Blossoming Path

The wind howled through the mountains, a mournful wail that carried snow in thick, blinding waves. The Silent Moon Sect stood cloaked in winter’s grip. White drifts covered the once-pristine stone pathways, and the ornate carvings of moonlit motifs on the buildings were barely discernible beneath layers of frost. The sect felt subdued, muffled by the storm’s relentless assault.

Xu Ziqing’s boots crunched against the snow as he made his way along the outer wall, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He had taken this patrol shift himself, dismissing the junior disciples who were clearly more interested in the warmth of the barracks than their duties. While understandable, it grated on him. Laxity had no place in the Jianghu, least of all now, when the air itself felt thick with unease.

The wind tugged at his robes, and he adjusted his hood, squinting into the swirling snow. The storm played tricks on the eyes; shadows flitted at the edges of his vision, shapes that vanished the moment he focused. The sentries nearby chatted in low tones, their laughter carrying over the storm’s din. They huddled close to a brazier, their weapons discarded nearby; a dangerous negligence that twisted the stern second-class disciple's stomach.

His hand tightened on his sword hilt.

'A blade is useless if left sheathed. A mind dulled by complacency cannot sense danger until it’s too late.'

Yet, even as he chastised the sentries silently, he couldn’t deny the weariness that had settled over the sect. The mounting tension between the mainland elders and Sect Leader Jun had taken its toll, fracturing trust and sapping morale. Their growing impatience for war with the Whispering Wind Sect, combined with the dwindling supply of beast cores, had left the sect in a precarious position. They were not unified; they were brittle, and Xu Ziqing feared they would shatter under the weight of their own ambition.

His thoughts drifted to the confined elders—those that served the sect their whole lives—now reduced to prisoners within their own home. Their protests against Sect Leader Jun’s ascent to power had been silenced with confinement, an act kept secret to maintain the illusion of strength. But illusion was all it was. The sect’s foundation was crumbling, and he felt it with every strained conversation, every hollow order barked by those scrambling to keep control.

Xu Ziqing paused, his sharp eyes scanning the storm-laden horizon. A flicker of movement caught his attention.

A faint, fleeting shadow.

He opened his mouth to call out to them, but the words died in his throat. A strange sensation gripped him, an icy weight settling in his chest. It wasn’t the cold—it was something far deeper. Instinct.

'Something’s coming.'

The wind howled louder, almost masking the faint crunch of snow that didn’t belong to him or the sentries. Xu Ziqing’s fingers tightened around his sword.

The crunching of snow grew louder, though the sentries seemed deaf to it, their laughter continuing unchecked. The second-class disciple's grip on his sword tightened as his eyes scanned the shifting whiteness beyond the sect’s walls.

A voice interrupted his focus. "Brother Xu," came a call from behind him. He turned sharply, his narrowed gaze falling on a second-class disciple hurrying toward him, his robes whipping in the storm. The man gave a small bow, though his expression was strained, as if reluctant to be there.

"What is it?" Xu Ziqing asked, his tone curt but controlled.

"The Sect Leader has summoned you," the disciple replied, brushing snow from his sleeves. "He wishes to discuss... the elders' latest demands."

His jaw tightened. He did not need to ask what the demands entailed. The mainland elders were growing bolder, their frustrations boiling over into open contempt for Sect Leader Jun’s authority. Another fruitless debate awaited him, no doubt.

"And you?" He asked, his eyes narrowing further. "You will take my place?"

The disciple nodded, though his reluctance was evident. "Yes, Senior Brother. I’ll ensure the sentries remain vigilant."

Xu Ziqing’s gaze shifted to the sentries gathered around the brazier. Their postures were slouched, their weapons abandoned in favor of warmth. His expression hardened.

"See that you do," he said sharply, his voice cutting through the storm like a blade. "This storm may obscure the horizon, but it also blinds us to threats. Stay alert. Do not let your guard falter for even a moment."

