Chrono Cultivator (Xianxia)

[IronLung]

Synopsis

When I, Jian Feng—a cultivator so obscure even village elders laughed at my ambitions—accidentally activated a dusty old artifact, I didn't expect to get a timeless superpower stuck in my soul. Suddenly, I'm not just some nobody meditating in a cave; I'm seeing glimpses of futures, rewinding embarrassing screw-ups, and even speeding up my cultivation like I'm cheating at life itself.

Sounds awesome, right? Yeah, except now every sect, clan, and cranky immortal within a thousand li wants my head—or at least the secret inside it. And if dodging assassination attempts wasn't bad enough, it turns out someone else is already messing around with the timeline. And that jerk has decided there's only room for one Chrono Cultivator in this universe.

Great. Just my luck.

 

[IronLung]

I always thought my life would be measured in spirit stones—how many I could scrape together to bribe an elder, buy a pill, or maybe rent a spot in the back row of a lecture hall. Turns out my life is now measured in heartbeats.

Mine. Stopped.

But I'm getting ahead of myself—literally.

If you asked the so‑called geniuses of Azure Peak Sect to describe me, they'd wave their silk sleeves, wrinkle their perfect noses, and say something like:

"Oh, Jian Feng? That outer‑sect drifter who still hasn't built a proper foundation? The one who carries a broom as often as a blade?"

They aren't wrong. I am a drifter, and yes, I still accept janitorial duties because the pay is one medium‑grade spirit stone a week plus leftover food tokens. You can cultivate on an empty belly, sure—but you can't cultivate well.

So when Senior Brother Meng bragged yesterday about a "worthless, half‑collapsed ruin" in the Emberlight Ravine, my broom‑pushing ears perked up. If the ruin was truly worthless, why hadn't anyone finished looting it? And if they missed something…maybe my empty storage pouch would finally jingle.

That is the official reason I sneaked out of Azure Peak before dawn.

The unofficial reason? I'm sick of sweeping courtyards while disciples who were still learning to write their names when I joined the sect now ride flying swords overhead. Call it jealousy, call it ambition—call it survival. If I don't find a breakthrough soon, I'll be forty years old, stuck at Qi Condensation, and the sect will boot me down the mountain like yesterday's chamber pot.

Emberlight Ravine is a scar of black rock between two crimson ridges, famous for crimson lichen that glows at twilight and poisonous wyverns that nest on the cliffs. It is not famous for polite signage or cleared paths. By the time the sun burned through the morning mist, my robe sleeves were shredded by thornspine vines, and I'd already used my single detoxifying pellet to flush out wyvern venom from a shallow scratch on my calf.

Worth it? Ask future Jian Feng, if he still exists.

I found the ruin at noon. From the outside it looked like a weather‑hollowed shrine: two cracked columns, a lintel carved with strange hourglass symbols, and a stone door half‑swallowed by rubble. Someone—likely Senior Brother Meng—had already broken the simple locking seal. Dusty footprints proved I wasn't the first scavenger here, but they also showed frantic retreat marks. Interesting.

I pressed two fingers to the stone and sent out a thread of spiritual sense. Nothing overtly dangerous. No lingering arrays, no soul‑eating curse glyphs, no "enter here if you wish to be stabbed by reality." Just silence thick enough to choke on.

I stepped inside.

The air tasted of old incense and…something metallic. Timeworn murals lined the narrow corridor: sun‑dial shadows, water clocks, star maps swirling around a central emblem—an empty circle flanked by twelve ancient characters: Chen, Si, Wu… the earthly branches that mark time itself.

A chill licked my spine.

Relax, I told myself. Murals can't hurt you.

"Unless they can," I muttered, remembering Elder Zhang's lecture on spirit‑imbued art that devours viewers' eyes. Encouraging thought. I hurried onward.

The corridor ended at a chamber shaped like an inverted cone. Tiers of crumbling balcony circled overhead, each lined with rusty bronze incensors. At the center squatted a stone pedestal. On that pedestal—a dusty, palm‑sized disk of jade, etched with overlapping clockface markings.

