The Phoenix of the Slums

The scroll in Tianming’s hand pulsed with faint warmth as he emerged from the Lotus Passage.

The violet flame etched across its surface flickered with each heartbeat, alive with dormant power.

The morning sun hadn’t yet pierced the clouds above Mount Nanyun, but the wind was stirring, almost whispering his name. Fang was the first to spot him. She leapt from the ledge, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You’re alive.” Tianming gave her a nod, his voice calm.

“The Ember Wheel chose me.” Dr. Jin inspected the scroll without touching it.

“It’s sealed. You’ll need the next two keys to open it fully.” Song Rui frowned.

“The Second Gate requires truth. What does that mean?”

“We’ll find out,” Tianming said, sliding the scroll into the inner lining of his jacket. “But first, we need to move. They’ll come looking.” Zhao pointed toward the ridgeline.

“Already ahead of you. I spotted drones an hour ago—black-wings, military grade. Someone knows you entered the Passage.”

They didn’t go back to Denghai. Instead, they traveled west through twisted roads and forgotten trails until they reached the borderland of Xiyu City—a name twisted from ancient maps, a place now run by syndicates that operated outside law.

Tianming knew this wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was war. And war required power. He needed to grow stronger. The first key had awakened something in him.

That night, as the others slept in a hidden safehouse above an abandoned spice market, he sat alone and opened the inner layer of the scroll. A stream of characters flowed into the air—ancient script fused with energy.

His mind burned with each word. Memories not his own danced through his thoughts: sword forms, movement arts, internal breathing patterns, and a phrase spoken by a man cloaked in silver flames.

“Dantian is the furnace. True force is not taken. It is forged.”

He gritted his teeth as pain surged through his core. His chest felt like it was caving in. Every breath dragged molten fire into his lungs. But he didn’t stop.

He sat cross-legged, palms open, guiding the energy downward. It flowed into his abdomen and swirled like a storm.

Then it struck—the dantian.

Hidden deep within, silent until now. It burst open like a locked gate, and a vortex formed inside him. Qi. Real, living inner force.

He’d heard rumors.

Cultivation, they called it in forgotten texts. A warrior’s journey through realms of physical and spiritual mastery.

He had stepped onto the first rung.

By dawn, when Fang awoke and checked on him, Tianming opened his eyes. They gleamed with calm fire.

“You’re glowing,” she said. He stood, his presence different now. Quieter. But heavier.

“I’ve found the beginning,” he said. “And we’re running out of time.”

Back in Denghai, chaos spread. Liang Feihong returned to the Lotus Clan’s inner sanctum, kneeling before a man veiled in gold silk.

“He survived,” Liang said.

The man didn’t move.“So the Wheel chose him. Then the prophecy holds.” Liang hesitated.

“Do I proceed?” “No,” the man said, voice low and ancient.

“Send the Silent Three. Let them test his resolve. If he falls, he was never meant to rise.”

Liang’s eyes darkened. “And if he survives?”

“Then prepare the blood trial,” the man replied. “The world must remember why the Lotus once ruled.”

Meanwhile, Tianming and his group reached the outer edge of Xiyu’s underground, where a notorious contact of Dr. Jin waited.

He was a man with a gold tooth and half a face scorched by fire. They called him Uncle Wu.

“You’ve stirred ghosts, boy,” Wu said, puffing on a crooked pipe.

“I’ve heard whispers. The Lotus Clan’s inner circle has opened their coffins. They don’t send the Silent Three unless they want blood.”

“Let them come,” Tianming replied. Wu gave a low whistle. “Brave or stupid. Time will tell.”

That night, as rain fell in jagged lines across Xiyu’s steel roofs, three figures moved like shadows through the alleys. No sound. No trace. Only death.

They were already inside the market by the time the outer guards realized something was wrong. One fell, throat crushed.

Another never even screamed. On the second floor, Zhao caught the scent first.

“They’re here,” he whispered, grabbing his knives.

Fang unsheathed her twin blades, eyes narrow. “Three of them. One’s already close.” And then the wall exploded.

A figure in white robes with no face markings flew through the debris, launching a spinning kick toward Tianming. He twisted, grabbing the attacker’s leg mid-air and slamming him into the wall.

“So,” Tianming said, voice calm, “you’re the first.” The figure responded with a flurry of punches so fast they became a blur.

Tianming ducked one, twisted to the left, blocked another with his forearm, then slid low and delivered an elbow to the assassin’s ribs.

A crack echoed through the room. The assassin leapt back, coughing blood.

“Your dantian… is open.”

Before he could reply, the other two arrived—one wielding thin twin sabers that hummed with electricity, the other barehanded, his aura suffocating like drowning in a swamp.

Fang moved first, blades crossing with the saber wielder in a flurry of steel and sparks. Zhao rolled into action, knives flashing as he engaged the barehanded brute.

But Tianming never broke focus. His first opponent rose again.

“Let’s finish this,” he said. Tianming advanced with a rising knee to the chest, flipped over his attacker mid-air, landed behind him and drove a strike into the pressure point at the base of his neck.

The assassin dropped.

The room was chaos. Steel against steel. Blade against bone. But Tianming was calm. He moved like water, cutting through them, adapting each form he had absorbed from the scroll.

Fang shouted from behind him, “We’ve got to retreat!”

“No,” Tianming replied, stepping forward toward the last of the Silent Three. “We finish this. Now.”