The second-class disciple winced at the harshness in brother's tone. "Brother Xu, there’s no need to be so... tense. It’s just a storm. Nothing can approach in weather like this."

Xu Ziqing’s glare silenced him.

"Complacency is the first step toward death," he said coldly. Then, with a final glance at the sentries, he turned on his heel and stalked away, snow crunching beneath his boots.

As he disappeared into the storm, the second-class disciple sighed, shaking his head. "Uptight as ever," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the wind.

One of the sentries smirked, leaning closer to the fire. "He’s always like that. A real kiss-ass to Sect Leader Jun. Probably thinks it’ll get him somewhere."

"Right," another chimed in, laughing. "The man wouldn’t know how to relax if his life depended on it. Bet he’s still tapping that sword hilt of his while talking to the Sect Leader."

Their laughter mingled with the crackle of the brazier, a fleeting moment of levity in the storm’s relentless grip.

But the laughter died as swiftly as it had begun.

The first sentry froze, his eyes widening as he turned toward the storm. "Did you hear that?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Hear what?" another asked, his tone dismissive.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, the faintest sound reached them—a wet, crunching noise, different from the wind or snow.

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And then they saw it.

Shadows emerged from the storm, hooded figures moving with eerie precision. They were upon the sentries in moments, their strikes swift and merciless. The snow turned red as bodies fell, the brazier’s light flickering as it was toppled.

The storm swallowed the scene once more, leaving only the red-stained snow as evidence of what had transpired.

SCENE BREAK

Within the stone walls, the storm’s howling was reduced to a muted roar, a distant reminder of the world outside.

Elder Wei leaned against the table, his left hand clutching his side where a bandage peeked out beneath his robes. The wound—inflicted by Whispering Wind Sect’s prodigious first-class disciple, Tian Zhan—throbbed persistently, a stark reminder of the growing strength of the locals. His face twisted in irritation as he readjusted his posture, masking the pain with a practiced sneer.

“An insect managed to sting me,” Wei spat, breaking the silence. “A first-class disciple, they say. I would hardly call him that, his power was closer to that of an elder's. Yet, the fact remains—he landed a blow. That should never have been possible.”

Elder Fang, seated across the room, was meticulously sharpening a jade hairpin. He didn’t look up as he replied, his tone calm but edged with concern. “A troubling development. If even their disciples have reached such heights, we cannot afford to continue underestimating them.”

Elder Xun scoffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his scars illuminated by the faint glow of enchanted lanterns. “Troubling? It’s infuriating. These backwater cultivators scrape the bottom of the barrel for qi, and yet they manage to keep pace with us? It’s absurd.”

“They don’t scrape,” Fang interjected, finally meeting Xun’s gaze. “They refine. Their methods are born of necessity, honed over generations to make the most of the ambient qi and lack thereof. Efficiency born of scarcity. Meanwhile, our cultivation methods squander resources on the mainland without the thought of efficiency.”

The comment struck a chord. Wei’s scowl deepened, his fingers tightening on the edge of the table.

Cheng, the eldest among them, sat in contemplative silence, stroking his beard. “Luck favors the prepared. And the Whispering Wind Sect is preparing for war, whether we like it or not. Each delay strengthens them.”

Fang’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Which is why I’ve said it before: Sect Leader Jun’s hesitance is a liability. He basks in his newfound power, oblivious to the narrowing window of opportunity. If we do not act decisively—”

“You mean to usurp him,” Wei interrupted, his voice sharp. “Spare the pretense, Fang. You’ve danced around the idea long enough.”

Xun barked a laugh, the sound grating against the tense air. “About time someone said it. Jun is a fool, clinging to scraps of control while we do the real work. Without us, the Silent Moon would crumble.”

Cheng raised a hand. “Jun is a fool,” he conceded, “but he is also useful. Removing him prematurely could destabilize the sect. We would inherit chaos, not control.”

“And what do you propose, then? Another round of groveling to this puppet leader while we stagnate?”

