Baiyu Palace was a glittering gem within the grey stone peaks of Yinshan’s towering mountains, a shining beacon of prosperity, power, and innovation that nestled above a sea of clouds, spotless and sturdy, imposing and elegant all at once. Among the strongholds of the cultivation world, though Ruijian Pavilion in Dayuan was the most famous, Baiyu Palace was by far the most impressive.

One wouldn’t be able to tell from the outside, though, for apart from the grand outer courtyard perched atop a small ledge and the great doors as tall as five men, almost the entirety of Baiyu Palace was contained within the mountain peak, carved from the stone itself. The courtyards were hollowed out from the top, visible only when approached by flying from above, but to all those who stood outside, nothing beyond the outer courtyard could be seen.

Inside, however, were great vaulted ceilings, sturdy pillars, and vast staircases and corridors, all carved from top to bottom with intricate patterns— some protective or functional inscriptions, others merely decorative. Gold and silver and jade drawn from Yinshan’s mines decorated the interior, some fixtures even displaying spirit stones as though they were common gems.

A cultivation clan’s stronghold was a symbol of their wealth— and Yinshan’s Qin clan was the wealthiest of all, their stronghold as beautiful as it was untouchable.

Except Baiyu Palace was untouchable no longer. Baidong Mountain’s great barrier array had fallen, the vast numbers of spiritual tools and defensive mechanisms that Yinshan’s cultivators relied so heavily upon had been rendered inert, and scores of rogue cultivators with their unpredictable tactics had rushed into the streets. Blades clashed, arrows flew, flashes of spiritual light criss-crossed the entire mountain. With the sudden, unexpected invasion and disadvantage, the Qin and Ning clans’ people were caught off-guard and struggled, while the excitement and urgency of the battle fueled their attackers ever forward, ever more vicious with Qiu Wei at their head.

The clan leader had gone into Baiyu Palace, taking his son with him— in an attempt to repair the barrier array and restart the mechanisms that delivered spiritual power from the mountain’s roots to its defenses. At the time, the orthodox cultivators and the rogue invaders had been more or less equally matched, and once the initial surprise had worn off, it became increasingly clear that the advantage lay, naturally, with the clans who called this mountain their home.

Qiu Wei tried to rally her forces, her battle cry rising upon the breeze and echoing from the mountain peaks, but as more and more of them began to fall, even the fire that burned within their ferocious commander could not ignite the rest of the disorganized forces of the invaders. They were better suited for isolated raids in small groups than open warfare— a fact which soon, even Qiu Wei came to understand as they were slowly pushed back down the mountain slope, leaving fallen comrades behind as they went. Still, she was far too enraged now— after losing both her eldest and smallest sworn brothers to Baidong Mountain, she would not yield this fight until her thirst for destruction was satisfied.

Houses and workshops and pavilions were sent up in flame one after the other, crumbling beneath fierce explosions of spiritual qi from within and without. She refused to spare a single person that crossed swords with her, rage fueling every strike, power drawn from each flesh wound that scraped across her arms, legs, and body as the edge of her sword ignited with ever-hotter flames, turning the blade a molten orange.

It would not be enough— they were doomed to fail— but Qiu Wei didn’t care. As long as she was able to burn a portion of this place to the ground, it would be worth it even if she died.

The cultivation world meant to hunt and kill her anyway.

It was better to at least go out in a blaze of glory.

It was at that moment that a familiar figure, wreathed in a blood-red glow, came into view. He shot up the mountain slope, leaving destruction in his wake, a pair of flying blades weaving around and around his form in an endless dance, lashing out to strike at everyone he passed. His eyes, too, shone with that same bloody light, and his dark clothes were torn, and the expression on his face was dull and haunted. Qiu Wei froze as one of those crimson blades pierced the chest of the cultivator she was currently battling, causing him to abruptly fall to the ground.

