One of them stood still, wearing white scholar's robes that fluttered in the breeze. He held an elegant fan with thin metal slats in one hand. His other arm was tucked behind his back, and he stood with an almost disinterested, composed posture.
He was Yan Wusheng. Though he looked no older than twenty-eight, his eyes carried the weight of centuries. They were cold, calculating, and mildly amused.
Across from him stood a woman cloaked in a black robe. Her sleek hair trailed like ink in the wind. She gripped a thin sword that glinted like moonlight on bone. Her eyes were fixed on him, unblinking.
Whoosh!
She vanished, leaving the spot where she had been still, silent, and empty. Then, she reappeared behind him, her sword descending.
Clang!
Without turning around, Yan Wusheng raised his fan. Steel struck metal. Sparks leapt between them.
"Lianye," he said with a faint smile. "We'll have time to play later. Right now, we have work."
She didn't respond, only pressed harder, forcing him back a step, then two. Her sword flickered, too fast to follow.
"Why the fuss?" he asked, barely deflecting a blow to his throat. "It was just one measly city."
"My city," she hissed, the air suddenly growing cold around her. "My blood pills. You knew." Her voice was flat and deadly.
Yan Wusheng laughed softly as he blocked another strike with his fan.
"Don't sulk. You'll raise another."
Mo Lianye attacked with cold precision. Her strikes flowed like silk, each one faster than the last, destroying the trees below.
Yan Wusheng's fan clashed repeatedly with her blade producing sparks. His smile faded slightly as he dodged backward.
A short distance away, two figures floated silently above the dark forest, watching the duel. The mist parted for them as if unwilling to touch their skin.
The first figure was a broad, shirtless man with a red stomach that shimmered like glowing coal. Flames flickered in his irises like living sparks barely held in check.
"Tch. Why aren't you stopping them?" he grunted, arms crossed.
The old man beside him didn't move. His long gray beard swayed slightly in the wind. He held a formation plate with flickering runes etched on its surface.
"Let them clash," he said. "It's rare for people like us to fight without poison, traps, or screaming corpses. Consider this a change of pace."
As Mo Lianye's sword neared Yan Wusheng's throat, the forest fell eerily silent.
The gray clouds above congealed into iron. The wind vanished. Even the mist froze in place.
Then, from the gray clouds above, a voice echoed, "Stop."
The voice was not loud. Yet it cracked through the air like the snapping of a celestial spine.
Mo Lianye halted mid-strike. Yan Wusheng took a step back and quietly exhaled as he closed his fan with a metallic snap.
All four turned their eyes skyward and bowed—not fully, but low enough to acknowledge the shadow above them.
"Sect Master," they intoned in unison, each voice different.
The Sect Master's voice drifted down like falling ash: soft but heavy.
"You squabble like mortals in a market. Your blades are not meant for each other, and I did not gather you here to perform."
Mo Lianye's voice trembled, not with fear, but with fury she could not release.
"Sect Leader, this bastard destroyed one of my harvest cities."
"Yan Wusheng," the Sect Master called.
There was silence. Then, the voice spoke again.
"Offer one of your cities as blood compensation. Do not destabilize the group before the ambush."
Yan Wusheng bowed slightly and smiled faintly as he closed his eyes.
"Understood, Sect Leader."
The Sect Leader's voice responded, fading yet still heavy.
"You and Hu San will go to the Qingyao Kingdom. Wait for the signal. Dark Corpser is already in position."
As soon as the voice faded, the sky exhaled. The pressure lifted. The unnatural stillness unraveled like loosened thread, and the heavy mist began to move again.
The four of them remained bowed a breath longer than necessary.
Then, one by one, they straightened.
Mo Lianye gave Yan Wusheng a final flat, unreadable glance. She turned and vanished into the distance, her black robes trailing like smoke. She had another city to prepare. Harvesting was delicate work.
Yan Wusheng watched her disappear across the blood-clouded horizon. Then, with a half-lazy smirk, he turned toward the others.
"So... Qingyao Kingdom. Any entertainment there? A brothel run by beauties of the mortal world? Or a decent teahouse?" he asked.
Hu San snorted, a faint flame flickering in his eyes. He tapped a token, and a small, red and gold, flame-forged spirit boat shimmered into view.