Every cultivator knows what a chance encounter looks like: a glowing herb, a floating sword, a mystical orb chanting your courtesy name in celestial soprano. This disk did none of those. But my heartbeat quickened, and the prickling sense behind my navel—the one that always warns when I'm near something truly valuable—flared hot.

I took one cautious step.

Nothing happened.

Another.

Still nothing.

I reached out, brush‑brushing dust away. The jade was cool—but not cold—in spite of the stale air. As my fingers traced the outer ring, a tiny click echoed like a mantis snipping a thread.

The disk spun.

A heartbeat stretched—rubber‑band thin—then snapped.

Pain slammed through my dantian like molten iron. I doubled over, seeing stars behind my eyes. A tidal wave of something—qi? lightning? cosmic regret?—surged upward, jammed into my meridians, and ricocheted back, fracturing every spiritual pathway I owned.

I should have died, or at least vomited blood in dramatic fashion. Instead, everything froze.

Dust motes hung motionless. My own gasp dangled, half‑formed. An itch on my nose paused mid‑itch. The world was a paused painting.

Only my mind moved, galvanized by agony.

This is it, I thought, absurdly calm. This is how sect rumors start: "Outer disciple Jian Feng found dead in ruin, face twisted like he sniffed rotten tofu."

Time didn't restart. Instead, it folded.

Picture a book: pages flipping backward so fast they blur, then forward just as quickly, but the text changes each pass—countless drafts of reality revising themselves. Flashes paraded before me:

I walk in and trigger a killing array—dead.
I walk in and the disk crumbles—nothing gained.
I walk in and another scavenger arrives first—empty pedestal.
I never hear Senior Brother Meng brag—still sweeping courtyards.

Millions of possibilities, branching like fractal lightning. All gone in an eyeblink.

Then a voice—not sound, but a ripple across my soul:

"Anchor established. Chrono‑Seed accepted. Initiating Temporal Root."

The disk vanished. Not exploded, not teleported—just folded into the and of nowhere. Something burning hot and needle‑thin drilled into my chest, nudging aside muscle and bone as if they were suggestions.

THUMP. My heart restarted. Time surged forward. Dust motes fell.

I collapsed to my knees, gulping stale air. For a long moment I could only clutch my pounding heart and listen to the echo of that voice fade.

My first coherent thought: I didn't die.
Second: What in the Nine Suns just lodged itself in me?
Third: …Do I get to keep it?

I forced a shaky pulse of spiritual sense inward, scanning meridians. To my shock, my dantian hadn't shattered—it expanded. What used to be a misty pond of low‑grade qi was now a spinning vortex, wide as a plate, drawing ambient energy like a hungry tiger. At its core floated a silver seed‑shaped glyph, marking time in tiny ticks.

Every cultivator dreams of a larger dantian, but too much too fast usually means exploding like a ruptured melon. Somehow, I was still intact.

Then I noticed the flow.

Qi no longer trickled through meridians at lazy river pace. It streamed, fast‑forwarded. A circulation loop that once took twelve breaths to complete now finished in one. My entire cultivation cycle accelerated by a factor of twelve.

Anchor established.
Temporal Root.

The phrases made sense now. I hadn't merely swallowed a treasure—I'd rooted the Dao of Time in my own foundation.

I, Jian Feng—outer disciple, broom warrior—had become a Chrono Cultivator.

I let out a laugh so high pitched it startled a roosting bat from the rafters.

Giddy revelation is nice, but empirical evidence is nicer. I picked up a pebble, tossed it mid‑air, and willed the world to slow.

Nothing happened.

I frowned, circulating qi the way manuals describe channeling Sword Intent—focus, intent, resonance. Again I willed.

The pebble paused mid‑arc like a lantern in still water.

My breath caught. Everything else moved at snail speed: dust floated languidly, droplets of my sweat drifted like miniature pearls, the echo of my heartbeat drew out into an oceanic drumbeat.

I snapped my fingers.

Sound crawled—snick—like a reed flute dragged across sludge.

I released the intent. The pebble finished its fall, struck the stone floor with an ordinary tock. Time resumed its usual river rush.