The newcomer landed next to her, still wreathed in dangerous light. He clenched his fingers into a fist, drawing his hand sharply to one side. The fallen man’s body convulsed, his eyes going wide and his lips parting to release a spray of blood as even more gushed from the wound that was torn ever deeper into his body.

“Da-ge!” Qiu Wei stared down at her fallen enemy as she caught her breath, then up at Mo Yuan who had just arrived. “You… you—”

“What are you all doing here?” Mo Yuan asked, his voice incredulous as he looked around. He didn’t seem out of breath in the slightest— no, rather, he seemed far more invigorated than ever before.

“You disappeared,” Qiu Wei answered sharply, “One of the lookouts said you had gone to look for Xiao-Qi. When you didn’t come back for many days, we… decided to strike back. They’d taken two of our own already, after all.”

Upon hearing Mo Lan’s nickname, Mo Yuan’s gaze suddenly darkened, and he looked down toward his feet. “He’s dead,” he answered darkly, anger smoldering within him. “Dead at their hands. I would have been too, but… I survived.”

There was no need to go into any further detail about what had happened.

He was here for vengeance— he had survived for vengeance. Though he could have scolded Qiu Wei for making such a rash decision and bringing their forces which had stayed hidden this past year out into the open, he could not do so anymore. It was clear that it was either take a stand now, or slowly be picked off one by one until there were none of them left. Neither option was good— but this one at least had the potential to change something. Mo Yuan was not in any position to criticize either— after all, the first thing he had done after escaping the caverns was return to this place to burn it down himself.

“Don’t be reckless,” he still chided, then looked up toward Baiyu Palace’s outer courtyard, standing still-proudly above the rest of the stronghold as archers gathered atop it, taking aim down below. He flicked his fingers, and the twin blades under his command shot off toward the platform, cutting through them before they could loose their arrows. Then, he turned to face Qiu Wei and the other rogue cultivators that had been fighting at her side.

“The cultivators of Baidong Mountain fear me— I have crossed the Jiedan boundary, and the heavenly tribulation sent to test me instead brought down their defenses. They cannot hope to stand against me— they cannot hope to stand against us!” Mo Yuan called out, his voice ringing loud and clear through the streets of the town-turned-battlefield. “It was the Qin clan’s leader who ordered Mo Lan, Xiao-Jiangjun, to be tormented to his death. Every cultivator here is his subordinate. Strike them down without remorse— destroy them all! Show these demons that we will protect our own! Show them the same fear they have forced upon us!”

It was too late to draw back and go into hiding— now, the only option they had left was to make the cultivation world fear them.

Reinvigorated, the invaders began to fight back once more, regaining the ground they had lost and pushing back up the slope. Mo Yuan led them, and as promised, the lines of combatants that came to meet them fractured and broke— some fleeing, some cut down by the flying crimson blades, others surrendering only to be mercilessly stain, red blood staining white robes and running into the ground. Even the Qin clan’s Zhuji-stage cultivators that confronted them had little hope, and the mountain air was soon thick with the volatile spiritual qi of the backlash that came with the deaths of many cultivators in one place— something that had not been felt on this scale for centuries.

But Mo Yuan’s aim was higher than these mere subordinates. The one who towered above them, all but unparalleled in the history of Yinshan’s clans.

Not a single one of Baidong Mountain’s cultivators could stand against him.

That was what he had spoken before the Zhiming Mirror— and the mirror had granted his wish.

Today, he would be undefeated.

Not even the great clan leader, known far and wide for his strength and skill, could prevail.

Once the battle had turned in their favor, Mo Yuan leaped forward, dashing up the slope. He launched himself up into the air and landed lightly upon Baiyu Palace’s courtyard platform, as easily as if he had been leaping across a narrow stream. His eyes began to glow once again with that blood-red light as the twin blades circling threateningly around his form.

