Xu Ziqing sat across from Elder Feng, the dim light of the lanterns swaying gently with the motion of the carriage. The soft clinking of the wooden wheels against the uneven dirt road was the only sound breaking the silence. Despite the calm exterior of the ride, his thoughts churned, each turn of the wheel fueling his growing unease.
The lanterns cast flickering shadows across Elder Feng’s face, further emphasizing the sharp lines of the man's expression. Though the man had not spoken a word since they had set off, his mere presence dominated the carriage. The second-class disciple could feel the heavy weight of the elder's qi pressing against the space, thick and suffocating.
These elders are not from here, Xu Ziqing thought grimly, confirming once again what he had suspected from the start. Powerhouses like them wouldn't have gone unnoticed for so long if they had. This begged the question that gnawed at his mind: How did Sect Leader Jun bring them here?
The route to the other continents had been destroyed decades ago, an event woven into the history of their world. Yet, these men, bound to Jun’s cause, hailed from those distant lands. What price had Jun paid to forge such alliances? The possibilities churned the disciple's stomach.
From the front of the carriage, Ping Hai’s quiet grunt could be heard as he guided the horses, the reigns creaking in his large hands. The Azure Moon Marauder watched his junior brother from the shadows, his heart heavy. The third-class disciple had changed since his defeat at Kai Liu’s hands, and not for the better.
Once, he had been full of potential, a disciple on the rise. But that defeat, paired with Sect Leader Jun’s manipulations, had twisted Ping Hai’s trajectory. The boy had thrown himself into mission after mission, each more dangerous than the last, risking life and limb in the hopes of reclaiming some shred of honor. His rapid growth had come at a cost—a deep, jagged scar now marred his face, cutting across his left eye, and his once bright spirit had been replaced by a hollow devotion to the sect’s cause.
To most, Ping Hai’s transformation would be seen as a testament to his dedication, a remarkable ascension through the ranks. But to Xu Ziqing, it was nothing short of a tragedy. His junior brother had become little more than a pawn in Jun’s growing web of control.
He had to protect him, even if it meant doing so from the shadows.
Observe Elder Feng, Sect Leader Jun had told him before the mission began, his voice as cold and cutting as a winter wind. Do not offend him under any circumstance.
Those words lingered in the second-class disciple's mind as he studied the elder sitting across from him.
But how had such men come to serve Jun? What had the sect leader offered them? The answers were elusive, yet Ziqing couldn’t shake the growing certainty that whatever Jun’s plans entailed, they were far more dangerous than anyone realized.
The carriage rolled on, the silence heavy, as they approached the outskirts of Qingmu. Xu Ziqing kept his thoughts tightly contained, stealing glances at Elder Feng, but the man remained motionless, his presence as ominous as ever. The tension between them was palpable, though no words had passed.
At the front of the carriage, Ping Hai suddenly called back, his voice breaking the stillness. “We’re here, Senior Brother. Elder.”
Ziqing straightened as the carriage slowed to a halt. The third-class disciple brought the horses to a stop, his broad shoulders hunched slightly. He jumped down from the driver’s seat, his scarred face barely visible in the dim light of the lanterns. To anyone else, Ping Hai would look like a loyal disciple eager to serve. But Ziqing could see the shadows behind his eyes—shadows that deepened with every mission Sect Leader Jun sent him on.
Elder Feng finally stirred, his sharp gaze sliding to Ziqing. Without a word, the elder rose from his seat, stepping down from the carriage with the quiet grace of a predator.
This mission wasn’t just about the Iron Claw sect’s transgressions. This was about sending a message. A message that the Silent Moon Sect, under Jun’s rule, would not tolerate any insult—no matter how small.
The second-class disciple stepped out of the carriage, the cold air of Qingmu biting at his skin. Lanterns flickered along the village path, casting a dim glow on the waiting figures of the villagers. As he scanned the crowd, his eyes fell upon Lan Sheng, the second-class disciple of the Verdant Lotus Sect who informed them of the situation.
“Welcome to Qingmu,” Lan Sheng said smoothly, his gaze sliding over the group. "I figured you were arriving today. Fortunate timing too. The Iron Claw Sect has been... pressing their luck lately. If it weren’t for Kai Liu stepping in, things could have gone much worse. You were supposed to be the ones handling it, correct?"
The subtle dig made his stomach churn.
Again, it’s him. Every time Xu Ziqing turned around, the young alchemist was somehow there involving himself in matters far beyond his reach. The village, the Gauntlet, the wager with Ping Hai—it was as if Kai's very existence was a constant reminder of the chaos that trailed him.
"How... convenient for Qingmu that Kai Liu just happened to intervene," The second-class disciple replied coolly, keeping his voice even.
Lan Sheng’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "It’s becoming a habit, isn’t it? Him cleaning up after your sect. One might think the Silent Moon Sect has more important matters than keeping its promises."
His words cut deeper than Ziqing cared to admit. He hated that Lan Sheng was right—hated that they were here, again, playing catch-up to an alchemist who seemed to always find himself at the center of everything.
