The Martial Arts Arena of the Hanz Clan lay nestled in the shallow valley of Twin Peak Hill, a short distance from Hanz Stronghold according to the map, yet the journey felt deceptively long. The winding path descended gently through rolling hills, flanked by once elegant now weathered stone corridors and sprawling courtyards. These open spaces, once vibrant with clan activity, now bore the scars of past conflicts.
The buildings, courtyards stood intact, their sturdy forms preserved by the Mountain Estate’s grand defensive array, a fading bulwark of the Hanz Clan’s former glory. Yet, the ground told a different story. Shattered flower pots lay scattered across the earth, their cracked clay spilling withered roots and dried petals. Splintered wooden fences, scarred by blade and flame, leaned haphazardly, their broken remains entangled with the desiccated remnants of once-vibrant blooms, painting a scene of neglect and past violence.
Ancient wooden fences, splintered and charred, carried the etched marks of sword strikes and errant spells, testaments to battles long faded. The air hung heavy with the weight of neglect, as if the valley itself mourned the clan’s decline.
Within, vast martial arenas sprawled—rugged platforms, training dummies, and stone floors scarred by countless blades and fists, with the training dummy’s straw guts spilled across the stone, the marks of the Hanz Clan’s rigorous heir training still etched into the stone.
Jorge Blue, leader of the Thirst Bull Squad, paused frequently along the winding path to the Hanz Clan’s martial arts arena, his keen eyes scanning the remnants of past conflicts etched into the surroundings. Shattered bricks dusted the ground, and splintered fences bore the scars of sword strikes and faded spells. He crouched to examine a broken railing, its edges charred black by long-extinguished flames, then traced his fingers along the chipped eaves of a crumbling courtyard pavilion. "Our sect comrades came through here," he muttered, voice low and measured. "These scars are theirs. The traps they triggered are crude—barely a challenge for mid-phase Qi Refiners." Though his tone was dismissive, his cautious steps betrayed a wariness, each movement deliberate as he scanned for hidden threats.
Using intricate footwork arts, Jorge Blue and Rodney Luther guided the Thirst Bull down a towering ladder woven from shimmering gold hover vines, descending one by one into a shadowed mountain valley. The air grew heavy with the scent of damp moss and decay, a stark contrast to the crisp breeze above. As they reached the valley floor, the rustling wind fell silent, as if the valley itself held its breath. An unnatural chill settled over them, the temperature dropping sharply, and a faint, whispering breeze carried the ghostly echo of distant cries, slithering through the air like a warning.
Ahead downhills, under a dense canopy of gnarled mountain trees, a cluster of wooden buildings emerged from the gloom, their weathered frames half-consumed by creeping vines and shrouded in shadow. Despite the midday sun, the thick foliage above strangled the light, casting the area into near-darkness. The first building loomed ominously, its corners littered with open coffins, their lids splintered and interiors gaping like silent, hungry voids. A narrow passage wound downward from the structure, leading into a dim, cavernous natural cave that seemed to pulse with an eerie stillness.
As the squad neared the martial arts arena’s threshold, Jorge raised a hand to halt their advance. From a leather pouch at his waist, he produced a stack of intricately folded artifact paper figures. With a deft flick of his wrist, he summoned a dozen Dao Puppets, their translucent forms shimmering faintly as they drifted into the arena like wraiths. The squad stood in tense silence, watching the puppets glide through the still air. Moments passed without incident—no traps triggered, no damage marred the delicate figures. Satisfied, Jorge signaled the Thirst Bull Squad to move forward, their steps cautious but resolute, as they crossed into the desolate expanse of the arena.
The martial arts arena sprawled before the Th thirst Bull Squad, a vast, desolate expanse carved into the heart of the valley. Encircled by weathered stone pillars and low walls, their surfaces marred with pits and scars from long-forgotten battles, the arena exuded an air of abandonment. Along its edges, weapons racks stood laden with blades and spears, each cloaked in decades of dust, untouched and forgotten. Tattered training dummies, their straw insides spilling from deep gashes, loomed like silent ghosts in the oppressive stillness, their forms barely discernible in the dim light filtering through the valley’s dense canopy.
"Senior Brother Blue," Rodney Luther said, his voice slicing through the heavy silence. His sharp eyes swept the arena’s open layout, taking in its stark, exposed expanse. "This place is too wide, too bare. There’s no place to conceal anything. If the Treasury House is here, it’s hidden underground." Without waiting for a response, Rodney stepped forward and slammed his heel into the ground with a resounding stomp.
A faint shimmer of energy rippled across the arena’s surface, the fading pulse of the Hanz Clan’s protective formation. Once a robust barrier designed to shield the training ground from the destructive force of clan sparring, it now flickered feebly, a shadow of its former strength. The Hanz Clan had not produced a Foundation Stage cultivator in over a century, and even the grand defensive array of the Mountain Estate had succumbed to time’s decay. This rudimentary formation, meant to endure the blows of practicing clansmen, was no match for Rodney’s peak ninth-layer Qi Refinement strength.
The ground quaked beneath his foot. For two breaths, the weakening array held, its translucent glow stirring clouds of dust. Then, with a sharp crack like shattering glass, it collapsed. Jagged fissures spread beneath from Rodney’s boot, weaving a chaotic web across the arena’s surface. In moments, the entire ground lay fractured, revealing the dark, yawning mouth of a hidden chamber beneath, its secrets exposed to the squad’s wary gaze.
"Well done, Rodney! A hidden chamber, just as we thought!" Jorge Blue’s eyes gleamed with excitement as he swiftly waved his hand, sending his paper Dao Puppets to probe the depths of the newly revealed passage.
Moments later, the puppets returned, their delicate forms unscathed. Jorge nodded, his expression easing. "The chamber below is vast, nearly as large as the arena above. No immediate dangers detected. It’s clear—let’s move."
Led by Jorge Blue and Rodney Luther, both peak ninth-layer Qi Refinement Stage cultivators, the Thirst Bull Squad descended into the fractured opening with eager anticipation. As they dropped into the secret chamber, they found it cavernous, its sprawling expanse mirroring the arena overhead. A narrow threshold connected to a deeper training cave, revealing a labyrinth of interconnected chambers winding through the underground.
The darkness was suffocating. Jorge formed a hand seal, conjuring a flickering ghost fire that hovered in the air, casting an eerie green glow across the space. The chamber’s four walls were lined with cabinets and weapon racks, their surfaces coated in dust. The squad pried them open, revealing an array of items: swords, spears, Dao puppets, martial wooden stakes, and battered training dummies. It was clear this chamber served as a storage warehouse for the martial arts arena above.
The Thirst Bull Squad fanned out, searching the interconnected chambers with meticulous care. Their efforts yielded only a handful of low-grade dregs: several vial of entry-level elixir pills, a dozen of early-phase Dao Fulus, and two piece of Dao Artifact weapons suitable for novice Qi Refiners, so weak they might as well have been mortal steel. No trace of the fabled Treasury House surfaced, and disappointment settled over the group like a heavy fog.
Just as their spirits waned, a male cultivator on his alone froze, catching a flicker of movement in a shadowed corner deep within the training cave. Wary from a near-fatal trap encountered earlier in Hanz Stronghold’s main hall, he refrained from investigating alone further. Instead, he backed out of the inner chamber, hurried to Jorge Blue’s side, voice low as he reported the sighting.
At his words, Jorge and Rodney turned and walked into the inner cave chamber, their sharp gazes locking onto the indicated corner. A figure stirred in the darkness, slowly turning to meet their stares with hollow, unblinking eyes.