Volcanic heat gushed from Fu’s [Ink], vying for his attention.

[Half Cloud Step] thrust him across the blood-soaked pavings, and [Control] did all it was able to prevent a wayward foot from slipping within the pools of viscera.

Crimson sludge marred each cardinal direction in sheets.

The [Spirit Hawk] screeched. Thorn-made talons missing his neck by a single hair’s breadth as he wove from its path.

“Stranger,” cried a low voice.

Fu swept once more, braving the keen edge of an allied, [Dao] infused axe. The metal radiated gold, bisecting a [Spirit Panther’s] lunge.

“Gratitude, comrade,” Fu said truly, affecting a minor bow before flashing forth. An inversion followed, a counter and a blur - allowing him to plunge his blade through the eye socket of a jian wielding Imperial as she readied a final blow.

His previous sentiment was mirrored, repeated by a well-bloodied Vajra that was heartbeats from death.

Shuidi impressed a wish for Yunhan’s return.

The Heavens have no love for us, sister. This trial is our own.

He sent a resonance through his brooch, receiving four responses in staggered bursts. But he did no more, for spare seconds were a grace not afforded to any within several thousand li.

Pain.

Claws were then upon him, and a snapping maw. Liquid foulness slickened Fu further as he roiled atop the ground under the full weight of a leaf-borne beast. A [Spirit Panther] whose [Might] far surpassed what his solitary arm could counter.

[Hundred Poisons Synthesis].

An ooze moistened his skin, dampening the tatters of his hanfu. Not one poison, but all, loosed from the hell-pit of his compounded reserves.

The [Spirit Panther’s] jaws were slathered. Its frantic assault halted in place of a rapidly eroding face.

Warmth suffused his [Ink].

Emptiness panged in his [Core].

Beneath the douli, Hushi sagged. As did Shuidi atop his breast.

No Qi remained between the three.

Yet what choice was there but to move?

Their positions were disparate. Scattered like solitary trees upon a mountain slope, unable to bear the wind. He leapt among these, using what meagre shade they cast. To the rear of qiang-wielders, facing three [Spirit Panthers] at a time, or beneath the blows of a tangerine [Spirit Ape], pummelling their leaves to dust.

Every direction harried him.

Hostile [Air Qi] buffeted against him, less- for his [Boon] of inherent resistance - but a trouble all the same.

Fu’s feet were driven back, though the air-forged blades within barely tickled his skin.

There.

His [Wind Phantom Strides] unfurled, snapping betwixt allies to tether the offending beast. An owl, each wing as wide as twice his own height. Danger emanated in each pinion, sharing lethality with the descent of golden leaves.

Hushi warned of its cultivation. Of middle [Core Formation], the average for this fray.

[Dao of Wayward Winds].

As a fool might, Fu appeared within its wingspan and thrust the blade within its open beak, anchoring the point so it erupted outward. Then began his dance, reminiscent of ropework upon the walls of the Green Blight Bastion.

A rappel and twist that shredded his skin by the grace of its razor-sharp feathers.

But pain was now an old accomplice, and a molehill against this incessant mountain. He flurried around its length, circumnavigating so that the chain mired breast, leg and wing alike before conjuring his [Dao].

That of crushing and suffocation.

Golden light suffused the length, manifesting a second length parallel to the first that could only squeeze until opposing sides met.

However the flesh merely bulged, proving this foe’s [Resilience].

Fu cursed, pushing a resonance through his brooch.

A deafening hoot teetered his eardrums on the brink of rupture, heralding the resurgence of this monster’s strength.

He was no genius to defy one above his realm. Not without trickery and ambush.

Its wings suddenly burst free, shedding the chain’s constriction with all but the anchor remaining firm.

Two resonant beats flushed his brooch, and his [Senses] foretold of aid.

Hushi, be swift, brother.

Tethered, Fu leapt into open air as an almighty plum axe decapitated the [Spirit Owl], marginally avoiding his chain.

Hushi moved in this instant, and burrowed into the created gap through what foulness stained the space to retrieve the beast’s [Core].

Fu returned the chain to his palm in a bloody font, landing at Zhu’s rear.

“Save that,” grunted the plum-eyed cultivator. “There’s a poison expert here, some five bodies over.”

On Hushi’s return the pillaged [Core] was stowed.

It spoke of some success that his [Ink] only burned once before arriving, and he did so in a blur.

Five allied cultivators warred to his south, marking the boundary of this fray, their positioning promisingly dense.

Fu’s grip was slack beneath running blood, his arm a litany of scores.

“Another snow-kissed. This shoot of grass grows sick of such filth,” addressed the Imperial, her form half-muddied by a waning vision.

[Senses] told of her fledgling cultivation.

Be wary. Corpses litter the ground at her feet.

Her [Spirit Serpent’s] hiss barely breached the tumult about them, and no form emerged that Fu might strike. It seemed buried, or submerged, giving only faint hints to the [Hundred Immunities Fruit].

Movement in the corpses.

Shuidi affected her [Dao of Wayward Breezes], the [Clouded Ghost Arts] masking her arrival amidst the bloodied things.