The tension between them simmered, the conversation teetering on the edge of formality. But Elder Feng wasn’t interested in their verbal sparring.
The elder’s cold voice broke through the tension. “This is not our concern. The Iron Claw Sect is. We’ll deal with them directly. Where do they reside?"
“They reside a few hours northwest of here, Elder,” Xu Ziqing replied. “The Iron Claw Sect has a small stronghold near the base of the Crescent Hills. If needed, I can send a request for reinforcements immediately.”
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He already had the plan forming in his mind: a small contingent of Silent Moon disciples could be mobilized quickly, fortifying their position and ensuring they had a backup in case the situation escalated. It was the logical move, one Sect Leader Jun would approve of. But before Xu Ziqing could act on it, Elder Feng dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand, his face unreadable.
“There’s no need,” He said, his voice casual, as though they were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “I will be enough deterrent.”
He spoke with such certainty as if the idea of needing reinforcements was laughable. And perhaps, for him, it was.
The more Xu Ziqing thought about it, the more disturbed he became. What had Sect Leader Jun promised this man? What had they given to have three other men like Elder Feng on their side, or more terrifyingly, were they really on their side?
As these thoughts swirled in his mind, Xu Ziqing glanced at Ping Hai, who was now interacting with the villagers, accepting what the disciple assumed to be the tribute the Silent Moon demanded for their so-called protection. The villagers were anxious, but Ping Hai handled the exchange with mechanical efficiency, his expression devoid of warmth.
He could feel the weight of it, pressing down on him—his own powerlessness, the slow realization that the sect he had dedicated his life to no longer existed. He had failed, not only as a disciple but as a guardian of its true values.
“Let’s move,” The elder said sharply, already turning toward the carriage.
Lan Sheng made no further remarks but nodded at Xu Ziqing before taking his leave, his presence lingering like a shadow.
Without another word, Xu Ziqing climbed back into the carriage, Ping Hai following closely behind. As they set off once more, the oppressive silence of the journey resumed.
The journey continued in tense silence as the carriage rattled along the uneven path, each bump jostling his thoughts into further disarray. The trees began to thin, revealing a clearing up ahead. As they drew closer, something felt off—an oppressive stillness hung in the air, and the scent of dried earth mixed with something more sinister.
The carriage jolted to a halt, its sudden stop jarring Xu Ziqing from his grim thoughts. He leaned forward, catching a glimpse of Ping Hai climbing down from the driver’s seat, his broad form a silhouette against the dim lantern light.
“What is it?” Xu Ziqing asked, stepping down from the carriage.
Ping Hai stood frozen a few paces ahead, staring at something in the distance, his brow furrowed in confusion. “There’s something strange here,” he muttered, pointing toward the ground.
He followed his junior brother's gaze, his boots crunching against the dry, uneven dirt as he moved closer. The path before them was marked with clear signs of movement—footprints, many of them, some heavy and deep, others lighter, but all converging toward this exact spot. There was no mistaking it; this was the site of a struggle. Yet, something was off.
The second-class disciple crouched down, his hand brushing the earth. The ground was disturbed, but not violently—no gouges from weapons, no splashes of blood, no debris from armor or clothing. Just... footprints. Dozens of them, spread in every direction but leading to a single point where they simply vanished.
“Over a week old,” He murmured, trying to make sense of the scene. “But there’s no sign of a battle. No blood, no broken weapons, nothing.”
But the tracks simply ended here. As if those who made them had disappeared into thin air.
Xu Ziqing’s mind raced. This wasn’t normal—no sect battle he’d ever seen ended like this. Even a retreat would leave clearer signs. A scattering of belongings, perhaps. But here, there was only this ominous silence, and the footprints, cut short as though swallowed by the earth itself.
Just as he was about to say more, Ping Hai’s sharp intake of breath drew his attention. “Senior Brother,” he called, his tone grim, “look.”
Xu Ziqing turned to where the bald disciple pointed, and the words died in his throat.
There, nestled in a patch of disturbed earth, was a flower. But it was unlike anything Xu Ziqing had ever seen. The bloom pulsed faintly with a reddish hue, its petals grotesquely fleshy, almost as if they were formed from raw muscle. Dark, vein-like tendrils snaked through the flower’s body, and with every pulse, a faint, malevolent energy seemed to radiate from it, twisting the air around it.
“What in the world...?” He whispered, unable to hide the revulsion creeping into his voice. His instincts screamed at him to back away, but his feet remained rooted to the spot, transfixed by the eerie sight. Even with all his years of experience and battles fought, the sight of this flower unnerved him in a way he couldn’t explain.
Elder Feng approached silently, his cold eyes locking onto the flower. For the first time since they’d begun the journey, his expression twisted—not with fear, but with a mix of recognition and disgust.
From his sleeve, a long spear appeared as though summoned from thin air, the weapon gleaming in the dim light.