"You're already lucky the Sect Leader didn't snap your fan in half. I'd worry more about discipline than distractions."
He stepped aboard and vanished in a streak of firelight toward the south.
Yan Wusheng watched him fly away.
"Tch. Show-off. One day, I'll refine my own boat with screaming souls for propulsion, and yours will be the main one."
The old man beside him chuckled dryly as he closed his formation plate and the glowing runes faded into the metal.
"If you had just asked, he would have saved you hours of flight time and half your spiritual energy."
Yan Wusheng turned to him. "Old man, sell me that breath-concealing formation. I'll trade you the million mortal souls I harvested from that woman's city. They are high quality—fear-ripened and still fresh."
The old man's fingers paused. "No, this one isn't for sale."
He slid the plate into his spatial ring, masking the faintest flicker of greed beneath his usual calm.
"What? It's just a formation plate. There's no need to act like it's your ancestral heirloom," said Yan Wusheng, rolling his eyes.
The old man said nothing. He had no interest in indulging the scholar's boredom. With a flick of his sleeve, he rose into the air and drifted eastward toward the other side of Mud Fall Village, which would soon be known by another name.
His thoughts were cold and quiet.
"To be given secret orders from the Sect Master himself... Either he doesn't trust the others, or the treasure that the righteous sect stole is far more important than we imagined."
He tapped a dark jade token in his sleeve, and a faint red light in the shape of a sect rune flickered across the sky and vanished.
Behind him, Yan Wusheng watched lazily, tapping his fan against his leg.
Then he grinned. "So many secrets. So little time."
With a snap of his fan, he stepped into the sky and flew toward the heart of the Qingyao Kingdom. The wind curled around him like a ribbon of bone.
•••••
At the same time, twenty thousand miles away, far above the ground, two enormous spirit ships glided silently through the clouds.
Sunlight glinted off the silver ornaments and ancient runic carvings adorning their hulls.
Their sails were made of spiritual silk, and faintly pulsing formation lines ran beneath the deck.
At the bow of the lead ship stood three figures.
Two tall, handsome, composed men flanked a woman dressed in flowing white robes.
Her presence was luminous, and her pale complexion stood out against the sky like a jade carving brought to life.
One of the men glanced at her, concern shadowing his otherwise calm face.
"Senior Sister, it's not good for your condition. Let us maintain the formation. You've already exhausted yourself too much."
She shook her head gently, her gaze never leaving the horizon.
"Thank you, Senior Brother, but I'm fine. I've taken two advanced qi-restoring pills. Conserve your energy—we may be ambushed at any moment."
The second man looked down at the deck below, where younger disciples sat in meditative poses, some trembling.
"The surviving disciples are not doing well. For many of them, this is their first real encounter with death."
The woman's eyes softened. But her voice stayed firm.
"This should have been expected. We brought seedlings to a battlefield and lost two Golden Core elders. The mission was supposed to be quiet recruitment, not...that," she said.
She turned and her gaze settled on the second ship gliding alongside them. Dozens of teenage cultivators sat cross-legged, surrounded by low-tier protective formations.
"Keep your eyes on the path ahead. Keep the disciples calm. They can't be allowed to falter."
She inhaled slowly, as if weighing the weight of fate itself.
"How many locations remain where the talented seedlings are still unclaimed?"
"There are five more locations," said the second man. "We would have finished selecting them within days if not for that demon."
His hands trembled slightly as he remembered. The image of the demonic cultivator—eyes empty, arms stained with golden core blood—lingered in his mind.
The demonic cultivator destroyed hundreds of kilometers of land, including forests, mountains, and rivers. He killed hundreds of disciples and seedlings himself. And that was just the aftermath of his battle with the Inner Elder.
"Why didn't the Inner Elder finish him off? Why did they let such a threat walk away? Our disciples may never dare to set foot outside again."
The woman's expression hardened. She turned sharply and said in a cold, clipped voice,
"Watch your mouth."
He flinched.
"You're alive because of the Inner Elder. Don't forget that."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked toward the ship's core chamber, a circular sanctuary adorned with glowing runes and reinforced runes.
She stepped inside and began forming hand seals. The walls responded instantly.
Spiritual white light raced along the edges of the room, and a translucent dome shimmered into existence. The dome encompassed both ships, providing them with a defensive, stealth shield.