Blossoming Path-269. The Summit

The Marble Jade Arena loomed above me, its pale walls catching the morning haze like a blade catching light.

I lingered at the gate, turning once to look back toward Crescent Bay. From this height, the city stretched ragged and uneven, its streets swollen with more bodies than it was ever meant to hold. From what I heard, the gates had been shut for days now, yet caravans still lingered outside the walls. Even within, the air felt subdued, muffled by exhaustion.

It was strange. Crescent Bay had once been lively; markets spilling into the streets, the scent of salt and roasted fish drifting down every alley. Now, silence hung over it like a funeral shroud.

A hand at my shoulder urged me forward. I turned back toward the arena and followed the others inside.

Getting in had been an ordeal; but past its gates, the noise dulled. The arena swallowed it whole.

I remembered this place differently. I remembered banners snapping in the wind, the roar of the crowd when the Grand Alchemy Gauntlet began, the press of the competitors eager to prove themselves. That energy had burned into me then, fierce and intoxicating.

Now the stands were empty. The field below had been hollowed out, reshaped into something colder.

Tables stretched in three long rows, arranged in a square that left the northern side bare. That space was raised slightly higher than the rest, a dais prepared for the hosts. Everything about the arrangement spoke of hierarchy, of subtle power plays disguised as order.

The seats that once held hopeful alchemists and cheering spectators now carried something sharper. Representatives of sects and governments, each one radiating their own kind of weight. Faces set in stone, gazes sharpened to points.

I drew a slow breath and filed in with the others, my steps echoing faintly against the polished stone.

Already, I could feel eyes flicking toward me—some curious, some wary, others edged with suspicion.

The Whispering Wind delegation sat along the eastern row.

My eyes found familiar faces first; Tian Zhan, the sect leader candidate who had stood with me against Narrow Stone Peak. Back then, he’d seemed like an unshakable wall, a force beyond what I could ever match. Yet even now, I could sense he’d climbed higher still. His unruly grey hair framed a face marked by sharp lines, his eagle-like eyes cutting straight toward me with a focus that made the back of my neck prickle.

Beside him sat Jingyu Lian. Her hair was drawn up into a silver clasp, her bearing straighter, her position clearly elevated since the Gauntlet. Now she sat alongside her father, and though her gaze never turned my way, I felt her presence like a weight on the table.

But the one who drew every breath in the room was their Sect Leader. Yong Jin.

He was a mountain of a man, purple robes pressed and formal, his hair tied neatly into a bun streaked with grey at the edges. There was no doubt in my mind: he stood on the same tier as Shaotian Ye himself. A cultivator at the Spirit Ascension realm.

The air thickened when the Verdant Lotus Sect Leader rose from the dais.

“Thank you for joining us,” Shaotian Ye said, his voice calm. “We gather here because the threat is one no sect, no village, no magistracy can weather alone—”

“Spare us the courtesies, Sect Leader Ye. If you’ve called us here, then tell us what you know of the cultists. Nothing else matters.”

Sect Leader Yong Jin’s interruption landed like an axe. His deep voice rolled across the chamber without effort. The tension snapped sharp. I saw more than one elder bristle, but Shaotian Ye only inclined his head, unbothered.

“Your conciseness is always appreciated, Sect Leader Jin. Then let us not waste words.”

His hand brushed the edge of the map sprawled across the dais.

“As stated in our communication, a northern village was attacked. By three Envoys, and dozens of cultists. Their objective was singular: the Phoenix Tears, an ingredient in the possession of the Silent Moon’s elders who fled the sect after the first attack by the cultists months ago. Since then, all cultist activity across the province has gone silent.”

The murmurs stirred instantly—sharp, doubtful, some openly disbelieving.

"I trust some of you are familiar with the myth of the Phoenix Tears?"

Then Master Fan of the Alchemy Association leaned forward. His hair was ringed like a horseshoe, his voice hoarse but commanding. I'd only heard of him, never having seen him in-person.

“The Phoenix Tears…” He tapped the table with a thin knuckle. “A single drop said to cure any affliction short of death itself. They are no legend. I know the records. The Tears exist.”

