The first thing Yun Shufeng saw was the flare — a burst of red light tearing through the gray clouds above the ridge, flaring once before dissolving into embers that rained faintly down the slopes.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then Zhou Qingrong's voice broke through the silence, trembling with alarm. "Xiuyuan is in danger!"
Wei Jingyan turned sharply toward the direction of the light. His face paled; before anyone could stop him, he had already taken a step forward. "We have to go—"
"Wait." Yun Shufeng's voice cut through the wind — calm, deep, unshaken.
He turned, his expression grim but steady. "Rongrui, Zhaoyuan — you two stay here. Guard the site and examine the skulls."
Lu Zhaoyuan's eyes flickered, but he nodded swiftly. "Understood."
Fan Rongrui swallowed and looked toward the dark slope where the flare had burned out.
Then Shufeng's gaze swept across the others — Qingrong, Jingyan, and Meng Chuan — and he motioned toward the mountain trail. "Lets go."
The wind was sharper now, carrying faint echoes from above — low wails that came and went like breath. The path was steep, the rocks slick beneath their boots.
The higher they climbed, the colder it grew. The air itself seemed charged, trembling with unseen pressure.
Then, through the mist, they saw it — two figures lying near a fallen tree, half-covered by drifting leaves.
"Xiuyuan!" Qingrong's voice cracked as she rushed forward, kneeling beside him.
He was pale, breath shallow, his robes torn by claw marks. The faint shimmer of spent spiritual energy still clung to him — a shield that had protected him until it burned itself out.
Jingyan dropped to his knees beside Qingrong, shaking slightly. "Shixiong…" His voice was hoarse, desperate.
Yun Shufeng knelt down, pressing his fingers to Xiuyuan's wrist. For a moment, the group held its breath. Then Shufeng exhaled quietly.
"He's alright. Weak, but stable. No fatal injuries."
The tension broke all at once — Qingrong bowed her head, and Jingyan's shoulders sagged in relief.
Only then did Shufeng's gaze shift to the other figure beside Xiuyuan.
"Mingyue," he said.
The young man lay a short distance away, slumped against the ground, his hair tangled, blood streaking his cheek. He blinked faintly when they approached, his lips trembling as he tried to focus.
Jingyan frowned and crouched beside him. "What happened?"
Mingyue's breath hitched; he coughed twice, the sound convincing enough to make them wince. He pressed a hand against his ribs and pointed weakly toward the mountain peak.
"The old man," he said. "He's performing the final sacrifice there… the three missing disciples — they're alive, but not for long."
Yun Shufeng's eyes narrowed. "How do you know this?"
"Shizun… saw it," Mingyue said between labored breaths. "He had a vision — the girl's spirit showed him. We were heading there, but… the spirits attacked us in the storm."
He coughed again, shaking slightly. "I tried to protect him, but… my physical strength isn't enough…"
The words trembled with just the right blend of exhaustion and guilt.
Qingrong reached out to steady him, her tone soft. "You did well, Mingyue. Don't strain yourself."
He gave a faint, tired smile — eyes half-closed, every line of his body the image of an overmatched servant who had simply done his best. Inside, though, the pulse of suppressed energy still hummed quietly beneath his skin, hidden from sight.
Shufeng glanced toward the mountain top, where dark clouds churned like boiling ink. "If the ritual completes, the consequences will spread far beyond this valley."
He turned to Meng Chuan. "Stay here and protect them."
Meng Chuan blinked, startled. "Shixiong, let me come too — you'll need me there."
Shufeng's expression hardened. "No. Someone must remain to guard the Sect Leader. That's an order."
Meng Chuan opened his mouth to protest — but before he could, another voice rose behind them, calm and firm.
"There's no need for that," said Lin Wuyue.
They turned. She was approaching from the lower path, robes fluttering in the wind, her face cold with determination. two disciples followed at a distance, eyes wide at the sight before them.
She strode up to them, her gaze moving instantly to Ling Xiuyuan. Relief flickered in her eyes, swiftly replaced by steel. "Is shizun okay?"