There were quite a few cultivators gathered here on the platform, and the white stone was splattered with red blood from where Mo Yuan’s earlier attack had cut down the archers. He wondered how many had been killed and how many had only been wounded… but that was a matter to think about later. Right now, his crimson gaze skimmed across the dozen or so who stood between him and the palace’s great doors.

All of them were at least at mid to late Zhuji-stage, and the one who led them, wielding a magnificent fangtian ji spear, seemed to have reached Jiedan.

Were it not for the power of the Zhiming Mirror, this might have been a challenging fight— but Mo Yuan had no fear whatsoever anymore. They would fall, just like the others he had cut down— or they would flee in shame.

The corner of his lips twitched, and he slowly advanced forward.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“It seems Qin-zongzhu must be weaker than I assumed,” he mused in a tone of false boredom that hid the bubbling rage beneath, interlacing his fingers together behind his back as he slowly stepped forward. “He has kept so many of Baidong Mountain’s strongest here to guard his precious palace while my allies cut through the weak below like they’re mere bundles of reeds.”

“You— you are the one who wields the crimson blades!” the leader’s eyes went wide, then his brows furrowed as he brandished his weapon. “The one truly behind this attack… the demon who has formed a jindan!”

Mo Yuan released a short, mirthless chuckle.

“Demon?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. “You might call me a demon, but what does that make you? If I recall correctly… your clan leader was the one who bled a boy of fifteen dry so that his corpse would be filled with the echoes of torment and agony. Between us, who are the true demons?”

“Lay down your weapons and accept your death— and perhaps some of your followers will be spared.”

Mo Yuan paused, a troubled expression crossing his brow, then he rolled his eyes toward the heavens. “Ha. As though I would believe that,” he said, then, shaking his head. “On the other hand, I’ll give you one chance to escape. Step away from the palace doors. Open them up and let me inside— and I’ll spare your lives.”

“Arrogant fool,” the leader hissed, then turned to his companions. “Strike him down!”

All of them rushed Mo Yuan at once. The crimson blades fluttered about his body like drifting lotus petals, moving fast as the wind with an ominous whistle in their wake. In a matter of moments, six had already fallen, and two more were as good as dead— they’d been wounded by his blades. The others began to hesitate, growing worried. No matter how fiercely they fought, they couldn’t land a single blow on this monster that had come out of nowhere. After thinning their numbers, it was as if he wasn’t even bothering to kill them anymore, simply lacerating their bodies with those fast-moving crimson blades. Minor flesh wounds, like he was toying with them.

These mere Zhuji-stage cultivators were like insects compared to the newly-ascended Mo Yuan, who discovered that he could draw small amounts of vital qi from their bodies over the invisible threads that bound them to his vital weapon. As they grew weaker and more tired with each attempted strike, Mo Yuan became stronger, more invigorated. Maybe it would be good to let them live, so that he could use them as a source of energy this way. He hadn’t gained any strength from those he’d killed— it must be that he could only use this power while the threads remained intact.

The only one who gave him any trouble was their leader— one whose cultivation level surpassed Mo Yuan’s. Still, he wasn’t worried. Even as great gashes were cut through the air by the shining blades of his opponent’s weapon, severing even stone cleanly, Mo Yuan’s crimson blades continued their ceaseless dance, cutting through those attacks before they could reach Mo Yuan, almost involuntarily.

A Jiedan-stage cultivator would not tire so easily, and while most of the others eventually succumbed to wounds that could not heal, their leader fought on unceasingly, amid great flashes of blood-red and pale amber spiritual light. Baiyu Palace’s outer courtyard was in ruins, stone walls and fixtures cut into tiny shards by the repeated strikes. His opponent was by far the stronger, but Mo Yuan used his superior agility to keep himself out of reach and the consistent draw upon his victims’ strength to effortlessly maintain his energy. Not to mention, his spiritual sense gave him an additional edge— following the flow of energy through the man’s body, he could tell in advance when and where he was about to strike, to avoid the devastating blows.