In one swift motion, he brought it down with enough force to obliterate the flower entirely. The ground erupted as the spear struck, and when the dust settled, nothing remained of the strange bloom but a blackened scar on the earth.
“This mission is complete, let's head back.” Elder Feng said, his voice as cold and measured as ever, as if the flower’s existence had been a mere inconvenience.
Xu Ziqing’s mind reeled, struggling to process the implications of Elder Feng’s words. Was that it? Was this strange flower, this unsettling emptiness, truly the only clue left behind? No. There had to be more to it than that.
“But... the Iron Claw Sect?” Xu Ziqing started, his voice barely hiding the confusion. “There’s no trace of them. No remains, no—”
Elder Feng turned toward him slowly, his cold eyes narrowing. For a moment, Xu Ziqing saw something strange in his expression.
“Their fate was sealed by forces beyond their understanding. Or ours. We need not concern ourselves with the Iron Claw any longer.”
“But if we press forward,” Xu Ziqing persisted, unable to hide his unease, “we can at least find answers. We should—”
“No,” Elder Feng cut in sharply, his tone final. He looked to the northwest, where the Iron Claw Sect’s stronghold was hidden among the hills, his gaze distant. “There is no need to follow further. Whatever claimed those disciples will claim the rest. The Iron Claw Sect will likely no longer be a bother. Pursuing them any further would be... unwise.”
The second-class disciple's heart pounded in his chest, an unsettling realization dawning on him. Elder Feng, the man who had been so willing to confront an entire sect on his own, was now backing down. Retreating. For a man of such power, such confidence, to suddenly turn cautious—it sent a cold wave of fear washing over Xu Ziqing.
“Unwise?” Xu Ziqing echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. “But we were sent to—”
“We’ve seen enough. This matter is finished.”
Xu Ziqing’s mind raced, but no words came. Elder Feng, who only moments ago had dismissed the need for reinforcements, was now suggesting they retreat. That the threat, whatever it was, wasn’t something they could face—or should face.
“We return to the sect,” Elder Feng said, his voice cold once more, though there was a sharpness behind it now. A warning. “Do not speak of what you have seen. Understand?"
As his words cut through the clearing, the atmosphere thickened with an oppressive, dark energy. It felt as though the world itself held its breath, waiting for the slightest misstep. Xu Ziqing’s heart pounded in his chest, a cold sweat forming on his brow.
Then, he felt it—a faint, almost imperceptible shift in the air. It was subtle, like the distant rumble of a storm on the horizon, but the second-class disciple recognized it instantly. Killing intent. It was so faint that most wouldn’t even register it, but to someone as attuned as himself, it might as well have been a blade at his throat.
He resisted the instinctive urge to reach for his sword, knowing full well that if he did, he would be dead before he could even unsheathe it. The pressure that radiated from the cultivator in that moment wasn’t just a warning—it was a promise. A reminder of the power the man held, the kind of power that could snuff out lives in an instant.
Ping Hai, despite his towering frame, visibly faltered. His head dipped low, and his shoulders trembled slightly under the weight of the elder’s killing intent. Xu Ziqing could see the strain in his eyes, the struggle to keep himself composed in the face of such overwhelming force.
For a brief, terrifying moment, he thought that the killing intent would consume them both. That Elder Feng’s patience had run out, and they would be left to die in this forsaken clearing, their lives cut short by forces they could neither understand nor resist.
But Xu Ziqing couldn’t allow that to happen. Ping Hai—his junior brother—wouldn’t survive this alone. And Xu Ziqing knew that if there was any hope of getting out of this alive, it was on him to act now. If he was to fall here, it would be on his terms,not because he had been too afraid to act.
The second-class disciple stepped forward, moving between his junior brother and the elder. Forcing himself to stand tall, his eyes locked with Elder Feng’s cold, unreadable gaze.
“We won’t say a thing. You have my word, Elder.”
For a moment, there was only silence, the tension in the air so thick it was almost unbearable. The killing intent hung like a guillotine, poised to strike at the slightest misstep.
The older man's gaze lingered on him for what felt like an eternity. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the killing intent dissipated, like a storm passing over. The suffocating pressure lifted, and the second-class disciple could finally breathe again.
“Good,” Elder Feng said, his voice as calm and detached as ever. “See that you don’t forget.”
With that, he turned away, as if the exchange had been of little consequence to him. As if he hadn’t just come within a hair’s breadth of ending both their lives. He walked back to the carriage, his movements as fluid and composed as ever, leaving them standing in the eerie quiet of the clearing.
Ping Hai, still visibly shaken, straightened himself, his hands trembling slightly as he tried to regain his composure. Xu Ziqing placed a hand on his junior brother’s shoulder, offering a silent reassurance before they both followed Elder Feng back to the carriage.
The mission was over, but as Xu Ziqing climbed back into the carriage, a bitter taste lingered in his mouth. The truth of what they had witnessed in the clearing would remain buried, but the darkness surrounding Elder Feng had only deepened.