I exhaled a shaky laugh. "I can stop…time." Saying it aloud felt sacrilegious.

Power? Yes. But power is currency that invites taxes collectors with swords.

A whisper of qi left me after the stunt—more than I expected. I repeated the thumb test twice more with smaller pebbles. Each time, fatigue gnawed deeper. The third attempt ended with me slumping against a pillar, lungs burning.

Lesson: manipulating time costs more qi than my expanded vortex generates in a minute. Still, a minute's rest restored half my reserves—insanely fast by normal standards. At full strength, I could probably freeze reality for several breaths. Enough to dodge an attack, open a door, or, if I'm honest, steal meat buns from the inner‑sect cafeteria.

A sensible cultivator would head back to the sect, hide new abilities, and plan a cautious breakthrough strategy.

I am not sensible.

Because while I was testing pebbles, the chamber ceiling began to glow: lines of runes ignited in rings, cascading down tiers like dominoes. I'd activated a second mechanism—and this one didn't feel friendly.

Stone ground against stone overhead. Rubble tumbled. A slab the size of a wagon lid dropped toward me.

I froze it mid‑fall, heart hammering.

"Not dying to architecture today," I muttered. I dashed aside, released time. The slab smashed the pedestal to powder.

More runes flashed crimson: a chain reaction. The entire ruin was about to collapse or explode—both, judging by the rising hum.

Decision time.

Instinct screamed "run," but corridors were already trembling, ceiling shedding rocks. Even with time‑freeze bursts, I might not outrun a full structural implosion.

Another instinct—new, raw—whispered something crazier: undo.

Could I rewind? I had glimpsed alternate timelines during the disk's implantation. Maybe that preview wasn't a one‑time show.

I closed my eyes, poured qi into the silver seed. Tick.

Reality rippled. The world blinked…and I stood before the pedestal again, moments before my pebble tests, ceiling inert.

I staggered, nausea twisting my gut. Tiny cracks laced my meridians—rewinding hurt worse than freezing. But it worked. I'd bought back fifteen minutes.

Better plan: take the disk—oh wait, it fused with me—then leave before tripwire runes triggered.

I turned to exit.

A figure blocked the corridor.

He wore ragged black robes, face hidden behind a bone‑white half‑mask. A faint killing intent rolled off him, acidic as old blood.

"Step aside," I said, trying not to sound winded.

He tilted his head. "You carry the Chrono Seed."

Not a question. Not good.

"I carry nothing valuable," I lied.

He raised a hand. His qi…felt wrong—a sluggish undertow, like riverwater turning to tar. Time around his palm curdled, slow yet heavy. He, too, touched the Dao of Time, but in a corrupted flavor.

Someone else is already messing around with the timeline. The earlier dread returned, now wearing flesh.

"I am the Prior," he rasped. "By order of the Temporal Court, anomaly Jian Feng must be erased."

My stomach plummeted. "Erased is a strong word…"

He flicked his wrist. Blades of dull gray light fanned out, each vibrating with slowed‑down lethality. I tried to dodge—too late.

Freeze!

The world paused. I stepped sideways, the blades halting mid‑whirr. But fatigue hit me like a sledgehammer. Black spots rimmed my vision. Holding the freeze longer than a breath threatened to shut down my heart.

I released. The blades sliced empty air, thudding into the far wall.

The Prior clicked his tongue. "A fledgling Chrono doesn't outrun the Court."

He lunged.

I drew my only weapon—a reinforced broom handle etched with minor sharpness runes. Inner disciples laugh at it, but sweeping tools teach reach and leverage.

We clashed. His corrupted time‑qi slowed my strikes, turning wood into treacle. I compensated by rewinding micro‑seconds, repositioning broom head to parry at unnatural angles.

Each trick drained qi like bleeding an artery. Tick, tick. My vortex trembled; the silver seed pulsed warm, yet my meridians frayed.

"You degrade already," Prior observed, mask expressionless.

"Just…warming up," I panted.

He thrust palm‑first. A sphere of dilated time ejected—space inside it looked syrup‑thick. I froze the sphere, then rewound myself two steps back, letting gravity drag Prior into his own attack radius. For a blink he was caught in his bubble, movement glacial.