All of those that had reached such heights in their cultivation had endured a heavenly tribulation. Their spirits were not so easily daunted as those who were weaker— while his opponents down below might have fled in fear after seeing their companions fall to Mo Yuan’s crimson blades, this foe would not do so.

No matter.

All Mo Yuan needed was to land a single blow— even a scratch would do.

For that, he needed only the briefest moment of distraction.

Those stationed atop the mountain here, guarding the doors, would not have seen the true power of his crimson blades. In the space between the attacks, Mo Yuan launched himself up to hover in the air, the blood-red glow about his figure intensifying as he clasped the invisible puppeteer’s strings within his fingers.

“Bid farewell to your comrades!” he called out to his opponent below. Before the Qin clan’s commander could even register Mo Yuan’s words, he suddenly sent great quantities of spiritual power flowing down those threads, brilliant red flashes shooting in every direction across the ruined courtyard. The wounded cultivators didn’t even have a chance to react before that power, sudden and destructive, rushed directly into their meridians. They were overwhelmed in an instant— blood poured from their seven facial apertures, wounds slashing across their bodies from the inside out as though they were suffering qi deviation.

And then, their screams of pain were cut short as their bodies exploded with a force that shattered the stone beneath them and sent blood and fragments of bone flying in all directions. Everything else had simply disintegrated in the force of the explosion— leaving behind nothing but crumbled stone and ash.

The power held within the jindan alone was equal to several times that which flowed through the entirety of a Zhuji cultivator’s body. When he reversed the spiritual flow within the invisible strings, Mo Yuan had effectively mimicked within their bodies what he had endured after falling into the spirit vein— but they had not been so fortunate as he was to survive.

Mo Yuan had depleted the greater part of his spiritual power in that strike, putting himself at a disadvantage— but it was no matter. He had already won.

In the exact moment he had turned the bodies of his foes into bombs, he’d sent one of the crimson blades around behind their leader. While his defense was focused around the front and side to protect from the flying bone, stone shards, and explosions of spiritual power, the crimson blade had traced across his back, leaving a tiny, thin cut, barely deep enough even to draw blood.

It was enough.

Suddenly enraged upon seeing his comrades brutally slaughtered before his eyes, the leader charged forward with a battle cry, prepared to launch a final, devastating attack on Mo Yuan.

Mo Yuan stood perfectly still, without even a hint of fear on his face, and twisted his fingers. In quick succession, he drew a portion of the man’s power into his body to restore his depleted strength— there was still another fight ahead, after all— and then, he tore open that wound.

Before the man’s blow could land, his spine was severed, his lungs slashed, and his heart torn open.

Mo Yuan looked at him as he fell with a blank expression in his blood-red eyes, then lifted the dying man up by his collars.

“Thank you, for opening the door for me,” he muttered, before kicking the man’s body toward the great doors and giving one final tug on that invisible thread.

Not even the great doors of Baiyu Palace could withstand the power of a detonated jindan. They were blasted open, crumbling to pieces in a flash of bright golden light and revealing the great hall within.

“Zongzhu, they’re here!” he heard a voice cry out.

In the back of the great hall, a man sat in meditation, dressed richly in white silk robes and silver and jade ornaments— the same Qin-zongzhu upon whose orders Mo Lan had been tormented to death now sat securely within the walls of this great fortress while his own people fought and died outside. Seeing him, Mo Yuan felt rage and disgust boiling up inside of him, the blood-red light in his eyes growing stronger.

Before him was a younger man, rather handsome, dressed in equally fine clothes— but instead of the overwhelming spiritual aura that radiated from the clan leader, this man seemed like he had hardly even established a foundation. He brandished his sword, clearly a first-rate spiritual tool, as he stood glaring toward Mo Yuan, but from his stance to his grip to the weak flow of spiritual qi through his meridians, Mo Yuan couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever properly wielded that sword in his life.