The magistrate sat at the western table and cleared his throat. A round man in fine silk, sweat already beading at his temples. “Surely, Master Fan, you don’t mean to tell us such a thing truly survived into this age. Phoenixes have not been recorded for centuries.”

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A hush fell.

Master Fan’s lined brows lifted. His gaze alone made the magistrate shrink. “Do you doubt me, Magistrate? Do you take the Association’s word for fraud?”

The man stammered, bowing his head so quickly his jowls quivered. “N-no! I would never—perish the thought! It is only… difficult to believe, that such an ingredient…”

“Enough,” Shaotian Ye interjected, keeping the silence from curdling. His tone was measured steel. “The magistrate’s caution is not unfounded. Records of the Phoenix line have been lost for centuries. Skepticism is fair.”

He let the pause stretch, letting the words settle.

“But fair or not, the Phoenix Tears exist. The cultists sought them. And that pursuit alone has changed the course of this province.”

A voice rose from the southern row, sharp and opportunistic.

One of the cultivators seated beside the magistrate stood, his sleeve snapping as he thrust a finger toward the map.

“And where,” he demanded, “is the Silent Moon? Their elders carried these Tears, did they not? Then let them answer for it! Their cowardice, their failures—how much longer will the rest of us pay for their sins?”

The chamber rippled. Murmurs hissed from table to table, curses muttered at the mention of Sect Leader Jun.

But Shaotian Ye did not rise to the bait. His voice cut through the noise.

“If what we know is true, then only the mainland interlopers carried the Tears. And they are already dead. We cannot demand answers of the dead, nor can we shatter what remains of the Silent Moon for a crime of possession. What matters is not who once held the Tears. What matters is that now the cult does.”

The words hung heavy. The murmurs stilled.

And then Yong Jin’s voice broke the silence.

“You mean,” the mountain of a man rumbled, his gaze narrowing on Shaotian Ye, “that they seek to revive their god. The Heavenly Demon.”

The chamber chilled. My breath caught.

Shaotian Ye inclined his head, grave. “That is the danger. That is why this summit was called. Not to trade blame. But to form a coalition. To face what none of us can survive alone.”

The magistrate leaned forward at once. “Yes, yes, of course. I will issue writs of conscription immediately. The province must act.”

Yong Jin gave a curt nod. “The Whispering Wind will commit forces. But we must first verify every claim. If this is mere rumor, we will not march blindly.”

But the men seated beside the magistrate shifted uneasily. Based on their robes, they were cultivators from different sects. One spoke up, his voice edged with scorn.

“Bold words. But what exactly are we expected to give? To throw our disciples onto the pyre in the name of ‘righteousness’ and ‘honor’? What will they earn for their sacrifice, beyond graves and forgotten names?”

My hands curled into fists. They spoke as if this were bargaining, as if the Heavenly Demon were just another rival sect to be weighed against their ledgers.

'Didn’t they understand?'

“Half my sect is gone. You ask us to stand again? Then know what you are asking. We can fight, yes—but we demand more than empty words. Recognition. Assurance. Something to tell our disciples their lives are not being spent like copper coins.”

Shaotian Ye’s gaze swept the chamber. “Then say it. What do you want?”

The mid-sized sect leaders exchanged glances, quiet but sharp, before answering as one.

“Assurance. Rewards. Recognition for our contribution to the coalition.”

At the eastern table, Tian Zhan leaned forward, derision clear in his eagle’s eyes.

“The Whispering Wind requires no reward to fulfill our duty. If we all shrink back for fear of losses, then we will lose everything.” His tone was cutting, his words a blade.

The smaller sect leaders bristled, some ready to rise, but held their tongues under Yong Jin’s shadow.

The magistrate, however, pressed in quickly. “These sects are the backbone of the province. Their concerns must be heeded. Without them, the lines will falter.”

Another leader, face worn with grief, rose again. “You speak of duty. Easy words from those who still have their strength. But my sect has buried its disciples. All we ask is assurance.”

I sat rigid in my chair, the clash of voices pressing into my skull. My frustration burned, but so did something else—a flicker of realization.

Maybe I had been thinking too narrowly. Maybe I had only seen the threat through Gentle Wind’s scars. But these sects carried scars of their own. They weren’t blind. They weren’t cowards. They just wanted to know their people’s blood would not be wasted.