I sprinted past him—straight toward the exit corridor.

Behind me, runes flared again. Either the Prior's presence or my stunt triggered the collapse timeline I'd already previewed. Stones began raining.

I felt rather than saw the Prior break free, fury spiking in my senses.

Exiting the shrine, I vaulted rubble, ribs screaming. Outside, Emberlight Ravine's sky blazed with high‑noon glare. A single thought pounded: Get high ground.

I channeled qi to my legs, leapt onto a ledge. The ruin's entrance shuddered; dust belched out. No sign of the Prior yet.

Could I rewind farther? My meridians ached—another large jump might cripple me. Freeze likewise hovered at dangerous consumption levels.

Ahead lay the ravine's spine: a natural rock bridge no wider than a doorway, spanning a fifty‑meter chasm. Cross it, and I'd meld into twisted canyons where even Golden Core elders hesitate to fly—too narrow.

Risky, but better than waiting to be "erased."

I dashed onto the bridge.

Halfway across, a crack thundered behind me. The Prior burst through collapsing stones, mask chipped, robes dusted gray. He didn't pursue on foot. He raised two fingers; time thickened beneath him, forming a slow‑motion platform that carried him forward like surf on molasses.

Show‑off.

I reached the far end, slid down a gravel slope, and turned a corner—only to find the path dead‑ended at a cliff overlooking deeper ravines.

Great. Behind, footsteps almost on me, though slowed.

I spotted a withered sapling clinging to the cliff face, its roots gripping a seam of iron‑rich rock. Inspiration struck.

I jammed my broom handle between root and rock, levered hard. The seam cracked; stones trickled.

The Prior stepped onto the narrow path. "Cornered."

"Confidence," I wheezed, "suits you."

I rewound three heartbeats—just enough to reposition further up‑slope, still hidden from his immediate view.

My past self—now ghosted by timeline editing—jammed the broom again. This time the entire seam fractured. The ledge under the Prior's foot sheared away.

His platform faltered; the distorted qi bubble tried to compensate but misaligned. For one precious second, gravity reasserted itself.

He fell.

I stopped rewinding, merging with the sole surviving timeline. My head spun, blood seeping from my nose.

Far below, a dull whump signaled the Prior slamming into a lower ravine shelf. Not fatal to a cultivator of his caliber, but buying me minutes.

I staggered away from the cliff, deeper into the maze of canyons. Each step throbbed through torn meridians. My vision blurred.

At last I found a hollow under an overhang, shielded from direct sight. I crawled inside and let consciousness drift.

Blackness came, laced with strange pulses—like distant drums echoing across an ocean of years. Dreams unspooled:

Mountains eroding in reverse, rivers flowing upward, stars pirouetting backwards to the Big Bang, an ancient throne room where robed figures with clocks for faces pass judgment over twisting timelines…

Through it all, a whisper:

"Grow, little seed. The Clockwork Cosmos watches."

I awoke to pain, but also stability. Cracks in my meridians had knitted, faint silver scars lining each pathway. My dantian vortex spun steadier, energy cool and fresh—as if my body itself had rewound to a healthier state.

A boon? Or a silent tax I haven't yet calculated?

Dusk painted Emberlight Ravine in blood‑orange hues. I estimated three hours passed. Plenty of time for the Prior to climb back up—assuming he survived.

I had to return to Azure Peak. Hide. Gather manuals on temporal theory—if any existed. And most importantly, figure out who or what the Temporal Court was.

I rose on shaking legs.

A small pebble rolled by my foot, carried by a gust. I knelt, pocketed it—a reminder of the thumb test, of simple experiments that birthed impossible power.

As I turned toward the long trek home, a shadow detached from a boulder across the clearing.

The Prior, robe torn, mask half‑shattered, eyes gleaming midnight blue.

He raised a hand—and time convulsed. Everything in a ten‑meter radius distorted, rocks bending like wax, air warping.

"Anomaly," he hissed, voice reverberating, "there is always time enough to kill."

