Infinite Fire Record

Chapter 20: Quanzhen Sect

Zhongnan Mountain, Chongyang Palace.

Within the grand hall, beneath the solemn gaze of the Three Pure Ones, the Seven Sons of Quanzhen sat in meditation. Their hands formed intricate Taoist seals, and their lips moved in unison as they softly chanted the Sutra of Tranquility.

The murmured scripture carried an ethereal resonance, its cadence weaving through the hall, filling the space with an undeniable tranquility. Even the air seemed to hum with harmony, the very walls of the temple steeped in serenity.

Opposite them, a large assembly of Taoist disciples sat cross-legged on futons, mirroring their elders. Their hands formed the same metaphysical seals, their voices reciting the sacred text. Yet, despite their efforts, their intonations lacked the refinement of their masters—like a mere echo of the Seven Sons, distant and incomplete.

Among them sat a lone figure in simple robes—Imperial Sky. His fingers mimicked the seals, though imperfectly, his lips parting and closing in silent mimicry. No sound left his mouth.

Three days had passed since Imperial Sky had infiltrated Quanzhen Sect. Disguised as an ordinary Taoist acolyte using the Art of Transfiguration, he had moved unnoticed among them, gathering intelligence. The Ancient Tomb lay within the sect’s forbidden grounds, and knowledge of its exact location was closely guarded. Yet, through careful observation and eavesdropping, he had learned all he needed to know.

But patience was key. Soon, chaos would descend upon Quanzhen Sect, and he intended to use that moment to his advantage.

The chanting gradually subsided. The Seven Sons of Quanzhen exchanged knowing glances before addressing their disciples, expounding on the deeper meanings of the scriptures. Their words carried well into the late morning before they finally dismissed the congregation.

As the disciples dispersed, Imperial Sky followed the crowd out of the hall. He walked with measured steps toward the western part of the sect, where a large hall—the Hall of Teaching—stood. Here, lower-ranked disciples were instructed in the fundamentals of Taoist martial arts.

Despite his assumed identity as a mere novice, Imperial Sky had not been idle. In just a few days, he had mastered the Quanzhen Great Dao Song to the twelfth cycle. His foundation in Bi Bo Gong from Peach Blossom Island refined his energy into pure, attribute-less power, making the transition seamless. Compared to his former techniques, the Quanzhen Great Dao Song, created by Wang Chongyang himself, possessed far greater depth.

Imperial Sky stopped outside the hall, his gaze sweeping over the stone walls where the introductory sword techniques and lightweight movement arts of the sect were inscribed. He barely spared them a glance before turning away. These rudimentary skills held no value to him.

Time passed slowly.

On this particular day, a cold smile played on Imperial Sky’s lips. His gaze, sharp as a blade, glinted with anticipation.

From the distance, a commotion stirred. Groups of Quanzhen disciples hurried toward the great hall, their expressions tense.

Imperial Sky, now clad in pristine white, had long discarded his disguise. A silver-white flame shimmered between his brows, his regal demeanor starkly contrasting the simple acolyte he had pretended to be. The Taoist child he had impersonated had likely perished by now—his existence nothing more than a means to an end.

His eyes locked onto a towering wooden structure in the distance—the Sutra Pavilion. It stood resolute, carrying the weight of history within its aged beams. The disciples of the Quanzhen Sect had formed a defensive formation, unaware that the true enemy already lurked within their walls.

Then, a sudden cry rang out.

“Fire! The Sutra Pavilion is burning!”

Flames licked hungrily at the edges of the wooden tower, smoke coiling into the sky.

“What are you waiting for? Put out the fire!” A disciple shouted in alarm.

Just as panic took hold, another cry erupted from the base of the mountain.

“Attack! Kill every last one of them!”

“Seize everything! Take all that Quanzhen Sect has!”

The sect’s disciples faltered. A cruel dilemma lay before them—defend their home against invaders or save their precious records from the encroaching flames.

A smirk ghosted across Imperial Sky’s lips. Amid the chaos, he strode toward the Sutra Pavilion with deliberate steps.

No longer bound by the limitations of his disguise, he moved with unshackled confidence. The ancient tomes housed within that structure held immense value. The world of martial arts thrived on knowledge, and whoever controlled it wielded unparalleled power.

As he neared the entrance, the suffocating heat of the flames barely fazed him. A long sword materialized in his grasp.

A figure in Taoist robes appeared before him, sword raised defensively. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

A flicker of silver flashed through the air.

The Falling Divine Sword Palm, originally conceived as a sword technique, merged seamlessly into Imperial Sky’s blade work. A phantom-like gleam danced through the smoke, followed by a single streak of crimson.