Zhu sank into the bathhouse's warm, herb-scented water, letting the steam seep into his sore muscles. Hours had passed, though he hadn't noticed; night had crept over the sect, draping the courtyard in shadow. Each ripple in the milky pool reflected the dim glow of lanterns, stretching time until it felt almost infinite. A bell tolled in the distance, its resonant chimes cutting through the night, sharp and urgent. Zhu's brow furrowed as he climbed out, skin prickling in the cool air.
The bell continued, relentless, each chime sharper, more urgent. Zhu's stomach knotted. This wasn't a dinner bell, he remembered a passage from a library scroll: "the Boundless Dao Sect's war alarm, rung only in times of grave peril". Night had deepened outside, the courtyard shadowed in darkness, and now he understood. Why was it ringing so long? He tugged at his damp robes, frozen for a heartbeat. Shouting?
Explosions shattered the distance, followed by frantic, piercing cries. At first, Zhu thought he imagined it, but the blasts grew louder, closer, rattling the bathhouse's jade-and-stone walls. The air hummed with electrified Qi, stinging his skin—a cruel reminder of his empty dantian. His heart hammered as the building lurched, throwing him onto the wet floor; pain shot through his tailbone. Screams erupted outside, sharp and close, mingling with the acrid stench of burning wood and scorched flesh.
Fearing the worst, Zhu scrambled onto a bench beneath a window, hands trembling as he peeked over the sill. The sight stole his breath. The courtyard opposite the martialing yards, once tranquil with lotus ponds and polished stone paths, had become a battlefield. Flashes of Qi energy streaked through the night, blinding bursts of light and shadow. Senior Brother Kuo, robes bloodied and torn, moved like a tempest, his sword a silver blur against a cloaked figure. The intruder's horns—twisted, black, glinting like obsidian—pulsed with a malevolent aura, its curved blade wreathed in dark flames that cut through Qi barriers as effortlessly as silk.
The cries grew coherent, a cacophony of desperation. "Boundless Blade, Water Style!" Senior Brother Wei bellowed, his voice cut short as the horned figure's blade cleaved his skull in two. Zhu bit back bile, his stomach roiling at the sight of Wei, who'd mocked his mortal stretches, crumpling lifelessly. More screams followed, most silenced mid-wail.
"Fight them back! Heavenly Realm, with me!" a senior brother roared, soaring atop a glowing sword, its blue sash trailing like a comet. "Earthly Realm disciples, fall back to the pagodas!" another shouted, closer to the bathhouse. The ground quaked with each release of Qi, the air thick with clashing spiritual energies.
"Oh no, no, no!" Zhu whispered, panic gripping his heart. The scrolls in his satchel, his only hope for cultivation, felt useless against this carnage. His shouting would betray his hiding spot, he realized, scrambling off the bench, his robes snagging on splintered wood. "I need to—" His words drowned in a deafening explosion as a wave of fire and shattered jade engulfed the bathhouse, the world dissolving into heat, pain, and chaos.
Zhu came to, half in the scalding water, half sprawled on the cracked jade floor, coughing up liquid that burned his throat. A ringing in his ears drowned out the chaos his eyes struggled to process. The bathhouse lay in ruins—moss-covered stones shattered, lattices splintered, steam choked with smoke. His satchel, left by the bench in an alcove, lay untouched amidst the debris.
He dragged himself from the water as fast as his mortal body could manage, limbs shaking from the effort. Firelight from the courtyard cast dancing shadows on the far wall, twisting like specters. Through the gaping hole where the wall once stood, Zhu glimpsed horned figures in the dark, their glowing eyes scanning the ruins. Survivors—they were hunting survivors, he realized, heart pounding like a war drum. He scrambled to the satchel, securing it around his trembling frame, the scrolls' weight a lifeline.
The air grew heavy as demonic cultivators chanted in guttural tones, their spells thickening the Qi with malevolent force that stung Zhu's skin. His mind raced, seeking safety. Spotting a fallen pillar, he crawled toward it, recalling a library passage: Hide your presence, still your heart. He sank behind the pillar, slowing his breath, his mortal heart a deafening drum in the silence of his fear.