My reserves were barely half‑full. No ledges to collapse, no easy rewinds left without self‑destructing. He stepped closer, slowing each of my heartbeats to a crawl.

I clenched fists around raw fear, summoned every drop of qi my vortex could spare, and prepared to gamble with the timeline once more.

 

[IronLung]

If you've never had your heartbeats stolen one by one, let me paint the scene: imagine someone pinching the stem of an hourglass so the sand can slip through only a single grain at a time. Now replace the sand with your blood.

That's what the Prior did.

With each step he advanced, his corrupted chrono‑field thickened. My heart's lub‑dub stretched: luuub…duuuub… Every muscle fought treacle; even thoughts felt like they had to hack through cobwebs.

Qi circulation: clogged.
Leg movement: optional.
Survival: doubtful.

I tried freezing time outright—no good. His domain was already a partial freeze; my power collided with his and snapped like brittle jade. Sparks of reversed seconds crackled, burning meridian flesh. I stumbled, half‑blind, broom shaking in numb fingers.

The Prior's voice seeped through the slow air. "Little anomaly, surrender the Seed. Death will be merciful."

Merciful? I'd seen his mercy: a ravine floor crater shaped like a corpse. Pass.

I needed motion, any motion.

Memory flashed back to the ruin—when the Seed had accelerated my cultivation loop. If the Prior could slow things, maybe I could steal seconds from inside his sludge field.

I forced a single, ragged breath, poured every shred of qi straight into the Seed. "Accelerate," I hissed.

Something clicked.

A silver ring erupted around me, shimmering like a spinning coin. Time for me lurched forward. My limbs regained spring, hair whipped in invisible wind, heartbeat drummed triple‑time—while the Prior's field still crawled.

Physics class, this was not.

I called it Flowstep—and I ran.

Bursting free of the chrono‑sludge, I shot through the canyon like an arrow on caffeine. Each stride covered five body‑lengths; the world blurred, colors smearing together. Rock walls zipped past; gravel kicked up twin sprays frozen in my wake.

But Flowstep gnawed qi like a gluttonous spiral—five circuits, ten circuits, vortex trembling. I couldn't keep this up long.

Behind me, the canyon walls shuddered. The Prior, refusing to be out‑paced, compressed his own domain into a spear of warped time and flung it. Space shrieked; an emerald ridge aged a century in a breath, crumbling into sand. Even at triple‑speed I barely ducked, chunks of accelerated erosion spraying my robe.

Note to self: corrosion beams bad.

Ahead loomed a fork: left path dipped into shadowy tunnels rumored to house stone‑gnawing beetles the size of pigs; right path zig‑zagged upward toward sunlight and Azure Peak's distant silhouette. Light meant witnesses—possible protection. I banked right.

The Prior anticipated. He appeared at the fork's mouth—no running, just manifestation, as though he rewound the space between us and walked through the leftover gap. Mask cracked further, revealing gaunt lips curved in cold amusement.

"You sprint on stolen moments," he said. "But I own the clock."

He raised both palms. An hourglass‑shaped glyph formed, halves rotating opposite directions. The canyon resonated—stone veins glowing sickly gray. A Temporal Cage.

Rim to rim, twenty paces. Inside, every second would be his.

Cornered again. Good. Desperation breeds creativity—and stupidity, but let's pretend mostly creativity.

I slammed broom butt against my palm, drawing blood. With it I scratched a quick array on the wooden shaft: three linked loops—Recurse, Delay, Reflect—a trick copied from a dusty formation manual used as a doorstop in the janitor barracks. Usually meant for deflecting pebbles in outer‑sect sparring. But pebbles, time‑blades—same difference, right?

I also needed bait.

"Catch!" I hurled the broom directly at the Prior's face.

He sneered, slicing with time‑edge fingers. The broom split—except it didn't. The Recurse rune rewound the strike by half a heartbeat, restoring the broom, only for the slice to hit again, repeating. In one eye‑blink the Prior slashed the same broom a dozen overlapping times, confusion flickering behind the mask.

That was my cue.

I activated Flowstep—but only halfway. Instead of racing forward, I pushed a thin veneer of accelerated time outward, leaving a shimmering afterimage of myself a pace ahead. From outside, it looked like I had popped out of my own body. I called the trick Moment Split.

