The mountain was too quiet.
Liang Sheng pressed his back against the cold wall of the outer courtyard, fingers digging into the rough stone as if it could anchor him to life. The bells had been silenced hours ago. No alarms. No rallying cries. Only the sound of steel cutting air, and then cutting flesh.
He had fled. He hadn't meant to. The intruder moved through the sect like a storm, dismantling the formation wards as though he had written them himself. Elders fell one after another, not because they were weak—but because Xiao Chen never gave them the chance to fight. He broke their techniques at the root, shattering their meridians with precision. No wasted movements. No mercy.
What chilled Liang the most wasn't the slaughter, but the method. Xiao Chen had spared the youngest disciples, corralled together and forced to watch as their masters crumbled. "Remember this," he had said, before turning his back on them.
By dawn, the sect was ash.
---
Two towns away, the tavern was heavy with whispers.
"They say he strung their banners upside down and burned the library before he left."
"No… I heard he dragged the corpses of their elders to the gates and left them kneeling, as if still begging forgiveness."
"The children—he let them live. Why?"
"To shame us all. To remind us what happens when power rests in the wrong hands."
In the corner, Liang sat silent, staring into his untouched bowl of rice. At last, the words spilled out, hoarse and broken.
"It was one man."
The tavern quieted instantly.
"One man," Liang repeated. "He didn't fight like he was winning a battle. He fought like he was writing a lesson. Each elder… each strike… he wanted them to fall a certain way. To be remembered."
No one laughed. No one dared. The name had already spread like wildfire, but hearing it spoken aloud left the air heavy.
"Xiao Chen."
---
Far above the streets, behind the veils of Misty Cloud Sect, anger brewed like thunder.
The great hall shone with lamplight, elders gathered in a storm of voices.
"He desecrates sects as though they were stage props in his performance!" one elder barked, veins standing out against his temple. "This is not strength—it is arrogance."
"Arrogance?" another countered, voice sharp. "He has made symbols of his enemies. Symbols that the people now whisper about. It is more dangerous than killing alone."
At the side, Elder Mu—always calm, always calculating—stepped forward, his words slicing through the noise.
"Xiao Chen is no ordinary foe. He wages war not just with sword and flame, but with memory. He carves fear into every survivor, and with it he undermines us. Each sect that falls to him becomes a warning to the next. Already, smaller families tremble. They question their alliances. They question us."
The room buzzed with unease.
"And what shall we do?" one elder demanded, fist slamming against the table. "Wait until he strings our banners upside down as well? Until he teaches his 'lessons' upon our corpses?"
The grand elder spoke at last, voice gravelly with age. "Do not mistake his ruthlessness for madness. The boy chooses deliberately. He spares the weak, but crushes the proud. He humiliates those who thought themselves untouchable. That is his message."
The words stung. They all felt the truth in them.
Elder Mu's eyes glinted faintly. The Hall of Souls had long desired Xiao Chen destroyed, but he need not say the name aloud. Instead, he leaned into the outrage, fanning it carefully.
"Xiao Chen does not act in chaos. He acts with intent. And each day we hesitate, his shadow grows longer. Do you wish to wait until our own disciples are forced to kneel as witnesses to our fall? Or will you seize the moment, and cut him down before his legend devours us all?"
The hall erupted again, fury burning hotter than reason. But beneath it, hidden like a knife in the dark, was satisfaction. Xiao Chen's cruelty had given Elder Mu the spark he needed. The sect was ready to move.
---