Snow crunched beneath thick fur lined boots, the sound muffled by a howling tempest.

Zhao lay motionless, long ago buried by the blizzard. His Qi moved sluggishly, barely enough to keep the reaching fingers of frostbite at bay.

Their targets walked closer, oblivious to the presence of Zhao and his guerillas.

Any and all signs of Qi that may have alerted the demonic cultivators were suppressed by the spirit art Wu Hua had traded Zhao in exchange for his silence.

Sharing it with the recruits had invited questions, especially from Nan Xi once she found out, but he continually evaded them.

Deferred the consequences to later.

They needed the stealth it enabled now more than ever.

A foot punched through the flurry, landing next to Zhao’s head and banishing his musings. He waited for his target to take one more step.

Half a heartbeat later and it was time.

Phantoms erupted from under the white expanse, numb hands wrapping around the mouths of the Yellow Autumn Sect disciples and their accomplices.

Half a dozen throats were slit in unison in a choreographed affair that sent blood hissing and steaming on the frost underfoot.

Zhao felt strange, standing there embracing a nameless man while pleas came out a rent throat as broken gurgles. He was mostly desensitized to it, the act now more habit than choice.

A dozen cultivators stood like statues as the wind battered them, making gruesome pairings as the Misty Cradle forces came alive with surging Qi while the lives of their foes sputtered out.

When the streams of blood slowed to a trickle, the victors lowered each fresh corpse down silently, leaving them to be claimed by the ongoing storm after frisking for anything of value.

Zhao headed their return.

It was more difficult to remain untraceable in the dead of winter than it had been even a month earlier. Though the frequent storms wiped away all traces of their passing, they were unpredictable and therefore not to be relied upon.

Frequent patrols kept the scouts from pinpointing their campsite, but each new party made it closer than the last before meeting their end.

Upon their eventual return to the campsite, Zhao’s band of recruits broke away to huddle inside one of the tents in a futile attempt to stay warm. Lighting a fire would be too dangerous.

He let them go without admonishment.

Walking further into the camp led Zhao to a sight he would have preferred to have passed by unseen; a stack of bodies preserved by the freezing temperature. Mostly the elderly mortals from the nearby villages.

His hollow eyes slid off the grisly display callously.

Only a few weeks ago he would have been rattled. After losing so many recruits in botched attacks, the deaths of those removed from his command affected Zhao less than they should.

Those stiff visages watching him would not be the first nor the last to level accusations against him from the grave.

Circulating Qi briskly, Zhao shoved his way inside the tent that had once been his alone.

Ming Fe kneeled over a handful of patients to administer aid, while Tai Yang stood in the corner.

The disciples had agreed that one of their fighters should always be present at the medical tent in case of an emergency. Left unsaid was that the presence of one Qi Condensation cultivator would not avert any disaster that happened to befall their outpost.

In truth, Zhao had suggested it because he knew trekking into the wilds to murder others was not great for one’s mental health. Even if they could shrug off the physical effects with Qi, breaks were necessary to remain sane. In theory.

Shu Chiu also hovered around the injured, doing her best to assist Ming Fe with inexperienced hands.

She had sworn service to Zhao before the heavens in an effort to save her life, and he’d accepted the outcome. It was better than spilling more blood.

The intelligence she shared granted much needed insight into the situation. Unsurprisingly, the Yellow Autumn Sect was cooperating with demonic cultivators.

Initially twenty official disciples had been sent in to scout the northern territory. When they failed to make much progress after being ‘rebuffed’ by Zhao on several occasions, a contingent of their villainous allies were sent to help them.

Hence the atrocities.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Though Shu Chiu downplayed her role in the attacks, it was clear she carried a guilty conscience.

As the confrontation dragged on from days to weeks, and then months, Zhao’s band had faced fewer and fewer opponents in beige robes. In their place were ununiformed cultivators that resembled bandits in both appearance and behavior.

A small grace that they were slaughtering devils rather than compliant disciples sent to their deaths.

Whatever the original number of the Yellow Autumn Sect’s forces had been was constantly reinforced as lives were spent like a gambler’s coin.

For every ten or so enemies slain, one of Zhao’s own would fall from a misstep. It was a losing game.

He snorted at the thought. There was nothing game-like about his life anymore.

Finding out that Shu Chiu had thought that Zhao had noticed and scared off several attempts on their lives had been confounding until he paused to reflect. It wasn’t a huge leap to attribute the misunderstanding to his reaction from cultivating the Myriad Voices art.

Every moonlit run, every sleepless night, and every fanciful jaunt into the woods to calm his head had been interpreted by the Yellow Autumn Sect disciples as signs of their discovery.

Which meant that the emotions the spirit art riled up were not meaningless distractions but preternatural warnings. Zhao still wasn’t sure how to process that revelation, other than to lend more faith to the instability that plagued him.