The Prior reacted to the decoy, skewering it with a spear of coagulated chronology—shattering the illusion in silver dust.

I appeared to his left, palm already thrusting.

BAM.

Chest hit. My qi surged into him, not to wound flesh but to mark. I branded his robe with my blood sigil—Recurse‑Delay loop—but inverted. Instead of rewinding damage, it would amplify the next temporal attack touching that spot, distorting it unpredictably.

Risky? Absolutely. But if you can't outrun an enemy, make him stumble over his own feet.

The Prior stumbled back, aura flickering. "Parlor tricks."

He gathered a killing blow: two hourglasses spinning counterphase around his palm—the Bicameral Decay technique, feared for aging targets to dust in under a second.

He thrust.

I froze time—not around him, but around me, cushioning the incoming strike and saving qi by limiting the freeze radius. The Bicameral Decay hit my time‑bubble, refracted toward the blood sigil on his robe—my rune flared, hijacking the technique, folding it back.

For half a breath, the Prior's own decay field settled over him. Mask tarnished, robe fibers withered, skin shriveled. He roared, ripping the sigil away with raw qi, disintegrating cloth and top layer of flesh.

The attack shattered the canyon floor in a ring, dust mushrooming. I tumbled across gravel, ears ringing.

When vision cleared, he was kneeling, breathing raggedly—but alive. Too alive.

We both knew I wouldn't get a second miracle.

But the Canyon gods must adore dramatic timing: a shrill whistle pierced the air—the sect's patrol call. On the ridge above, two inner‑sect disciples rode flying swords, trailing azure light.

Backup. Witnesses. Rules—The Prior's best friend, surely.

He hissed, casting a final glare. "We'll rewind again, anomaly." With a wrench of space, he blinked from sight, leaving only gray motes drifting like dead embers.

I finally exhaled—and blacked out.

I resurfaced to the scent of medicinal herbs and the soft scratch of brush strokes. Eyes cracked open: pale silk drapes, a peach‑wood bed, and beside it, Senior Sister Yu Lian scribbling calligraphy on a talisman strip.

Ah. The Azure Peak infirmary.

She noticed me, smile as bright as sword‑light. "Junior Brother Jian? You survived."

"Debatable," I croaked.

"Master Healer Lin said your meridians were…'stretched like caramel yet oddly resilient.' He wanted to dissect you, but I volunteered to watch instead."

"Grateful," I muttered, then winced. Pain radiated down every channel—like over‑worked bellows.

Yu Lian dipped a cloth in spirit water, dabbed my forehead. "The patrol found you unconscious beside a crater that seems to have aged centuries in moments. Care to explain?"

"Training accident."

Both her eyebrows climbed past hairline altitude. "Training in clandestine grand‑canonical time arts?"

I tried to sit; she pinned me with a glare sharper than any blade. "Rest. Elder Council already summoned you for inquiry at moonrise. That's in four hours."

Four hours. Enough to meditate twice, maybe patch cracked meridians. Also enough time for the Prior—or worse—to crash the party.

I forced a shaky smile. "Then I'd better look presentable."

Yu Lian left to fetch additional talismans. I crossed legs, focused on the Seed. Vortex still spun, slower now, edges frayed. Using Flowstep and Moment Split had drained me deeper than I knew.

I inhaled, initiating my standard cultivation cycle.

Qi flowed—then quickened. Within heartbeat two, the Seed subtly helped, smoothening channels, knitting micro‑fissures. Each cycle lasted three breaths instead of twelve. Astonishing efficiency—but also dangerous. Rapid healing could hide deeper fractures, just like stitching cloth over rotting wood.

Still, I needed strength for the Council.

By the seventieth cycle—roughly fifteen minutes—dantian brimmed. I stopped before addiction set in. Time is a drug, I realized. And I just found the poppy field.

I tested a small freeze on a candle flame. Minimal strain. Good.

