The sect's southern wall was a gaping maw of splintered wood and twisted wards. Smoke billowed from the breach, reeking of charred talismans and roasted flesh. Li Chen skidded to a halt alongside Yun Mei, Ming Yue's weight foreign yet familiar in his grip.
"Third Formation!" Elder Wu's voice cracked like thunder. Disciples scrambled to obey, fanning out in a crescent pattern. Jiang Feng stood at the center, his pristine sword glowing gold—a family heirloom unsheathed for the first time.
"Cannon fodder first," Yun Mei muttered, lobbing a handful of jade beads into the smoke. They erupted into phosphorescent fog, revealing silhouettes with too many limbs.
"Heavenly Sword greets the withering lotus!" A voice boomed, melodic and venomous. "Surrender the Azure heir and the Blade. Or watch your roots rot."
The mist cleared.
Twelve cultivators in blood-red robes floated above the rubble, their faces masked by ceramic smiles frozen in eternal serenity. Behind them stood a man in ivory armor, his hair white as ash, a sword of liquid shadow dripping from his hand.
Xue Huoling, Lieutenant of the Heavenly Sword's Seventh Battalion.
Jiang Feng spat. "Blind priests and a painted corpse? This is their vanguard?"
Elder Wu paled. "Fool. Those are Smiling Sutra Monks—corpses puppeteered by scripture. Don't let their blades touch your skin."
Too late.
The monks moved as one, their limbs unfolding like origami nightmares. A disciple screamed as a serrated blade carved through his ribs, the wound sprouting ink-black verses that crawled toward his heart.
Yun Mei flicked a needle into the disciple's neck. He collapsed, seizing, as the poison froze the corruption. "Die clean or live cursed," she hissed. "Choose fast!"
Li Chen raised Ming Yue. The Blade hummed, its melody syncopating with his pulse. Power here, it whispered. Cut them. Cut.
Elder Wu's warning flared in his mind—Nine Petals is a last resort—but the nearest monk lunged, its blade singing of forgotten graves.
First Petal: Severance of Roots.
Li Chen's qi twisted, carving a sigil into his lower dantian. The world sharpened. He saw the monk's threads—ropes of cursed scripture tethering flesh to puppetmaster.
Ming Yue moved like quicksilver. The Blade sheared through the threads, and the monk crumbled into rotten parchment.
Xue Huoling tilted his head. "Ah. The cub has fangs."
Seven Years Earlier
A memory not his own:
Elder Wu knelt in a rain-soaked courtyard, clutching a dying woman with Li Chen's eyes. Her blood seeped into the earth, blooming lotuses of ice.
"Take him to Frostpeak," she gasped. "Bury his lineage. Let him starve… but live*."*
Wu's voice broke. "My oath binds me. But the Blades… they'll call him."
Her hand gripped his collar. "Then make him hate them."
Li Chen blinked. The battlefield rushed back. Jiang Feng dueled two monks, his golden sword dulling with every clash. Yun Mei rained vials of acid and fire, her movements frantic.
"Distracted, princeling?" Xue Huoling materialized before him, shadow sword kissing Ming Yue's edge. Sparks rained, sizzling against Li Chen's cheeks.
"You're not here for the Blade," Li Chen gritted, straining against the man's glacial strength. "You want my blood."
"Blood opens doors." Xue Huoling's blade flicked, carving a shallow cut across Li Chen's chest. "The Demon Sovereign's prison requires a key… and vermin like you do have uses."
Pain erupted—not from the wound, but from Ming Yue. The Blade roared, its spirit surging into Li Chen's meridians.
Second Petal: Withering of Flesh.
Sigils burned down his arms. Ming Yue flared, moonfire engulfing the shadow sword. Xue Huoling recoiled, porcelain skin blistering, but his smile widened.
"Good. Struggle. The more you awaken the Blade, the sooner your dynasty's curse consumes—"
A lotus bloomed in his chest.
Petals of green flame tore through Xue Huoling's armor. He staggered, laughing, as Elder Wu raised a trembling hand—the veins blackened to his elbow.
"Verdant Annihilation," Wu rasped. "A fitting end for a heretic."
Xue Huoling disintegrated, but his voice lingered: "This… is a beginning*."*
The remaining monks collapsed, puppet strings severed. The sect stood trembling in the sudden silence.
Jiang Feng pointed his chipped sword at Li Chen. "Him! The Blade's corruption drew them here! We should—"
Yun Mei slammed a palm into his sternum, a golden pill shoved down his throat. He gagged, collapsing as paralysis set in.
"For your indigestion," she smirked.
Elder Wu silenced the crowd with a glance. "Tonight, you witnessed the cost of our legacy. The weak may leave. The stubborn will suffer."
No one moved.
Li Chen collapsed.
He awoke in the sect's infirmary, the taste of lotus nectar on his tongue. Moonlight etched Yun Mei's scar silver as she ground herbs, her sleeves rolled to reveal arms mapped with black petals. Five now.
"You burned six months of your lifespan," she said, not turning. "The Second Petal isn't a toy."
"You used the Third," Li Chen croaked. "To save me?"
Yun Mei's pestle stilled. "I don't remember why I did it."
Through the window, torches snaked toward the ancestral hall—disciples bearing bodies for pyres. Among them, Hong's hunched figure carried a shroud too small.
Elder Wu entered, his poisoned arm wrapped in silkworm silk. "Xue Huoling was a splinter, not the branch. The Heavenly Sword's true blade comes next." He tossed Li Chen a jade slip glowing with coordinates.
Tomb of Ten Thousand Swords.
"A trial by your ancestors," Wu said. "Retrieve the Sword-Severing Bell there, or the next attack will reduce us to ash."
Li Chen gripped the slip. "Why trust me?"
"Because hatred is lighter than hope," Wu said. "And you, child, are starting to hope."
That night, Li Chen found Yun Mei at the moonlit grave mounds.
"I'll go with you," she said, burying a vial of poison beneath a peony bush. "The tomb's guardians despise the living. You'll need someone to mock your funeral."
He didn't thank her. Gratitude was a hook; she'd reel it in later.
As they slipped past the wards, Ming Yue's spirit whispered a new truth—the Bell wasn't a tool. It was a chain. A leash for Blades… and their masters.
Li Chen buried the thought. Ahead, the mountains yawned like a dragon's jaws, waiting.
Behind them, unseen, Jiang Feng stirred in his paralyzed bed—his lips mouthing a name to the shadows: Lord Xue.