Which meant making a difficult announcement.

“Any losses?” Tai Yang rumbled, not taking his eyes off the few recruits receiving medical treatment.

Zhao shook his head. “Not this time.”

The larger man nodded. “Good.”

Initially, the pair lapsed into silence, but when Ming Fe stood to wash a blood soaked cloth Zhao cleared his throat. “I’m calling a meeting of all the disciples. We have a difficult decision to make.”

Two pairs of eyes exchanged looks, first with Zhao and then with each other. Neither Tai Yang nor Ming Fe gave any assent verbally.

Without further commentary Zhao tramped back out through the thick snow, digging his boots through it with determination.

Dull chatter was barely audible through the constant screaming wind. Even Zhao struggled to identify the direction of his next targets despite the superior hearing being at the peak of Qi Condensation afforded him.

A few minutes later, on the outskirts of the camp, he came upon Bai Chi and Gu Hong practicing upon snow frozen enough to support their weight without collapsing.

“That’s right,” Bai Chi narrated as he guided the younger disciple’s movements, “let gravity do the majority of the work. Preserve your strength.”

Noticing his approach, the middle aged man gave Zhao a strained smile. It died as he took in his expression.

“What’s wrong?” Bai Chi asked, sheathing his blade as Gu Hong did the same.

“I’m calling a meeting of all the disciples. We have a difficult decision to make,” Zhao said, repeating his earlier statement to Tai Yang and Ming Fe. As with them, neither Bai Chi nor Gu Hong said anything.

Instead they regarded Zhao forlornly.

He turned away and made his way back to the camp, finding a solid trunk near the eastern part of the settlement to wait for Che Fang and Nan Xi to return from their excursion.

A few hours later, Zhao repeated his disclosure a third time, with the same results.

Thus the seven official members of the Misty Cradle Sect gathered over a meal of bone broth heated through one of Nan Xi’s spirit arts.

Sheltered beneath a tarp, enjoying each other’s warmth, the austere environment they found themselves in could almost be forgotten. But the ever creeping frost always coiled at the edges of such gatherings, patiently waiting for its turn.

“If we continue as we are, the demonic cultivators will find us,” Zhao asserted plainly.

Mouths opened to muster protests, but remained silent.

Che Fang cleared his throat. “I agree,” he stated, “it is merely a matter of how long we have to prepare.” The master and servant exchanged a look, confirming their shared interpretation of what the Myriad Voices was telling them.

Mutterings broke out, only to be brought short by Zhao’s next words.

“We cannot adequately prepare for discovery,” he declared. “Regardless of what we do, if they find the camp, we will perish.”

Bai Chi let loose a hollow laugh. “Why does this conversation feel familiar? After all these months spent flailing for a chance at survival, does it really end in an inglorious last stand?”

Nan Xi hit the graying man’s shoulder. “I’d rather go out with a cry than a murmur.”

“You guys don’t get it,” Gu Hong said energetically, “Zhao has a plan!” Having said so, the boy looked up at Zhao, his sunken eyes still bright.

Everyone’s eyes refocused onto Zhao. He held back the urge to sigh.

“We attack first,” he stated simply. When no further explanation was forthcoming, questions began flying as each disciple considered the suicidal plan.

Che Fang held up his hand once it became clear that Zhao had no intention of defending his proposition. “While certainly risky,” he said cautiously, “it may not be as delusional as it seems.”

Clearing his throat the fallen young master continued, “The greatest threat would be the Foundation Establishment cultivator, however we do have a treasure that may be able to deal with them…”

The revelation that such a treasure was in their possession went unacknowledged as Nan Xi picked up on the overtone in Che Fang’s words. “May be able to…?” she parroted, complexion paling.

Tai Yang spoke up next. “There is no choice,” he said, hands grasped pensively in front of his mouth. “Either we use surprise to our advantage or we wait until they use it against us. At least with the former we have a better chance.”

Gu Hong raised his hand abruptly, announcing his intent, “I’m in!”

Che Fang followed suit slowly, then Tai Yang and Ming Fe.

Bai Chi chuckled darkly as he joined in. “I won’t be last this time!”

Nan Xi paused as all eyes turned to her. She examined Zhao intensely, then shook her head as if defeated. “Fine,” she intoned, as if the word held no meaning.

Zhao stood up tiredly upon reaching consensus and stumbled out of their meeting into the night.

He let the wind nip at his exposed flesh, smiling at the sensation. Qi circulated through his brain urgently.

“Yes, yes,” he comforted. “They agreed. We’re going to do it.”

The shadows of pine trees carved chasms through the moonlight in front of Zhao. Their tendrils grasped at Zhao as the branches quivered in the breeze.

He smiled back at the forest.