A sudden cry echoed from the courtyard, sharp and commanding, drawing the horned figures away as they soared toward it on waves of dark Qi. Alone now, Zhu shivered in the fire's heat, terrified, his breath ragged despite his efforts to calm it. I need to escape, he thought, hands trembling as he checked the satchel. Its silk cords were pristine, the scrolls unharmed. . He slunk along the fallen pillar, slipping through the collapsed back wall of the bathhouse into the night.
The air outside reeked of smoke and death, the sect's once-pristine paths littered with debris. On hands and knees, Zhu crawled through the darkness toward the sect's entrance, the distant pagodas glowing faintly with Ba Gua arrays. The sect's overrun, he thought, heart racing. I have to reach the mortal world, warn someone, the elders, a village, anyone. The war bell tolled faintly, a grim reminder of the Boundless Dao's peril, as Zhu pressed forward through the shattered remains of his home.
Minutes dragged like hours, his bloody hands and knees leaving a trail along the shattered stone path. Stupid, I'm leading them right to me, he berated himself, but he didn't stop. Every moment counted. Hold on, brothers, I'm getting help. The sect had been caught unaware, overrun by demonic cultivators, but Zhu clung to the faint hope his flight wasn't in vain.
An exhausting twenty minutes later, Zhu reached the sect's giant gates, their dragon-carved doors lying broken on the ground, sacred inscriptions scorched by dark Qi. Corpses littered the once-spotless path leading deeper into the sect, their blood and viscera clinging to Zhu's trembling frame, the stench choking his ragged breath. He'd slipped unnoticed through the chaos, his stealth born of desperation. Among the fallen, he glimpsed Jien, who'd been his only true friend in the sect. His lifeless eyes staring skyward. I'm sorry, Zhu thought, guilt clawing his heart.
Zhu stumbled past the shattered gates and collapsed, vomiting violently as bile burned his throat. The eerie silence of the battle's faded chaos crushed his heart, the war bell's toll gone, leaving only the stench of death and the distant crackle of flames consuming the sect's halls. They're all gone, he thought, Jien's laugh and a memory of getting scolded by the head cook together, echoed in his mind. His stomach heaved again, bile spilling onto the bloodied stone, then once more, his body wracked with tremors. Wiping his mouth with a trembling hand, Zhu forced himself to his feet, Jien's face fueling his resolve. Standing back up he began staggering down the mountain passage, the flicker of demonic flames haunting the shadows behind him.
Zhu didn't meander down the steep passage that led up to the sect—he sprinted, legs pumping like pistons, lungs on fire from exertion he had never pushed them to before. Gravity seemed to aid him, the slope hurling him forward faster than he imagined possible. Moonlight flickered through the dense canopy above, casting fractured patterns of light and shadow on the path ahead. Every step threatened to betray him—roots twisted like serpents, jagged rocks jutted from the earth, and low-hanging branches whipped against his face.
He flailed at times, arms instinctively swinging to push aside obstacles, but often it wasn't enough. One rogue branch lashed across his shoulder, sending a shiver through his body, while a loose rock underfoot skidded, forcing him to leap awkwardly and nearly tumble down the slope. The mountain felt alive, conspiring to throw him off course, and yet every step carried him further from the inferno behind him.
Three years he had spent within the sect's walls, and yet now every detail of the path was hazy. He had memorized the courtyard, the pagodas, even the layout of the bathhouse. But the mountain that cradled the sect was vast, wild, and unknowable. Doubt clawed at him with every stumble. Was he going the right way? Or would he end up lost in the woods.
A memory flickered, rope bridge suspended over a narrow chasm, its planks weathered, swaying in the wind. And steep steps, carved centuries ago into the cliff face, worn smooth by countless disciples. The recollection was vague, but it was something. He aimed for it, dodging another low branch that snagged his sleeve.
