Blossoming Path-Chapter 174: Praise The Heavenly Demon, Shatter The Moon

Xu Ziqing’s boots crunched against the icy debris scattered across the once-pristine pathways. The faint moonlit carvings, symbols of the sect’s pride and history, lay buried beneath layers of frost and ruin. Bodies—friends, comrades, disciples he had trained alongside—littered the ground, their lifeless forms twisted and broken. The sect, once an unshakable fortress, now stood as a graveyard.

The storm howled like a dirge, its mournful wails carrying the echoes of screams and clashes still fresh in Xu Ziqing’s ears. He forced himself to keep moving, his hand gripping the hilt of his blade tightly enough that his knuckles turned white. Each step felt heavier than the last, each crunch of snow a painful reminder of the fallen.

The ground beneath his feet trembled, and he flinched instinctively as an explosion shattered the oppressive silence. The central hall, once the heart of the sect, collapsed in a fiery cascade of rubble, sending shards of wood and stone spraying outward. Xu Ziqing’s jaw tightened as his gaze swept the chaos. Amid the destruction, figures darted through the wreckage.

The mainland elders.

They were running.

Xu Ziqing’s breath hitched as he spotted the dark tide surging behind them. Shadows moved with a feral precision, a tide of hooded figures that devoured everything in their path. Weapons glinted in the flickering light, and their eerie silence was more unsettling than any battle cry. They swarmed forward like predators with nothing but death in their wake.

Among the fleeing elders, a figure stumbled.

"Elder Fang..?"

The once-mighty cultivator, a man Xu Ziqing had feared, now moved with a desperate limp. His leg dragged awkwardly behind him, blood staining the snow in uneven streaks. Fang’s face, always a mask of controlled arrogance, was contorted in pain and desperation. He pushed forward, his every step a struggle as the shadows closed in.

"Wait!" Fang’s voice rang out, trembling with fear and anger. “Help me!”

Wei and Cheng, the other two mainland elders, were just ahead. They turned at the sound of his voice, their eyes meeting his for a brief moment. Xu Ziqing couldn’t hear their reply. If there was one. But their actions spoke louder than words.

Neither elder slowed. Neither offered a hand. They simply turned and continued running, their forms disappearing into the storm.

The betrayal was written plainly across Fang’s face. For a fleeting moment, disbelief and fury warred in his expression. His lips parted as though to shout again, but no words came. Instead, his eyes hardened, his grip on his weapon tightening as he stopped and turned to face the oncoming horde. His shoulders squared, though his body trembled from exertion and pain.

Xu Ziqing couldn’t look away. Fang, the man who had once brought he and Ping Hai to their knees with sheer killing intent, now stood alone against the tide. It should have been a moment of defiance, a last stand worthy of legend. But what he saw in Fang’s eyes wasn’t courage.

It was fear.

Elder Fang planted his spear into the snow with a deliberate motion, the weapon glowing with a cold, pale light as he channeled his qi into it. The storm seemed to part around him, the snowflakes slowing as though held in suspended animation.

With a guttural roar, the elder swung the weapon in a wide arc, releasing a wave of qi that ripped through the oncoming horde. The front line of cultists disintegrated, their forms collapsing into ash and ichor that stained the snow black. For an instant, the battlefield fell eerily silent, save for the faint hum of Fang’s spear.

Xu Ziqing’s breath caught. This was the power that had made Elder Fang a figure of awe and terror—a force so overwhelming that put him among the ranks of sect leaders. But even as the wave of destruction faded, the shadows pressed forward. The cultists stepped over the remains of their fallen with a single-minded determination.

Fang swung his spear again, the tip carving through the air with an audible crack. Another cultist fell, their body torn apart by the elder’s precision strike. Yet, as the tide surged closer, their tactics shifted. Instead of attacking directly, the cultists began to lunge at his weapon, grabbing at the spear’s shaft with clawed hands. Fang’s strikes became slower, his movements more labored as each swing was met with resistance.

“Get off!” he snarled, his voice raw with desperation. He shook his spear violently, dislodging the cultists clinging to it, but their numbers were too great. Each moment he spent shaking them off allowed more to close the distance.

Fang staggered, his injured leg buckling under the strain. His breaths came in ragged gasps, the frost clinging to his lips as he struggled to keep his footing. Blood seeped through the torn fabric of his robes, staining the snow beneath him in vivid crimson.

Xu Ziqing’s stomach churned. Even now, the man's immense power was undeniable, yet it wasn’t enough. The cultists were unrelenting, their lack of fear and disregard for their own lives rendering Fang’s attacks increasingly futile. One grabbed the shaft of his spear, then another, slowing its momentum just enough for a blade to slice through his side. Fang roared in pain, pulling back and impaling his attacker, but the opening had already been created.