“No,” Cheng replied evenly. “We push him to act. Force his hand. The Whispering Wind Sect must fall, and Jun must be made to lead the charge. His ambition blinds him to our manipulation—let him think it was his idea.”

The room fell silent, each elder weighing Cheng’s words. Fang resumed sharpening his jade hairpin, his motions precise and deliberate. “And if he refuses?”

Cheng’s expression darkened, his tone like iron. “Then we remind him why he needs us. And if that fails…” He let the unspoken threat hang in the air, a promise that none doubted he could keep.

Within the chamber, the cold quiet was suddenly shattered by a deep, resonant boom. Screams began to echo faintly, footsteps converging rapidly on their location. Elder Wei’s hand instinctively shot to his sword, its surface inscribed with glowing jade patterns that shimmered faintly even in the dim light.

The doors to the elders’ quarters burst open, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap. A wave of biting cold air rushed in, carrying with it the metallic tang of blood and something far worse—a suffocating, malevolent aura that clung to the air like oil.

Figures stepped through the threshold, their forms cloaked in ragged, bloodstained robes. The aura around them crackled with dark energy, twisting the air and casting long, grotesque shadows across the stone floor.

“Demonic cultivators,” Cheng growled, his voice low and steady despite the tension rippling through his body. “What business do you have here?”

They didn't answer. The cultists moved with a predatory grace, spreading out in an almost coordinated formation, their jagged weapons gleaming ominously. Their silence was unnerving, broken only by the faint sound of their boots scraping against stone.

Elder Xun wasted no time. He slammed his foot against the ground, and a massive ball and chain materialized in a burst of crimson qi, the links rattling as it coiled around him like a serpent. “I’ll handle this filth,” he snarled, swinging the weapon in a wide arc. The heavy ball struck the floor with a deafening crash, leaving a deep gouge in the stone.

One of the cultists darted forward, their movements unnaturally fast, but Xun was faster. The ball shot out, its trajectory erratic yet controlled, smashing into the cultist with bone-crushing force. The figure crumpled, their body folding in on itself like brittle paper.

“Too easy,” Xun muttered, a smirk forming—until the cultist’s body convulsed. With a guttural cry, the fallen figure rose again, their broken limbs twisting unnaturally as they lunged forward, undeterred by their injuries.

“Praise the Heavenly Demon!” the cultist screeched, their voice distorted and filled with unholy fervor.

The words sent a shiver down the elders’ spines. Wei stepped forward, his sword flashing like lightning as he skewered the cultist through the chest. The jade inscriptions flared brilliantly, releasing a burst of qi that disintegrated the figure into ash.

“They’re not staying down,” Fang said coldly, his spear spinning in his hand as he stepped to Xun’s side. His movements were precise, almost surgical, as he thrust forward, dispatching another cultist with an upward strike that pierced through their skull. Yet even as the body fell, another cultist stepped over it, their movements eerily synchronized.

It was clearly an unrefined attack. There was no sophisticated martial art evident within their attacks. There were no flashy techniques or feints to fool the opponent.

Just like the movements of a wild beast; swing, smash, break.

Wei snarled, the veins in his temple bulging as he channeled his qi into the blade. “Then we make sure they can’t get back up!”

Cheng joined the fray with a flick of his wrist, conjuring a shimmering barrier of translucent light that surged outward, slowing the cultists’ advance. His illusionary techniques distorted their perception, causing some to lash out at phantom foes while others stumbled into one another. “Hold them back!” Cheng barked.

Another cultist lunged at Xun, their jagged blade slicing through the air. He caught the weapon mid-swing with his bare hand, his immense strength crushing the blade with ease. With a roar, he drove his fist into the cultist’s chest, shattering ribs and piercing flesh. Blood spattered across the stone floor, but the cultist didn’t fall. Instead, they grabbed Xun’s wrist with inhuman strength, their lips curling into a manic grin.

“Praise the Heavenly Demon,” they rasped, their voice filled with malice.