The air grew colder as he descended, the scent of smoke from the sect mixing with the sharp tang of pine and stone. Somewhere below, the faint roar of the river that cut through the valley promised refuge or danger. He didn't care which. He had to keep moving.
Then, a sudden snap—a branch breaking somewhere off the path. Zhu froze, heart hammering, straining his ears through the pounding of blood in his head. Footsteps? A shadow flitted between the trees. He didn't pause to see. Sprinting again, he forced his legs to carry him faster, muscles screaming in protest.
Zhu's lungs burned, his arms trembling as he clung to the steep pass, branches and rocks clawing at him with every desperate step. The forest seemed endless, shadows flickering like predators in the corners of his vision. Just as his legs threatened to buckle from exhaustion, he glimpsed it—the rope bridge, stretching across a yawning chasm. Relief surged, only to twist into terror. Most of the wooden planks had been shattered, jagged stumps pointing downward like teeth.
No path for his feet. Not a step could be trusted.
He dropped carefully onto one of the top ropes, gripping it with raw, blistered hands. The other hand found the parallel rope, the makeshift handrail swaying violently beneath his weight. Each movement threatened to tear his fingers; the rope's fibers bit into his palms, leaving deep, burning lines. Below him, the chasm yawned, black and silent, swallowing the sound of his ragged breaths.
Zhu inched forward, every inch a battle against gravity and terror. A sudden gust rocked the bridge, and he slipped. His heart leapt into his throat as he dangled, upside down for a heartbeat, muscles screaming in protest. He caught himself just in time, knuckles white, teeth gritted, clinging to the ropes like a man clinging to life itself.
The bridge groaned with every movement, ropes creaking and snapping in protest. Shadows danced along the gorge walls, teasing him with imagined figures, and Zhu realized how alone he truly was. One misstep, one second of fatigue, and the chasm would claim him.
Each agonizing step forward felt like an eternity. His arms burned, his legs shook, and sweat mingled with blood from torn strands of rope. And yet, he moved, inch by inch, driven by a singular thought: survive.
Zhu's fingers screamed with pain, raw ropes biting into the already blistered flesh, each movement a fresh agony. The wind howled through the gorge, tugging at his robes, threatening to tip him into the dark void below. The broken planks rattled with every shift of weight, echoing like a death knell.
He slipped again, but reflexes honed by three years of partial training saved him. Hanging upside down for a breathless moment, knuckles white and chest heaving, he whispered a prayer to anything that might be listening. Another gust rocked the ropes, the bridge sagging violently beneath him, and Zhu pressed his body flat, hugging the upper ropes, heart hammering, sweat and tears mingling on his face.
Time became meaningless. The bridge seemed endless, stretching like the spine of some slumbering beast. Shadows twisted beneath him, the chasm yawning with every sway, every creak. Each second felt like an eternity, each inch a battle. His arms shook, his back ached, his chest burned, and still he forced himself forward. Survival was the only command his body would obey.
Finally, the far side loomed. A rocky ledge, solid and unyielding, rose from the shadows. Trembling hands clawed at it, scraping raw rope fibers across splintered stone. With a final, shuddering effort, Zhu swung his legs over the top rope and collapsed onto the ground. The earth beneath him was unforgiving but merciful in comparison to the void. He lay there, chest heaving, arms wrapped around his body, palms raw and bleeding, eyes closing as he drew the first deep, unshakable breaths he'd had in what felt like hours.
Relief surged through him like a wave. He was alive. Solid. Safe, at least for the moment. The bridge groaned and swayed behind him, a reminder of the peril he'd just escaped, but the immediate terror receded, replaced by aching exhaustion. The chasm still yawned darkly, the wind still whispered threats through the trees, yet here on the solid rock, Zhu allowed himself a moment to grieve, to shake, to feel the enormity of what he'd survived.
Every nerve in his body screamed, every muscle ached, but he could not linger. The forest waited, dark and silent, a wilderness that would demand the same vigilance he'd learned on the bridge. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet, trembling, bloodied, and raw, but moving forward. The path beyond was uncertain, but for the first time in hours, the ground beneath him was his ally.