Residual [Poison Qi] yet lingered on the purple, inflicted skin.

Fu’s [Core] began to replenish.

“This Fu Gao greets you, Imperial,” he said, prolonging his nourishment.

“And what is that worth?” came the sneering reply. “An aged cripple, that you seek to trade words is insult enough.”

Her [Spirit Serpent] snapped forth, exploding from a perimeter of fallen cultivators as if they were no more than leaves. But this was met with eight, grappling arms to be wrested violently groundward.

The [Stifling Stream Revolutions] deftly warded Fu from a sudden assault. Parried with wheeling kicks that struck no softer for a missing arm.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“None here know the grace imparted,” she said, and stole distance so she might withdraw a weapon from her spatial storage.

An [Art] wreathed the [Spirit Serpent]. Some aura of murky [Poison Qi] that bore properties of sickness and decay. Hushi clamped tighter, consolidating all the [Hollow Ivory Splinter] had reaped.

For he drank deep.

Horror crossed the Imperial as, in moments and between traded blows, her Bond fell limp. Void of Qi and all the weaker for it.

Fu spilled her stomach the moment she gasped.

Half of my [Inner Qi] is replenished. It is more than I might have hoped.

Shuidi and Hushi returned in unison, nestling into their respective lairs as Fu spread his [Senses] for the next trace of foes.

To find few.

Safe moments passed, yet his grip tightened even at Linhua’s sudden approach. Her sabre, similarly erect, with Fuzhi alert at its hilt. “Senior,” she said, masking exhaustion as she warded his back.

One stride out of vision, he felt her sag.

An act shared by many. Knees struck the crimson mire, near in droves. That this luxury was allowed marked their victory. The brittle Sect remnants weathered their relief with vacant stares and empty triumph. Long stares into the middle distance that found no end to this slaughter.

Fu called out through his brooch.

Udvah was first to return, braced upon his gun when he did. Elbows and tong fa embalmed in blood, Zhu was second.

Words were necessary, though Fu settled for acknowledging looks in place of a thing he could not adequately conjure.

Yet Mangalam croaked in address, pushing all attention to their monastic comrade. “It is said that the Path towards the Heavens is littered with a thousand corpses. Perhaps now,” he gestured. “These disciples might rest on their laurels.”

Fu stroked the [Old One’s Whisker], his head a-shake. A comment as inane as this… it pushed a faint smile across his lips. “I will take your word for it, brother,” he said.

At the end of a shared mirth, Zhao Po staggered forth. A limp on both [Spirit Hares], among myriad ordeals.

“The task does not stand idle because we wish it,” said Fu, and set his gaze where the Clouded Courts ought to be. The direction, at least, some untold li distant. “Consolidate if you have gained, and take what few breaths you can.”

Some sense of contentment rose in his heart when no voice challenged this. What Fu gleaned appeared as weary diligence, perhaps.

Fellows. A strange notion.

A cry swept aside this small joy, borne of a close-by remnant. Their [Spirit Beast] and allegiance, unimportant.

“The Heavens offer no respite,” it cut. “Verdant Fist Sect, stand…” The abruptness drew Fu’s eye to the speaker, where their head swung about tatters of their comrades. Silencing the need for any call to arms.

But so too did this level on the horizon.

To approaching dust, announcing some fresh stampede.

“Flight,” decided Fu, and his ghosts blurred towards the crumpled skyline.

Zhao Po stole a step. “This… this is all too much.” A tear had carved channels through the grime upon his face. “Inner disciples fall. Immortals. The skies are drowned in the blood of myriad Elders. What hope lies in this? What glory?”

“None. But what need do ghosts have for such things? Come, brother.” [Half Cloud Step] delivered Fu to the nearest rooftop, and to a waiting Zhu.

The plum-eyed cultivator grunted as Zhao Po added his own blood to the stained marble. Deft, and delivered in a single slash across the throat. “We’ve ground to cover, Fu. No matter how wise a choice he has made. It’s no thing to linger on.”

Fu blinked away an encroaching fatigue.

No less than this is required.

🀦

Not all [Boons] granted by Zhu’s second [Constellation Seed] were discussed openly in present company, thus he had left only a nebulous comment as they hid.

“Midnight.”

The Cloud Gathering division sat in quiet contemplation of this, burdened by a thousand streamers of sunlight that cracked through the ruined shell of their refuge.

A noodle shop - its solitary entrance an obscured gap in the wreckage some stories above.

Fu pondered that what [Senses] Zhu had reaped from his [Hollow Ivory Splinter] lent well to the detection of this hidden night, for no man would look upon the ever-radiant [Spring Equinox] and think it dark.

Then he drew upon his own [Ink], attributing the prior clash’s gains to a damaged skull or delirium.

Hushi impressed an agreeable remark.

It is… the natural conclusion. That [Pull] will soon soar above the other facets of our cultivation. Only, I did not think it would happen this early.

More followed.

Studying these changes brought his spirit into equilibrium, and he aligned himself with the new attributes over several breaths.