Sighing, I donned the fresh robe left nearby—simple gray outer‑sect garb (nothing screams "don't mind me" like humility). Then I tucked the broken broom shaft—now half a foot shorter—into my sash. Couldn't bear to part with old faithful.

Azure Peak's Grand Hall boasted soaring pillars carved with cloud dragons and a domed ceiling that mirrored the night sky even indoors. At the center floated a circular dais where elder seats orbited slowly, signifying their lofty detachment.

I stepped into the starry-light pool at the hall's heart—official defendant spot. Twelve elders—and one empty golden chair for the Sect Master currently in seclusion—gazed down.

Elder Zhang, Formation Head, cleared his throat. "Outer Disciple Jian Feng, you are charged with unauthorized use of high‑grade temporal techniques and causing topographical damage twenty‑three li south‑east of sect grounds. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty of intent, honored elders. It was self‑defense."

Murmurs rippled. Elder Chen, Stoic of the Sword Pavilion, leaned forward. "Against who?"

I described the Prior attack—editing out personal humiliations. When I spoke of the Temporal Court, eyebrows knitted like tangled fishing line.

Elder Li, Historian of Hidden Truths, tapped a jade tablet. "Court of Chronos? Legends only. No verified sightings since the Era of Fading Suns."

"I have one sighting." I shrugged. "And he's not shy about homicide."

Elder Zhang's eyes narrowed. "Demonstrate your claimed abilities."

Wonderful. Show my trump cards to potential future enemies. But refusal meant cells. I closed eyes, conjured a small freeze around a falling water droplet from the ceiling's illusion. The droplet paused mid‑air. Gasps.

I released. Simple. Harmless. Insufficiently terrifying.

Debate buzzed atop rotating thrones. Words like "Recruit him," "Too dangerous," "Artifact assimilation," floated down.

I kept face calm, palms sweating.

Suddenly, the hall's protective wards flared crimson.

A disciple burst in, kneeling mid‑aisle. "Elders! A spatial rift tears open above the Great Gate. Hostile cultivators in gray masks bearing hourglass sigils demand surrender of 'an anomaly' named Jian Feng, or they will erase the sect from history within one incense stick!"

The hall plunged into electric silence.

Then Elder Chen's sword aura roared, shaking banners. "Let them try!"

Yet Elder Li paled. "Temporal weaponry bypasses conventional defenses. If legends speak true, a direct assault risks retroactive annihilation of our lineage."

All gazes swiveled to me. "Ideas?" Elder Zhang asked dryly.

Great. The janitor is now head of crisis management.

I wet my lips. "I…might negotiate? They seem interested in me alive—erased after capture, maybe, but alive for now."

"You will not be handed over," Elder Chen barked. "Azure Peak guards its own."

Comforting words—words that might get everyone killed.

A thunderous boom rattled the dome. Fissures spider‑webbed across the illusory stars. Outside, time itself seemed to flicker between dusk, dawn, and utter night, as though someone flipped pages too fast.

"Tick‑tock," a distant, choir‑like voice echoed, amplified through torn space. "One incense stick."

Elder Zhang exhaled. "Very well. Jian Feng, we authorize provisional promotion to inner‑sect rank with protective merits. You will accompany a vanguard to parley. Buy us time—pun intended—while the formation corps adapts our grand array for chrono‑resilience."

Buy them time. The irony wasn't lost on anyone.

I nodded, hiding trembling hands in sleeves. "Understood."

Yu Lian appeared at my side, pressing a crystal slip into my palm. "New technique," she whispered. "Temporal Shear. Unstable but might slice their domains."

I tucked it away. "Thanks for believing in me."

"Believe? I'm betting heavily." Her smile was all nerves and courage.

Elder Chen tossed me a sword—a plain iron‑core blade etched with high‑flux spirit veins. "Don't rely solely on tricks. Steel still speaks."

I caught it awkwardly. Last time I held a proper sword I cut my sleeve more than the target. But I bowed.

Azure Peak's Great Gate was a moon‑white arch flanked by stone lions. Now, cracks riddled its surface, each fissure leaking sand‑like glints—moments bleeding out.