They swarmed him.

"Ah! AHHHHH!"

Blades and claws tore into his flesh, ripping through muscle and sinew with sickening ease. Fang’s screams echoed across the battlefield, a sound that clawed at Xu Ziqing’s resolve.

The snow turned dark and heavy with blood, the storm carrying the metallic scent through the air.

And then, silence.

The cultists straightened, their forms dark and alien against the snow. One of them bent down, retrieving a ring from the corpse.

Xu Ziqing’s heart pounded as his mind raced. He forced himself to move, sprinting through the wreckage with renewed urgency. His knuckles ached from how tightly he gripped his sword, but he didn’t care. The mainland elders were gone. The sect was in ruins. If he didn’t act now, there would be nothing left to save.

His gaze darted across the battlefield, locking onto a familiar figure huddled against the remnants of a crumbled pavilion.

"Yuan Ming!”

The young man flinched, his sword trembling in his grip. His usually confident expression was replaced by wide, hollow eyes. He didn’t respond, his focus fixed on the blood-streaked snow beneath him.

Xu Ziqing reached him in a few quick strides and grabbed his shoulder, shaking him firmly. “Yuan Ming, look at me!”

The disciple blinked, his gaze snapping to Xu Ziqing’s face. “S-Senior Brother Xu… I—I can’t—”

“There’s no time for this!” Xu Ziqing snapped, his voice cutting through the storm. “We’re going to free the elders. Without them, we have no chance.”

Yuan Ming’s face twisted in confusion. “The elders? But… Sect Leader Jun—he wouldn’t—”

“To hell with Jun’s orders! If we don’t act now, there won’t be a sect left to protect. Do you understand me?”

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Yuan Ming hesitated, his breathing shallow and uneven. Xu Ziqing gripped his shoulder tighter, his voice softening slightly. “The sect needs you. Get up.”

The younger disciple swallowed hard, nodding shakily. “A-All right. I’m with you.”

“Good.” Xu Ziqing hauled him to his feet, sparing only a moment to steady him before setting off at a sprint. “We’ll gather anyone we see along the way.”

As they moved through the ruins of the sect, his eyes scanned the wreckage for other survivors. By the time they reached the elders’ quarters, they had gathered a dozen disciples. A few of the senior disciples split up in order to gather more people. Most bore injuries or expressions of raw fear, but they followed nonetheless.

The elders’ quarters were cold and dark, the heavy doors sealed but unguarded. Xu Ziqing drew his blade, the metal glinting faintly in the dim light. Tradition dictated that these elders remain confined for opposing Sect Leader Jun's rise to power. But tradition had no place here. Not now.

He smashed the hilt of his sword against the lock of the first door, the echo reverberating through the corridor. With a loud crack, the mechanism gave way, and the door creaked open to reveal an elder seated on a worn mat. His eyes, once sharp and commanding, were wide with disbelief.

“Disciple Xu?” the elder asked. “What madness is this? What’s happening outside?”

“The sect is under siege,” Xu Ziqing said, his tone clipped and urgent. “There’s no time to explain. The disciples need help.”

The elder rose slowly, his movements stiff from confinement. “By the heavens…” he murmured. “I heard the sounds but thought—” His words faltered as he met Xu Ziqing’s gaze. “The Silent Moon is being attacked? By whom?”

“Monsters.”

The elder's jaw tightened. “Then let’s not waste any more time.”

Xu Ziqing nodded sharply and moved to the next door. The other disciples did the same, freeing the confined elders and explained the situation.

When the last elder joined them, the group stood in tense silence for a moment, their breaths visible in the cold air. Though gaunt and weathered, their presence carried a weight that reminded Xu Ziqing of the Silent Moon’s former glory. These were not broken men; they were leaders who had been waiting for the chance to prove their worth again.

“We move now,” He said firmly, leading the group into the storm.

Xu Ziqing’s pace quickened as he neared the destroyed dining hall. Inside, the heavy air was thick with the scent of stale blood and lingering smoke. Scattered tables and benches were overturned, and the dim light from a half-burned lantern cast long, flickering shadows across the walls.

At the far corner of the room, a familiar figure sat slumped against the wall—Ping Hai. His hulking frame, which usually radiated confidence, was curled in on itself. His head was buried in his arms, and his shoulders trembled. Around him, a handful of third-class disciples sat in silence, their eyes wide with shock.

“Ping Hai!” Xu Ziqing barked, striding across the room.

The large disciple flinched, his head snapping up. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed and unfocused. “S-Senior Brother…” he stammered, his voice barely audible.