"Yes," Yun Shufeng said. "Barely exhausted, but safe for now."
"Good." Then she turned to the others. "You four go. I'll remain here and take care of things."
He inclined his head. "Then we leave them to you."
She nodded once. "Go. Before it's too late."
As they departed toward the summit, Lin Wuyue crouched beside Xiuyuan again, her hand brushing stray leaves from his shoulder. His pulse was steady beneath her fingertips, but faint.
"Mingyue," she said quietly.
He didn't answer.
She looked over — and found him lying still, breathing shallow, eyes half-closed as though on the edge of unconsciousness. He had arranged himself neatly beside Xiuyuan, one hand resting protectively near the Sect Leader's sleeve.
For a moment, something softened in her expression.
"You're braver than you look," she murmured.
Mingyue's lips twitched faintly, a ghost of a smile. "…not brave," he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear. "Just… didn't want him hurt."
Then his lashes lowered again, his breathing deepening into the quiet rhythm of feigned exhaustion.
Lin Wuyue exhaled slowly and turned her eyes toward the mountain peak where thunder still roared, whispering a prayer beneath her breath — for the living, for the lost, and for whatever awaited them all at dawn.
Lightning coiled through the clouds like veins of living fire, painting the world in brief flashes of white and violet. The ground was wet with blackened soil; the air reeked of blood, incense, and something older — the scent of death mixed with iron and burnt offerings.
When Yun Shufeng and his party reached the ridge, the scene that met them froze their breath.
At the center of the clearing stood a man in tattered robes, his hair streaked with gray and his eyes alight with madness. Around him, a vast circle had been drawn — blood mixed with ash and crushed bone. Inside it, three disciples knelt, bound by ropes that pulsed with black energy. Their eyes were wide with terror; their mouths gagged but still struggling to cry out.
The old man's voice carried over the wind — a low, guttural chant that made the very earth vibrate. "The sect destroyed her… cast her away… tonight, the debt shall be repaid in blood."
Yun Shufeng's hand went instantly to his sword. His tone was cold as steel. "Enough."
The chant broke. The man's head turned sharply, eyes gleaming with feverish hatred. "Ah… the Jingshou dogs. Come to interrupt a holy rite again?"
Behind Shufeng, Zhou Qingrong stepped forward, her sword already half-drawn. "Release them," she said. "Or I'll carve that circle out of your flesh."
The man laughed — a hollow, cracked sound that made the hairs on Meng Chuan's neck rise. "You can't stop this. Her soul is watching. The sacrifice will bring her peace."
"Peace?" Wei Jingyan snapped, his voice shaking with anger. "You're murdering disciples for peace?"
But before another word could be spoken, the ground itself shuddered.
The symbols drawn in blood began to glow, and a surge of black energy burst upward like a pillar, shaking the mountain. From within the darkness, shapes began to emerge — countless hands clawing their way out of the soil, faces twisting in anguish.
"Spirits!" Meng Chuan shouted, stepping back. "There are dozens of them!"
"Stay behind me!" Yun Shufeng barked. His sword ignited with pale blue spiritual fire. With one sweeping motion, he carved a line through the air — the flame expanding outward in a protective barrier that surrounded the others.
The spirits shrieked when they hit it, their forms scattering into mist. But more came — shadows pouring from the trees, crawling over the ground, whispering like broken glass.
Zhou Qingrong darted toward the bound disciples, cutting through the ropes that bound their wrists. "Hold still!" she ordered. Her blade glimmered as it sliced through the cursed bindings, releasing crackles of dark energy.
One of the freed disciples sobbed, "Elder Zhou—thank you—"
"Quiet. Stay close," she said, her voice gentle but firm.
Behind her, Meng Chuan and Wei Jingyan stood back-to-back, deflecting strikes from shadowy claws that burst from the fog.
Jingyan shouted, "Try not to trip on your own sword this time!"
Meng Chuan scoffed, slashing at a ghostly figure. "At least I don't hide behind Shixiong or your shijie every time something scary moves!"