Sect Leader Shaotian Ye broke the tension first. His voice was calm, but the weight behind it left no room for doubt.

“The Verdant Lotus will make concessions. If the cost of solidarity is recognition, then let it be so. Your sects will not march unacknowledged, nor will your sacrifices be forgotten.”

The murmurs softened. Uneasy, but not defiant.

Then another voice joined in from the Alchemy Association’s row. Elder Wei Lian. I hadn't seen him since the Grand Alchemy Gauntlet.

“If recognition is what you want,” Wei Lian said, “then let us speak of it after this summit. We can broker proper agreements. Discounted pills, stabilizing tonics, supplies that ease your burdens. The Association has the means to lighten the load.”

Master Fan’s lined hand tapped the table once in support. “Agreed. If concessions must be made, let them be in what alchemy can provide. But not now. Not before the threat is answered.”

Elder Mingmei leaned forward. Her expression was firm, her voice as clipped as a knife’s edge.

“Resources cannot be spared for bargaining while this hunt is upon us. Every vial, every furnace, every root and mineral must be bent toward the fight. If you demand assurances, fine—take them. But if you demand them now, then you would bleed us all before the battle has begun.”

For the first time since arriving, I saw heads nodding from every direction. Uneasy allies, but allies nonetheless.

It felt like agreement. A fragile one. But enough to carry us forward.

Until Yong Jin’s voice rolled through the chamber once more.

“One question remains.”

The air tightened again. His massive hands folded neatly on the table, his eyes never leaving Shaotian Ye.

“How did you confirm the presence of the Phoenix Tears?”

The words hung like stones in the silence.

Shaotian Ye did not flinch. “The confirmation comes from the recounting of Kai Liu. Some of you may know him as a participant from this year’s Grand Alchemy Gauntlet. His testimony is why we are gathered.”

Every gaze turned. The shift hit me like a sudden plunge into cold water.

Slowly, I rose to my feet. My voice came steady, though the knot in my chest threatened to choke me.

“After the Amethyst Plague struck the north, I developed a cure with what I had available. It was then that Elder Cheng of the Silent Moon appeared. He threatened to take it by force.”

The chamber stirred. Disbelieving mutters rolled like waves. I pressed on.

“We defeated him, and uncovered the Phoenix Tears among his belongings. Days later, the cultists descended. Three Envoys, dozens of their followers.”

The questions followed like knives.

“How did you repel Elder Cheng? He was no weakling.”

“Three Envoys? You are sure of this?”

Before the murmurs could sharpen further, Shaotian Ye spoke, his tone level as steel but edged with the faintest hesitation that only I caught.

“Elder Cheng was weakened by the plague. His strength was not what it once was. And as for the cultists…” His gaze flicked to me, sharp as a blade testing for cracks, before turning back to the chamber. “…Kai Liu's alchemical prowess, combined with the efforts of the Verdant Lotus disciples stationed at his village, was enough to drive them back. That is all.”

The weight of his words settled the room. Not fully, but enough. Doubt remained, but it no longer sharpened into open challenge.

The questions turned instead.

“When did they take the Tears?”

“A week ago,” I answered.

A new wave of murmurs rippled across the chamber.

“Then why has nothing happened? If they sought to revive their god, why wait?”

This time, I stayed silent. So did Sect leader Shaotian Ye. Because for all I had told them, even I didn't know why.

It was Master Fan who filled it. The old man’s voice was rough, but the authority in it could not be denied.

“Reviving the dead is not the same as raising a blade. A ritual of that magnitude… of that blasphemy… would require preparation. Place. Formation. Perhaps even celestial timing. Do not mistake their silence for idleness.”

That thought settled like lead in my stomach.

“Regardless,” Master Fan continued, “we cannot stay idle either. The enemy has gathered the Phoenix Tears. That alone demands action. We must act together, with one plan. All in favor?”

Voices rose, one after another. Different tones, different reservations, but all in agreement.

And just like that, the Marble Jade Arena shifted.

The summit did not end, it began.

The discussions sharpened, fervent now, elders and leaders leaning over the map, voices clashing and weaving into something new: a coalition.