“Get up,” Xu Ziqing said sharply, gripping the front of Ping Hai’s robes and hauling him to his feet. “We don’t have time for this.”

“I—” His voice broke. He looked away, his hands trembling. “I’m not ready for this, Senior Brother. I can’t…”

Xu Ziqing shook him once, hard. “None of us were ready for this!” he snapped. “But hiding here won’t save anyone. Look around you.”

Ping Hai’s gaze flicked to the younger disciples huddled nearby. Slowly, the trembling in his hands subsided. He swallowed hard and gave a faint nod.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked, his voice steadier now.

Xu Ziqing released him and stepped back. “Find the injured and anyone still alive. Escort them to Crescent Bay City and call for reinforcements. The elders and I will hold the line.”

Ping Hai hesitated, his eyes searching the second-class disciple's face. “You should come with us, Senior Brother. You’re more—”

“No.” His tone left no room for argument. “My place is here. The elders and I will buy you time to retreat.”

“Senior Brother…” Ping Hai’s voice wavered, but Xu Ziqing cut him off with a sharp glare.

“This is an order.”

“...Understood.”

Xu Ziqing turned to the other disciples in the hall, his voice rising to command their attention. “All of you, listen! Follow Ping Hai and retreat to Crescent Bay City. Help him find the injured and the stragglers. Do not stop until you’re safe.”

The faint crunch of snow under hurried footsteps drew his attention, and he turned to see the disciples who had split off earlier converging toward him. Behind them came dozens more—a scattered, disheveled group.

“Senior Brother Xu!” one of the returning disciples called out, his voice strained but resolute. “We found more!”

Most were third-class disciples. Among them were a few second-class disciples, their faces hardened but their eyes betraying the same fear that gripped everyone present.

“Form up!” Xu Ziqing barked, his voice carrying above the howling wind.

The group obeyed with a mix of hesitation and urgency, clustering together for warmth and reassurance. The elders moved to the front of the formation, their presence a steadying force amid the chaos. Xu Ziqing’s sharp eyes tracked the movements of each disciple, assessing their state. Some stood firm, their grips tight on their weapons, while others faltered, their gazes fixed on the ground as though afraid to meet his.

Ping Hai stepped forward, his large frame now carrying an air of purpose despite the earlier faltering. “Senior Brother,” he said quietly, “there are more out there, but we don’t have time to find them all.”

Xu Ziqing nodded grimly. “Then we focus on saving those who are here.”

He turned back to the gathered disciples. “Listen carefully!” His voice cut through the storm, sharp and commanding. “The third-class disciples will retreat immediately, led by Ping Hai. Second-class disciples—those of you willing to protect them—join him. Get to Crescent Bay City. Find reinforcements. The rest of us will stay and hold the line.”

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Each order Xu Ziqing barked was a tether to sanity, a way to keep moving forward when every instinct screamed to stop, to hide, to grieve. The disciples looked to him with wide, fearful eyes, and he forced himself to meet their gazes, knowing he had to be the pillar they needed; even if his own foundation was cracking.

The announcement sparked murmurs among the group. Some third-class disciples immediately shifted toward Ping Hai, relief mingling with guilt on their faces. Among the second-class disciples, a clear divide began to emerge. Half moved to join the retreating group, their expressions a mixture of shame and fear. The others remained rooted, their jaws set with grim determination.

Xu Ziqing scanned their faces. Those who stepped back were avoiding his gaze, their shoulders hunched under the weight of unspoken words. He couldn’t bring himself to judge them. Fear was a powerful force. One he himself had struggled against.

“Go,” Xu Ziqing said quietly, his voice losing some of its sharp edge. “Protect them. That’s your duty now.”

The departing disciples nodded, their steps hurried as they began to move away. Ping Hai led them, his voice rising above the wind as he barked orders to keep the group organized. Xu Ziqing watched them go, a knot forming in his chest.

He turned back to the remaining disciples and elders, their number now halved. Those who stayed exchanged glances, their expressions tight with resolve. They had seen the carnage firsthand, had felt the oppressive fear of the cultists’ presence. Yet they stood.

The group pressed forward in tense silence, their collective dread palpable as they navigated the battered sect grounds. The path ahead was clear—marked by a trail of carnage. Lifeless bodies lay strewn across the snow, their blood soaking into the ground.

Xu Ziqing led the way, his blade drawn, its cold steel catching the faint light of the storm. The elders moved to the front, their forms imposing despite the wear of confinement. Behind them, the first-class disciples held steady, their weapons raised and their faces set in grim determination. The second-class disciples flanked the group, their steps uneven as they cast nervous glances at the wreckage around them.