Had the circumstances been different, Mo Yuan would have found it laughable— as it was, though, this brat was hardly even worth his time.

“How dare you set foot here, you ill-bred cur?” the younger man shouted as he charged forward. “You’ll pay for attacking Baidong Mountain!”

Mo Yuan was unfazed, and simply waved his hand to summon up his twin blades, sending them weaving through the air toward that fool who could barely hold a sword right. A lifetime of education and training, and even Qiu Wei, with her vicious and disorganized fighting style, was more elegant than he was.

The crimson blades shot forward, but were abruptly stopped as they crashed into a sudden wall of silvery-blue spiritual light. A barrier that resembled a smaller version of Baidong Mountain’s great protective array stood between Mo Yuan and his new challenger, dividing them.

Qin-zongzhu stood up, his expression impassive as his fingers extended to maintain the barrier.

“Wenying— leave through the back courtyard. I will finish this business here myself.”

The younger man barely even hesitated before he turned tail and fled the hall. The clan leader stepped down from the dais, crossing the floor with slow, deliberate steps.

“And you. Why have you attacked Baidong Mountain? Do you not understand the risks?”

“When one’s own brother is cruelly slaughtered,” Mo Yuan hissed back, his voice low and threatening, “Then would you fault him for slaughtering his murderers in return?”

“Whose brother have I killed?” Qin-zongzhu asked, brows raised. “I am no barbarian who slaughters indiscriminately, and only those deserving of it are sentenced to execution.”

“Deserving?” Mo Yuan breathed. His chest vibrated with rage. “Xiao-Lan was a boy of fifteen, not yet even come of age. He has never taken a life, and sought only to live his own— and within your cruel prison, by the cruel hands of your subordinates, he was brutally tortured until he died!”

There was no reaction from the clan leader, not even the slightest hint of remorse.

“Ah… you’ve come here about that rogue cultivator boy… then, you must be the one who caused such a disturbance at the mountain prison before,” he said after a moment of contemplation. “Who are you to say he was not deserving of it, when that boy was already in violation of the laws of the cultivation world?”

With each heartless word, Mo Yuan became more and more angry, and beat his fist against the barrier, sparks of silver light flashing off of it.

“You! You think yourself beyond reproach, you think the lives of your clan’s people are of greater value than those of my brothers and sisters simply because of the status of your birth— you are more vile than any of those who follow me, you that use your power to snuff out the lives of those who do not even pose a threat!” he shouted, his eyes stinging as he continued to beat on the barrier, lashing out with the crimson blades to no avail.

Qin-zongzhu stood on the other side, not responding for quite some time, simply allowing Mo Yuan to continue his fruitless assault on the barrier. Then, he sighed, as though all of this were merely an inconvenience.

“Xiao-Lan… so that was what you called that boy,” he mused, as though recalling the name of some dish sold by street vendors. “I would have shown mercy, you know… had you and your fellow heretics simply given up and gone back beyond the mountains once you received my warning. But now, in your search for vengeance you have already killed many of my clan’s people. Certainly, their spirits will not be able to rest easily for as long as you live.”

Rage screamed through Mo Yuan’s veins, ringing in his ears. All of that, and he had not even known Mo Lan’s name, nor even cared about how much he had suffered— and he dared to call himself merciful?

“Then kill me!” he cried out, gritting his teeth in rage. “Stop hiding behind your subordinates, stop hiding behind your palace walls, your barriers, and try your best to kill me!”

Qin-zongzhu was still unfazed by his challenge, but nonetheless, he shifted the position of his hands.

Another shimmering pale blue barrier appeared behind Mo Yuan, and then two more on each side, and one above— entirely encasing him between them.

“Why would I give you— a thief, a murderer, an invader— the honor of a fight, when I can simply kill you where you stand?”

With those words, he pushed his hands closer together

Then, the interlocking barriers he had created began to push in toward one another— he intended to crush Mo Yuan to death between them.