Lán Tíng's lungs felt like they had been scrubbed with coarse sand. Every time she drew air, the dust from the temple floor—powdered limestone and ancient, dried bird droppings—coated the back of her throat, making her want to gag.
She pushed herself up, her palms scraping against the grit. Her left wrist twinged, a sharp, localized heat that suggested a minor sprain from when Mò Zhàn's shockwave had tossed her aside like a discarded rag.
She looked at the others. They weren't "fallen heroes"; they were a mess of bruised meat and torn fabric. Hú Yì was the worst of it. He lay sprawled in a patch of gray light, his breathing shallow and hitched. There was a dark, wet smudge on the stone near his temple.
"Huh. Are you all right? Hú Yì!"
Her voice was thin, reedy. She reached for him, but her own legs felt like water. She had to plant a hand back on the floor to keep from toppling. Around her, the Green Pine disciples were groaning, the sound a low, pathetic chorus of failure. One boy was clutching his ribs, his face a sickly shade of tallow.
"That contemptible brat from the Jīn Yàn Sect will absolutely pay for this," Lán Tíng spat. The vow felt empty even as it left her cracked lips. Her hands were shaking. She balled them into fists, the skin of her knuckles splitting slightly from the tension. The anger was a defensive wall, something to hide the fact that her heart was hammering against her ribs with terrifying speed.
"Who was that guy?" someone wheezed. It was a disciple she barely recognized, his face masked by a layer of filth. He was struggling to find his footing, his knees knocking together.
"I didn't recognize him," Lán Tíng admitted. She tasted copper—she'd bitten her tongue in the fall. "But I'd wager he's a Jīn Yàn disciple. The man who stopped him... that was Yáng Zhàn. Their Sect Master."
The name hung in the stagnant air, heavy and suffocating.
"Oh, it's horrifying. If that man hadn't intervened, we would have all been killed. It's clear they were specifically targeting Brother Lei."
Lán Tíng didn't answer. She looked at the empty space where Lei Ze had stood. The absence of him felt like a physical pressure, a cold draft in a sealed room. "Lei Ze, where are you?" she muttered. She wasn't thinking about prophecy or artifacts. She was thinking about the way he'd looked before the chaos—tense, guarded, like a man waiting for a blow he knew he couldn't dodge.
She moved to help the others, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. Two disciples grabbed Hú Yì by the armpits.
"Ugh, Brother Hú Yì is surprisingly heavy," one groaned, his face reddening with the effort. They staggered, nearly dropping him. The unconscious man's boots dragged through the dust, leaving two jagged furrows.
Lán Tíng didn't wait. She fumbled for her flying sword, the cold metal of the hilt biting into her sore palm. The spiritual connection felt frayed, a buzzing vibration that made her teeth ache. She mounted the blade, her balance precarious.
"We must depart. Brother Lei may need our assistance."
They rose into the air, a ragged formation of the wounded, flying out into the oppressive heat of the valley.
At the Green Pine Mountain, the air usually smelled of cedar and cold rain. Today, it felt stagnant.
Jié burst into the main hall, his boots skidding on the polished wood. He was drenched in sweat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gulps that sounded like a saw hitting a knot in wood. He didn't bow so much as collapse toward the floor, his fingers twitching against the grain of the wood.
Lǐ Yúnzhōu, the Sect Leader, didn't move from his seat, but his eyes—hard as flint—snapped toward the door. Jìng Xū stood nearby, his prayer beads hanging motionless.
"Is there an issue, Jié?" Jìng Xū asked. His voice was calm, but there was a tightness around his eyes, a deepening of the weathered wrinkles.
"Lord Master... our disciples... wounded... Mò Zhàn!" Jié managed to choke out. He swallowed hard, a visible, painful lump moving down his throat.
Jìng Xū's hand tightened on his beads. One of the wooden spheres cracked—a small, sharp sound like a finger bone breaking. "Mò Zhàn? The most powerful young cultivator in the Eastern Lands? I thought he had left the region."
Lǐ Yúnzhōu stood up. His robes didn't flutter; they hung heavy, weighted by the sheer density of his presence. He began to pace, the sound of his footsteps a rhythmic, relentless thud. "Hmph. Yáng Zhàn must be involved. He knew we possessed the knowledge of the Jade Sun Pagoda's location. He sent his son to claim the artifact. It's a calculated theft."
"Lord Master," Jié added, his voice rising in pitch, bordering on hysteria. "Sect Master Yáng Zhàn is also present at the hunt. They were... they were hunting Lei Ze. We cannot locate him anywhere."
Jìng Xū staggered. It wasn't a dramatic reel; it was a heavy, clumsy step back, his heel catching on the edge of a rug. His face went pale, the color of old parchment. The fear didn't just show in his eyes; it seemed to sag his entire frame.
Yáng Zhàn, Jìng Xū thought. The name was a festering wound. We were friends once. Before the Northern Lands. Before the blood. He looked at his hands—old, spotted with age, shaking ever so slightly. He remembered the mother's face. He remembered the way the light had left her eyes because of a choice he had made in the heat of a forgotten feud.
Without a word of explanation, Jìng Xū bolted. He didn't use a graceful technique; he threw himself into the air, his spiritual energy erupting in a violent, unrefined burst that rattled the hall's windows.
Lǐ Yúnzhōu watched him go, his jaw set so tight the muscles bunched like corded rope. He turned to the remaining elders, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. "Protect the sect. Guard the gates." Then, he too vanished into the sky, a streak of oppressive gray light heading for the Wǔ Yán Gǔ.
The valley was a furnace. The heat didn't just shimmer; it distorted the very shape of the rocks, making the world look like it was melting.
The Jīn Yàn and Bì Yù Zōng disciples were already locked in a messy, desperate skirmish. There were no elegant forms here—just people screaming, throwing raw bursts of energy, and slipping on the sun-baked stones.