The wind howled, carrying with it the faint metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of smoke. Xu Ziqing’s grip on his sword tightened as they neared the central courtyard. The remnants of their attackers stood there; twenty figures cloaked in black, their presence as unnatural as the storm that raged around them. They moved with an eerie stillness, as though the wind itself bent around them in deference. At their center, the gaunt figure worked with deliberate precision, an incense burner in his hands releasing thick, pungent smoke that mingled with the swirling snow.

The Silent Moon forces halted as one. Xu Ziqing felt his breath catch, his legs refusing to move forward. Even though they outnumbered the hooded figures, it was as though an invisible wall had risen before them, a barrier of raw fear that sapped their strength and resolve. His chest tightened, his pulse hammering in his ears as he stared at the figures ahead. The memories of Elder Fang’s death flashed before his eyes; his raw screams, the blood-soaked snow, the cultists’ unrelenting advance even in the face of death.

'We can’t win. Not against that.'

Around him, the disciples faltered. Their gazes darted between the cultists and the ground, some unable to look forward at all. Their breathing came in uneven gasps, their hands trembling as they clutched their weapons. The elders, though more composed, seemed uneasy as well.

But there was a difference. The elders didn’t have the same hollow look of terror in their eyes. They hadn’t been there to witness the carnage firsthand. They hadn’t seen Elder Fang’s final stand or the initial assault that carved through their defenses with ease.

Xu Ziqing couldn’t even muster anger. No righteous fury, no defiant rage—just cold, unrelenting fear.

The hooded figures, for their part, paid no attention to the Silent Moon forces. Their leader continued the ritual, the blood-red pill glowing faintly as it was consumed by the flames. The serpentine mist that emerged writhed and coiled with unnatural purpose, its crimson-and-black form cutting through the air like a living thing. The cultists watched in reverence, their heads bowed, their stillness unnerving.

The Silent Moon forces remained frozen, their formation breaking as disciples hesitated or stepped back. Xu Ziqing’s breath quickened. His grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles aching, but he couldn’t bring himself to step forward.

Suddenly, a figure moved. One of the elders, his sword drawn and his face twisted with anger and grief, broke from the formation. Without hesitation, he strode forward, his blade glinting as he raised it high. “For the Silent Moon!” he bellowed, his voice cracking as he charged.

“No!” Xu Ziqing’s voice tore from his throat, raw with panic. But it was too late.

The elder’s sword descended with a resounding slash, carving into the nearest cultist’s turned back. The force of the blow split flesh and bone, sending dark blood spraying across the snow. For a fleeting moment, the elder’s attack seemed victorious.

But the cultist barely reacted. He turned slowly, his expression one of annoyance rather than pain. The injury on his shoulder bled freely, yet he moved as though it didn’t exist. His hand shot out, gripping the elder by the neck with inhuman strength.

The elder gasped, his blade falling from his grasp as he struggled against the iron grip. He slashed wildly with his free hand, but the cultist didn’t so much as flinch. His voice, low and guttural, cut through the storm. “Profane infidel,” he sneered. “You are unworthy of life. Death is the only end for those who oppose the cult.”

The Silent Moon forces watched in horror, their terror solidifying into stone. Xu Ziqing’s heart pounded in his chest, every instinct screaming at him to move, to help—but he couldn’t. His legs wouldn’t obey, his fear anchoring him to the ground.

With a sickening crunch, the cultist crushed the elder’s neck, silencing his gasps. His lifeless body fell to the snow, his face frozen in a mixture of shock and pain. The sound of his death echoed across the battlefield, a final, hollow punctuation to the sect’s despair.

The disciples flinched as the cultists who stepped forward prepared to advance. Their leader’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and commanding. “Enough. There is no time to spend indulging these remnants. Our mission is clear, and we must gather the Phoenix Tears at all costs.”

The advancing cultists froze, then knelt, smashing their foreheads to the bloodied snow.

“Forgive this lowly servant, Envoy!” they shouted, their voices hollow yet fervent. They remained motionless, even as blood pooled beneath them, a self-inflicted penance for their disobedience.

The Envoy turned, his scarred face staring solemnly at the Silent Moon forces.

“You will die soon enough,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. “But your existence is meaningless to us now. Do not mistake this reprieve for mercy.”

The serpentine mist twisted, forming a path deeper into the storm. The cultists rose, their movements synchronized and precise. They disappeared into the snow, their retreat leaving only silence in their wake.

Xu Ziqing’s legs finally gave out, and he sank to his knees, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Around him, the Silent Moon forces stood rooted, their fear palpable even as the storm swallowed the cultists’ figures. For a moment, none dared speak or move.

The sect was in ruins. Their victory was no victory at all—just the hollow aftermath of terror.