Blood, Flame, and First Conquest.
The summons came on jade.
Carried not by messenger, but by wind—riding a spirit crane whose feathers shimmered like moonlit ink. It circled the upper spires of the Sutra Flame Sect three times before landing silently in Haaron's palm.
The jade token pulsed with an official seal.
Crimson Sky Hall Inter-Sect Grand Convergence.
Location: Dawnwind Valley.
Format: Combat, Alchemy, Spirit Arts, and Dao Intent.
Invitation Tier: Ascendant Combatant.
Haaron read it once.
Then crushed it to dust between his fingers.
"They're calling me out," he said.
Yue Shilan stood nearby, arms folded. "No. They're calling you in."
Lian Rou twirled a blade between her fingers, tails flicking lazily. "They want to see if the rumors are true."
Mei Lin grinned. "They're not ready."
The inter-sect convergence wasn't just a competition. It was a stage.
A place where future patriarchs postured, where sect alliances were forged, and where geniuses either made their name—or lost it forever.
And this year, all eyes were on one name:
Haaron of the Sutra Flame.
They called him a heretic,a cult leader,a seducer of sects.
But what terrified the cultivation world most wasn't the women who followed him.
It was the power they gained when they did.
The news spread fast.
Sutra Flame Sect would attend the tournament and Haaron would appear in person.
It wasn't long before his name left the shadows of rumor and stepped into the mouths of righteous sect elders, jealous young masters, and scheming cultivator clans who had once dismissed him as a rogue anomaly.
Now?
Now he was a storm moving toward their gates.
Two Days Later – Dawnwind Valley
The tournament grounds were built into a spiraling mountain range shaped like a divine lotus, each petal a platform etched with formation arrays. Tribunes of jade floated in the sky for high elders. Grand banners of elite sects fluttered in the wind—Crimson Sky Hall, Blue Pine Refuge, Sword River Pavilion, and more.
And then—at the far edge of the field—a new banner unfurled. Black silk, Violet flame.
The sigil of Haaron's Sutra Flame Sect, he arrived without fanfare.
No horns. No entourages. No elders bearing gifts.
Just five women by his side—each a weapon, each a spiritual node glowing with unbearable presence.
Yue Shilan: Cold Flame Matron, dressed in ceremonial crimson with her ice lotus aura floating behind her like wings of frost.
Lian Rou: Illusion Vixen, tails wrapped around her waist, charm spilling with every breath.
Mei Lin: Poison Flame Keeper, her robes trimmed with toxin-glyphs, eyes sharp and alight.
Amari: Unmasked. Serene. Her presence a mirror that now bent light instead of reflecting it.
Arin: Quiet, loyal, trembling with restrained potential.
Together, they didn't look like a sect.
They looked like a cult of goddesses—and the man they revolved around.
Murmurs spread instantly.
"Is that him?"
"That's Haaron?"
"He brought his harem to a combat trial?"
"No—look at their qi. They're stronger than half our elders."
Crimson Sky Hall's announcer swallowed hard before reading his name.
"H-Haaron of Sutra Flame Sect. Qualified at Ascendant Tier. Participation: approved."
He didn't even nod.
He just walked forward, taking his place at the edge of the main platform.
And waited.
They didn't wait long.
One of the floating platforms shimmered as a cultivator from Sword River Pavilion stepped down.
He was young—no more than twenty-two—with layered robes edged in silver thread and a blade forged from cold-iron flame resting across his back. His eyes were sharp, his posture cocky.
"Ha," he scoffed as he landed on the stone dais opposite Haaron. "They let you in? I thought this was a competition, not a parade of whores."
Yue Shilan's gaze narrowed. Lian Rou laughed softly. Mei Lin rolled her neck, already imagining how to poison him.
But Haaron didn't react.
The young master—Yan Zhu—smirked wider, pleased with the silence.
He stepped forward, looking at the women.
"You," he pointed at Mei Lin, "how much did he pay to collar you?"
"And you," to Lian Rou, "how many times did you moan your way into your next realm?"
Haaron tilted his head.
One step forward.
His voice calm.
"Say one more word."
Yan Zhu grinned.
"Whore."
And then it happened.
Not an explosion. Not a technique. Not a blade drawn.
Just Haaron's qi.
Unleashed.
It poured outward in a silent tidal wave—not in force, but presence. The Sutra behind it amplified everything he was: hunger, dominance, pressure, desire, control. It crashed into Yan Zhu like a weight meant for titans.
The young master collapsed to his knees.
Veins bulged in his forehead. His sword clattered to the floor. His body shook, unable to circulate his qi.
"W-what is this…?"
"You feel it now," Haaron said, stepping closer. "My women didn't kneel to me."
"They rose for me."
Yan Zhu screamed.
Not from pain—but from the unbearable truth pressing against his spiritual core: Haaron was something his sect never trained him for.
And he was breaking.
Up in the sky, sect leaders and elders leaned forward. Cries rang across floating tribunes.
"Stop the match!"
"Disqualify him!"
But no one dared move.
Even Crimson Sky Hall's enforcers hesitated.
Because every single female cultivator in the audience—every one—felt Haaron's resonance.
And something inside them answered.