urging her to adapt and seek patterns rather than comfort. Eventually, whispers reached her ears.

There was a resistance.

She followed the faint trail south, through narrow desert straits where sand gave way to rock and scrub. There, hidden among ravines and broken hills, she found a village that did not appear on any map.

The moment she crossed its boundary, steel kissed her throat.

“Who are you?” a voice demanded.

Ding Cai froze. She sensed killing intent Panic flickered through her chest, but she forced it down. If this truly was the resistance, deception would only doom her.

“My name is Ding Cai,” she said clearly. “The man on my back is Jue Bu. I am a disciple of Da Wei.”

The dagger pressed closer.

“A disciple?” another voice echoed, sharp with hostility. “You?”

A man in dark armor stepped into view, purple flames licking along his shoulder guards. His gaze was merciless, his stance ready to strike.

“Stop.”

The single word cut through the tension.

Ding Cai’s eyes widened.

A tall woman with blond hair and long ears stepped forward, her presence calm yet commanding. Recognition struck like lightning.

“Big sis!” Ding Cai cried, her voice breaking.

Wu Chen’s expression softened, just a fraction.

Before Ding Cai could say more, footsteps sounded from one of the huts. A woman emerged, dark-haired and composed, dressed in robes patterned with crimson serpents. Her eyes were mismatched, one red, one gold, and they fixed on Ding Cai with unsettling clarity.

“I am Gu Jie,” the woman said calmly. “Da Wei’s daughter.”

Ding Cai’s breath caught.

Fear and confusion collided within her. She reacted on instinct, hastily cupping her fists in greeting. In her fluster, Jue Bu slipped from her back and struck the ground with a dull thud.

“G-greetings,” Ding Cai said quickly. “First disciple, elder sister.”

Gu Jie shook her head.

“I am no longer the first disciple,” she replied. “That position was taken from me.”

The woman who had held the dagger sighed, withdrew her blade, and bent down to lift Jue Bu with ease. “It seems that we have a new face among us,” she said, glancing at Ding Cai. “You better not hold us back, little girl…”

The woman who had held the dagger unsettled Ding Cai, because of her strange presence.

She stood close enough that Ding Cai could sense the subtle distortions around her body, the minute shifts of weight that betrayed hidden mechanisms. Beneath the dark robes, there were weapons layered upon weapons, placed with deliberate care. Ding Cai could not see them, yet she knew they were there, as clearly as if they were laid bare.

“You can call me Liang Na,” the woman said calmly, her long braid resting against her back.

Ding Cai nodded and turned her gaze to the man in dark armor. Purple flames licked along the edges of his shadow, refusing to fully detach from him, as though even light feared his presence.

This must be Lu Gao.

She cupped her fists and bowed. “Senior brother.”

Lu Gao inclined his head in acknowledgment, his attention already shifting elsewhere. He turned to Gu Jie. “Where next?”

Gu Jie answered without hesitation. “Two more. Hei Mao and Ren Jingyi. After that, we head to the Heavenly Temple Academy.”

“To find Da Ji,” Wu Chen added quietly.

Ding Cai did not understand the full picture, but she heard resolve in their voices. There was a plan. That was enough.

“Ambush,” Gu Jie said.

The word had barely left her mouth before the others moved.

Ding Cai reacted instantly, stepping forward and taking Jue Bu back from Liang Na. At the same moment, Liang Na vanished.

Seven figures fell.

There was no sound of struggle, no cry of alarm. Heads separated cleanly from bodies, rolling across the ground as blood soaked into the sand. Liang Na reappeared a short distance away, holding the severed heads by their hair as if they weighed nothing at all.

“They were already forming the kill formation,” Liang Na remarked idly. “Heavenly Temple must think very low of us if this is all they sent.”

Lu Gao lifted his gaze.

Hundreds of ships tore through the clouds above, descending in tight formation, banners of the Heavenly Temple snapping in the wind.

“They are,” Lu Gao said evenly, “definitely looking down on us.”

Wu Chen appeared beside Ding Cai, her presence steady. She placed a hand lightly on Ding Cai’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Watch.”

Six dark, feathered wings erupted from Lu Gao’s back, unfurling with a pressure that distorted the air.

“Hollow Point: Incursion.”

Purple flames surged outward as Lu Gao seized one of his own wings and tore it free. The act should have been impossible. Instead, the severed wing dissolved into blazing sigils.

“Final Adjudication.”

An enormous scale manifested in the heavens, its arms burning with violet fire. Chains lashed downward, striking the ships with merciless precision. Hulls shattered. Formations collapsed. One by one, the vessels were torn apart, erased before their crews could even scream.

“Leave one intact,” Liang Na called. “We’ll need it.”

Gu Jie stepped forward, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Our destination is the Great Desert.”

Ding Cai’s stomach tightened at the words. Memories of endless sand, thirst, and pursuit surged back unbidden.

Lu Gao tore away another wing.

“Divine Mandate of Proximity.”

A vast purple dome expanded outward from him, sealing the sky itself. No ship would escape its boundary. “There’s no need to leave any survivors, right? I’ll make it quick…”