Outside hovered six figures in ash‑gray robes, featureless chrome masks etched with hourglasses. At their center towered a gilded bronze monolith—a Temporal Obelisk—projecting rings of distorted sunrise‑and‑sunset hues. It pulsed once per heartbeat—no, not heartbeat: someone else's heartbeat, echoing across dimensions.

The Prior floated before them, newly bandaged, mask replaced. Upon seeing me he twitched like a poisoned snake. "Anomaly arrives."

From battlements behind me, Elder Chen and two formation adepts hovered, weapons ready but minds wary.

I stepped forward, consciously slowing my breathing to steady nerves. "You threatened the sect. Call off the obelisk, we talk."

A central figure—the only one with a dark‑gold mask—spoke, voice layered with overlapping tones like chords. "We are the Thirteenth Docket of the Temporal Court. Hand over Seed‑bearer Jian Feng. Violate, and Azure Peak shall be pruned retroactively from the Book of Moments."

Elder Chen answered with sword‑light brighter than dawn, slashing forward. The Court Envoy waved, and the slash decelerated mid‑stroke, turning into drifting petals that reversed direction and re‑nested into Chen's own blade. Even the elder looked shaken.

Not good.

I swallowed. "If I go with you, the sect lives?"

"For audit," the Envoy intoned. "Life thereafter: uncertain."

Behind me, Yu Lian whispered, "We'll rescue you later." Lovely optimism.

But the Seed throbbed hot—warning, or eagerness? I sensed something else: deep within the Obelisk, a resonance with my seed—like two magnets tugging. A chance?

I whispered to Elder Zhang's mind via jade‑slip link: Let me approach. I'll disrupt their anchor.

He hesitated, then: Five breaths. Then we strike regardless.

Countdown.

I strode toward the Court. The Prior's eyes burned holes through my skull, but he held position.

Three paces from the Obelisk, gravity felt stretchy; my footsteps echoed out of sync. I forced a grin.

"Never rode a time monolith before. Does it come with catering?"

No laughs. Tough crowd.

I shifted a half‑step, aligning my vortex with the Obelisk's sixth harmonic (thank you random resonance sense). The Seed hummed, hungry.

One breath.

Two.

I thrust both palms onto the monolith, pouring every drop of qi—and reversing polarity. My intent: rewind the Obelisk to un‑constructed status.

The world inverted colors. Sound became uphill wind. Rings of bronze peeled backward, gears un‑turning, sparks flying up into darkness.

The Envoy's layered voice snapped. "Contain!"

Court wraiths lunged, ripping through intervals of compressed time. Elder Chen unleashed sword storms. Chaos.

I felt the Seed drain. Meridian walls screamed. If I kept channeling, internal rupture guaranteed—maybe sect safety purchased at cost of my life. Heroic, stupid.

A sudden crack split the sky. A seam of white daylight tore above the Peak, different from Court portals—raw.

Through it stepped a figure in scholarly robes of ink‑black stitched with silver constellations, face concealed by an antique bronze mask of a clock without hands.

Every Court member froze.

The newcomer's voice was a calm bell. "Unhand the Seed‑bearer. By authority of the Forbiddance Codex, he is under my aegis."

Even the Envoy hesitated. "Grand Arbiter…you no longer intervene."

"Today, I do." The Arbiter raised two fingers; the Obelisk's gears locked mid‑rewind.

I, still touching it, spasmed as counter‑currents seared veins. The bronze monolith began to vibrate, caught between rewind and stasis. Energy climbed toward catastrophic discharge.

The Arbiter turned mask toward me. "Child, if you value a future, let go—"

Too late.

The Obelisk detonated silently. Space folded inward, forming a black‑ringed maelstrom. I, palms glued by reverse inertia, was yanked into the collapse—dragging the Arbiter and the Prior with me.

Azure Peak, the Gate, the Court—blinked away as spirals of raw chronology swallowed vision.

Last thing I heard was Yu Lian's scream, echoed into infinity.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Lost in the Chrono‑Maelstrom, Jian Feng hurtles through broken histories alongside sworn enemies and a cryptic Arbiter—all while his own meridians threaten to unravel. Where (or when) will he land… and will he still be himself when he does?