"It's the Jīn Yàn Sect! Attack!"
Spells collided in the air, the sound not a "symphony" but a series of wet, concussive thuds that made the inner ear itch.
Yáng Zhàn arrived like a cold front hitting a fire. Beside him were Mò Zhàn and Měi Lín. Yáng Zhàn didn't even look at the attackers. He raised a hand, his skin looking like polished marble. The incoming attacks didn't "dissipate"; they seemed to be swallowed, the energy being sucked into his palm with a low, hungry hum.
"It is Lord Yáng Zhàn!" a disciple cried out, stumbling backward and tripping over a jagged basalt pillar.
Then came the Green Pine group. Lán Tíng landed at the front, her chest heaving, her hair matted with sweat and dust. She pointed her sword at Yáng Zhàn. Her arm shook from fatigue, the heavy iron of the blade feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds.
"You ruthless sect! Where is Lei Ze?" she demanded.
Měi Lín stepped forward. She looked pristine, a sharp contrast to Lán Tíng's grime. It was an insult in itself. "How dare you speak to my sect with such insolence!"
Měi Lín lunged. She was fast, a blur of silk and steel. Lán Tíng gritted her teeth, the salt from her sweat stinging a small cut on her lip. She raised her sword, her shoulder joint protesting with a dull ache.
They were inches from clashing when the air between them curdled.
A golden bell, massive and translucent, slammed into existence. It wasn't a "shield"; it was a solid wall of divine pressure. When the girls' swords hit it, the vibration traveled up their arms, numbing their elbows and shoulders instantly. Both were thrown back, skidding across the hot dirt. Lán Tíng felt the skin tear on her knees as she slid.
"Huh? What was that technique?"
Yáng Zhàn's smile didn't reach his eyes. It was a cold, thin line. "An old friend," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the roar of the volcanic vents.
Jìng Xū landed. He didn't look like a master. He looked like a man who had been running from a ghost for twenty years and had finally been cornered. He faced Yáng Zhàn, his breath coming in heavy, labored rasps. "How dare you, Yáng Zhàn!"
"Relax, old friend."
The word "friend" caused a ripple of murmurs. The disciples looked at each other, their faces twisted with confusion and a growing, ugly suspicion. They were bleeding for a cause they didn't even understand.
"Enough of this," Lǐ Yúnzhōu's voice cut through the chaos. He descended slowly, his feet touching the ground without a sound. He stood between them, his hands behind his back. The air around him felt cold, a localized pocket of winter in the middle of the hellscape. "This is a treasure hunt for the junior generation, not a playground for Lords."
Yáng Zhàn flicked a piece of invisible lint from his sleeve. "I simply came to observe. We were just leaving."
"Where is Lei Ze?" Jìng Xū demanded. He was clutching his chest, his fingers digging into the fabric over his heart.
Yáng Zhàn chuckled. It was a dry, rattling sound. "Oh, Lei Ze? We encountered him. He claimed the Pagoda, but his mind... it shattered. So simple. Think carefully, Jìng Xū. You'll realize why. He will very soon become your greatest enemy. And the enemy of the entire Green Pine Sect."
Jìng Xū's face crumbled. It was a physical collapse of the features.
Lǐ Yúnzhōu didn't wait. He released a wave of Qi—not a flash of light, but a physical wall of force that knocked the Jīn Yàn disciples back. Yáng Zhàn stood his ground, his heels digging furrows into the dirt, his face tightening. "Hmph."
"Let's retreat," the Bì Yù Zōng leader muttered, seeing the titans prepare for war.
They scrambled away, tripping over rocks in their haste to escape the fallout.
Yáng Zhàn turned to leave, but then the air itself seemed to scream.
A streak of black, oily energy tore through the sky. It wasn't flying; it was falling with intent. Lei Ze hit the ground twenty paces away, the impact cracking the bedrock. He didn't stand up like a human. He uncoiled.
His eyes were gone, replaced by pits of roiling shadow. The black veins on his neck were pulsing, thick as worms under the skin.
"You lied to me!"
The voice was a dual-tone nightmare—Lei Ze's youthful rasp overlaid with the tectonic roar of Kūn Zhān.
"You lied, Master Jìng Xū!"
Lei Ze lunged. He didn't use a stance. He threw a punch that carried the weight of a falling mountain. The black Qi around his fist screamed as it tore through the air.
"Demonic Energy!" Lǐ Yúnzhōu and Yáng Zhàn shouted together.
Jìng Xū didn't move to counter. He looked paralyzed by the sheer weight of the guilt reflecting back at him in Lei Ze's eyes. At the last micro-second, his instincts took over. He threw up the Vajra Barrier.
The fist hit the gold.
The sound was deafening—a metallic, bone-shaking boom that made the disciples' ears bleed. Lei Ze's knuckles split, blood spraying against the golden shield, but he didn't flinch. He pressed harder, his boots sinking inches into the solid stone as he forced his weight forward.
"You were the reason my mother died!"
The gold began to groan. A crack appeared. Then another. They spread like a spiderweb across a frozen pond.
"Lei Ze, listen to me!" Jìng Xū pleaded. His hands were shaking so violently he could barely hold the seal. His face was drenched in sweat, his eyes wide with a desperate, pathetic sorrow.
"Liar!"
Lei Ze pulled back. For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then he smashed his fist down again.
The Vajra Barrier didn't just break. It shattered. The fragments of golden light flew outward like shrapnel, slicing through the air. Jìng Xū was thrown backward, his robes tearing, his body skidding across the jagged floor until he hit a rock with a sickening thud.
Yáng Zhàn watched it all, his smile finally reaching his eyes. It was the look of a man watching a masterpiece being finished in blood.