An increase to [Might] was ever welcome, no matter how marginal, and this was to say nothing for his lacking [Push]. The increases had him eager to experiment, to test how swiftly his [Core] would replenish with so swollen a [Pull].

Yet to cultivate here was to draw the attention of the circling tide, for any taking of Qi would surely notify one of their swarming foes.

A minor draw might well fade into the background.

Fu shook his head, deciding against such foolishness. To have even Linhua’s soundless [Art] cladding them was risk enough, as it did now, permeating the shop’s floor in a silence wherein they might recuperate.

“Sister Linhua,” he said, quiet despite this.

“Senior,” she returned, her movement an effort.

He forestalled her unnecessary bow with a palm. “I would urge you to use Master Ban’s gift before we depart. Brother Udvah, if you might use your [Dao] to allow this.”

“Amituofo, it is no trouble.” So saying, he manifested it, birthing golden inscriptions to trail upon his wrists.

“Zhu-” Fu began.

Already Zhu had moved to follow Linhua, nodding to signal that he would aid her absorption of the [Constellation Seed]. Both met Udvah’s palm, and shimmered from existence. Linhua’s [Art] maintained.

Udvah settled once more, and Mangalam settled by his side. Statuesque in their respective positions.

“Are you well, brother?” Fu asked. “This day bears a toll.”

The Vajra smiled warmly. “Amituofo. A kind thing to ask. This wonting disciple has aches that will not easily fade. But do all shoeless men not complain until they chance upon men with no feet?”

Fu returned the smile, if somberly. “You speak of Zhao Po?”

“Simply of feetless men. Amituofo. His choice was sorrowful. What duties are expected of ghosts, young Zhao Po was ill-prepared for. May his next life be less interesting.” Udvah thumbed the beads beneath his robe.

Mangalam croaked in agreement.

Silence.

Thought.

“Might we speak of simple things, brother?” asked Fu.

“Amituofo. Few joys are greater when night falls.”

An ease came when trading words with Udvah, mayhaps for his appearance of middling years. No youth, as Linhua was, or as Niwai and Zhao Po had been.

“Zhu’s origin is known to all, Linhua’s is her own to share. That I know so little of yours brings guilt to surface,” said Fu. “Only the Heavens know what this day brings, and I would not have us as strangers.”

Udvah rotated his prayer beads. “Sorrow differs between men. Amituofo. This penniless seeker would not add more to a day already so thickly painted.”

Beneath the douli, Hushi emerged to show his interest. A gentle crawl that allowed Shuidi to mount an arm from which to listen.

“If it is no trouble.”

“Amituofo. As you wish,” said Udvah. “This penniless seeker was blessed in youth. Unnumbered, but allowed to ponder in the grounds of the Eighty Third’s monasteries. A great daoist, though these lips are unworthy of claiming to know what such a term means.”

Fu listened intently.

The Eighty Third evoked memories of Vibha, the disciple recently reaped.

“A [Mystic Realm] named [Cinnabar Peak] stands within his domain, and not, for it is a rarity that many entrances are known. Amituofo, Gao Fu would enjoy it. A place where the [Winter] wind is warm even to souls beneath its [Tyranny]. Amituofo, this disciple’s thoughts go distant.”

Mangalam deflated, perhaps in expectation.

“Those true to the [Dao] were welcomed. Traditions that differ, viewed as ancient even to immortals. The ascetic way, shedding no blood, reflecting on the self. [Eighty Third Under Heaven] exemplified this,” continued Udvah. “His granddaughter did not. Amituofo, the Young Mistress followed her own [Dao], and sundered the [Mystic Realm] with an ascension beyond its [Law of Origin].”

“A [Tribulation]?”

Udvah’s lips went thin. “Amituofo. As Gao Fu says. This [Tribulation] transfigured each [Paifang], desecrating the arches to become [Demon Scars]. To the Eighty Third, peace-loving and true, this served only to slicken the [Demon’s] blades.”

A horror.

Pangs of empathy extended from Shuidi, having Mangalam shift.

“Apologies, brother. We have no need to dredge further.”

Strangely, Udvah smiled. “Amituofo. Gao Fu is no [Demon]. Peace does not come from rejecting the past. The more is spoken, the lighter it grows. Yet therein lay cruel insight. Truth came as the bloodied waters receded-”

The [Dao of Sanctuary] fluctuated upon his wrist, birthing an intensity of light that allowed Zhu and Linhua to emerge.

Sweat was no profound addition to the visceral layers upon Linhua, Fu noted, cleansing more than it stained. Indeed, her countenance appeared refreshed for the recent ordeal.

Sharpened, as confirmed by his [Divine Sense].

“Bloodied waters?” asked Zhu, coming to rest upon a dust-laden counter. “Is our talk of fish and fishermen?”

“Amituofo. Only on the terror of noodle shops,” said Udvah, smirking as he met Fu’s eye. “But this lacking disciple would speak on it no longer. Lest it invite further ruin.”

Fu affixed his douli. “As brother Udvah says. We still have far to go.”