"Scary? It's a murderous spirit, you fool!"
"It's only scary if you scream louder than it!"
"I'm not screaming!"
"Then what's that sound—?"
Their argument was cut short when a shrieking spirit lunged between them. They both swung simultaneously — their swords collided midair, scattering light and smoke.
"Watch where you're swinging, idiot!" Jingyan shouted.
"I was watching! You moved in the way!"
"Enough!" Zhou Qingrong snapped without turning. "If you have the energy to bicker, use it to kill something that deserves it!"
They both fell silent for exactly two seconds before muttering under their breath again.
Yun Shufeng ignored them. His eyes were fixed on the old man, who was now floating above the blood circle, the ritual nearing completion.
The man's arms spread wide, his voice echoing across the ridge. "By her name — by her grief — I summon all that was denied! Rise, my beloved! Rise!"
The sky darkened instantly. The mountain trembled; a wave of black wind shot outward, throwing even Shufeng a few steps back.
The three freed disciples screamed as chains of spirit energy lashed toward them again, trying to pull them back into the circle.
Zhou Qingrong thrust her sword into the ground, spiritual energy bursting from it in a radiant wave that shattered the chains mid-air. "You'll touch them over my dead body," she hissed.
"Then so be it!"
The old man's eyes flared red, and he hurled a blast of pure energy toward her.
Before it could strike, Yun Shufeng stepped forward, intercepting the attack with a flick of his wrist. The impact exploded in light and thunder — when it cleared, Shufeng stood unshaken, the air rippling around him.
"Your anger blinds you," he said. "But vengeance built on death will only summon more sorrow."
The man's expression twisted. "Sorrow is all I have left!"
He raised both hands — and from the darkness behind him, a massive spectral figure began to form: a woman's silhouette, her face hollow, her long hair flowing like smoke. Her scream tore through the air, shaking the forest below.
"Meng Chuan, Jingyan!" Shufeng called. "Hold the barrier!"
They obeyed instantly — or at least tried to. Together they crossed their blades, channeling energy into a defensive seal. Sparks burst around them as the spirit's claws crashed into it.
"This thing's huge!" Meng Chuan shouted.
"Then stop talking and strengthen your seal!" Wei Jingyan barked.
"I am strengthening it—"
"Then why can I still see through it?"
"It's artistic transparency!"
"Artistic my—!"
A blast hit them both, sending them tumbling backward.
Yun Shufeng was already moving — his sword traced a sigil mid-air, summoning a pillar of light that cut through the spirit's form. "Focus!" he commanded. His voice alone seemed to anchor the battlefield.
Zhou Qingrong was shielding the freed disciples behind a glowing ward, her arms trembling but steady. "I can't hold it much longer—!"
"Hold it just a little more," Shufeng said calmly, eyes fixed on the enemy.
He leapt upward, spiritual flame roaring along his blade.
The sword fell like a meteor, slicing through the ritual circle. The blood symbols burned white and shattered — and with them, the woman's ghost screamed, collapsing into ash and mist.
The explosion of energy that followed knocked everyone off their feet. The air turned silent.
When the light faded, the old man was kneeling at the center of the scorched ground, his body trembling, eyes hollowed by grief and exhaustion.
Yun Shufeng approached slowly, his blade lowered. "It's over."
The man's lips moved soundlessly before a whisper escaped. "She… just wanted to be remembered."
For a long time, no one spoke. The freed disciples clung to Zhou Qingrong's sleeves, sobbing quietly.
Meng Chuan groaned, sitting up and brushing dust from his face. "That was… impressive," he muttered.
Wei Jingyan gave him a glare. "You almost got me killed with your artistic transparency."
"You're welcome for the half of the barrier that actually worked!"
Yun Shufeng sheathed his sword and looked up at the storm-split sky. "The ritual is broken."
He said nothing more, only turned toward the path down the mountain. "Let's return."
"Bind him. He'll answer before the sect." Qingrong said.
"As you command, "shijie." Wei Jingyan sheathed his sword, breathing heavily.