The cultist’s body convulsed violently, their grip tightening as a burst of dark energy erupted from their chest. Xun stumbled back, his face twisted in pain as the corrosive force seared into his flesh. Blood seeped from the wound on his arm, blackened at the edges, as though the injury itself was tainted by the cultist’s malevolent qi.

Wei surged forward, his sword spinning in a furious arc to intercept another cultist who was already closing in on the wounded elder. The jade inscriptions on the spear flared once more, releasing a wave of concentrated energy that tore through the cultist and sent their mangled body flying into the wall.

But even as the cultist crumpled to the floor, lifeless, two more surged forward, their weapons raised. Wei gritted his teeth, slamming the hilt of his sword into the ground and releasing a shockwave of qi that sent them staggering. “We need to regroup!” he barked, glancing back toward the others.

Xun, however, was struggling to recover. The initial injury had slowed him, and that momentary weakness seemed to have emboldened the cultists. They converged on him like a pack of ravenous beasts, their movements erratic yet eerily coordinated. Xun swung his ball and chain in wide arcs, smashing into the first wave and sending bodies flying, but the cultists pressed forward relentlessly, ignoring their injuries.

“Get back!” He roared, his voice filled with fury as he slammed the ball into the floor, creating a massive crater that cracked the stone beneath their feet. Several cultists were thrown off balance, but it wasn’t enough. One darted in from his blind spot, their blade cutting into his side. Another followed, their weapon finding purchase in his leg. The injuries began to pile up, each one sapping more of his strength.

“No!” Fang shouted, his spear darting toward the mass of cultists in a desperate attempt to create space. But even as the weapon struck true, impaling one of the attackers, it barely slowed the others. The cultists seemed impervious to pain, their focus singular and unwavering.

Xun let out a guttural roar, his qi surging in a last-ditch effort to push them back. The ball and chain spun faster, tearing through the cultists closest to him, but the momentum was short-lived. One cultist leapt onto his back, driving their blade into his shoulder. Another slammed into his chest, forcing him to the ground.

The others swarmed him, their weapons and claws tearing into his flesh with sickening ferocity. Blood sprayed across the chamber, the metallic scent filling the air as Xun’s roars of defiance turned into gurgled gasps.

His immense strength, his indomitable will—it all meant nothing against the sheer number of enemies willing to sacrifice themselves to bring him down.

By the time the cultists pulled back, Xun’s body was barely recognizable, torn apart in a frenzy of violence. The remaining elders stared in horror, their faces pale and their breaths shallow. They were no strangers to death, but this… this was something else. Something monstrous.

Cheng’s voice trembled as he spoke, his composure cracking under the weight of the scene before him. “They’re… animals.”

Before anyone could respond, one of the cultists stepped forward, their hood falling back to reveal a gaunt, pale face etched with deep scars. They moved with deliberate purpose, reaching down to Xun’s shredded remains. Their hand delved into the bloodied folds of his robe, emerging moments later with a ring glinting faintly in the dim light.

Wei’s eyes widened in recognition. “The storage ring!” he hissed, his grip tightening on his spear. “What are they—?”

The cultist didn’t hesitate. They placed the ring against their palm and released a surge of dark qi, forcibly breaking the protective seals. Items spilled onto the floor in a chaotic heap—artifacts, talismans, vials of rare elixirs. The cultist ignored most of it, their attention singularly focused.

Then they found it.

A small vial, its crystalline surface shimmering faintly. Within it, an amber liquid glowed softly, radiating an unmistakable aura of vitality and purity.

“The Phoenix Tears,” Fang whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the cultists’ fervent murmurs. His face turned ashen as the realization struck him. “They know.”

The hooded figure held the vial aloft, their scarred lips curling into a twisted grin.

“Praise the Heavenly Demon,” they intoned, their voice resonating with chilling reverence. Around them, the other cultists echoed the chant, their fervor reaching a fever pitch.