Blossoming Path
Chapter 204: Hands That Heal, Hands That Burn

We kept moving. Even at this speed, I kept a mental checklist running in the back of my mind.

Pingyao was a remote village. Isolated, with only a single path connecting it to the rest of the region. That isolation meant one thing, especially after the kind of winter we’d just endured.

Famine.

The cold had lasted longer than expected this year, biting deeper and arriving earlier. The kind of weather that killed harvests before they could even ripen. I was already glad I’d packed the hybrid millet grains infused with Golden Bamboo essence; their resilience and spiritual nourishment could keep people from starving, even with little else.

Assuming we weren’t too late. But based on Ping Hai's words, it hadn't been that long since the Silent Moon withdrew their support.

I glanced sideways at the third-class disciple, his breath visible in the cold, his eyes fixed ahead. He hadn’t spoken once since we left our last stop. The weight on his shoulders was different from the rest of us. it wasn’t just urgency, but also fear.

Fear of what we might find.

A question had been sitting at the edge of my thoughts since the day I began purging the converts back in Gentle Wind Village. The possibility that they might’ve been from Pingyao. I hadn’t said anything to Ping Hai. I didn’t plan to. Not yet.

Telling him now wouldn’t help.

The converts weren’t cured. They couldn’t speak coherently. Burdening him with half a truth, one he couldn’t act on, would only wreck his composure. Until we knew for sure where they were from, it would serve no purpose but pain.

We had to help his village first. That came before anything else. A voice from in front interrupted our thoughts.

"Over there!"

I glanced ahead, far into the horizon. My heart sank.

Smoke.

Black tendrils rising, far too thick to be chimney smoke. My pulse quickened.

Not a single word passed between us.

We all saw it. We all knew.

Without command, every pace doubled. And among us—among cultivators, spirit beasts, and seasoned fighters—the first to break into a full sprint was Ping Hai.

The youngest. The least experienced. And yet his stride tore through the snow like a force of nature. His desperation burned bright enough to fuel more speed than technique ever could. I could see it in the way his arms pumped, the way his face contorted with barely restrained dread.

“Tianyi!” I called. "Go full speed! Scout ahead and report back! If there's danger—”

I didn’t have to finish the sentence.

With a sharp nod, Tianyi’s wings spread in a blur, and a burst of wind exploded behind her. She launched forward, carving through the sky like a blade, vanishing into the horizon in seconds.

Windy hissed beside me, his coils tightening in anticipation.

“Go.”

He didn’t need more than that.

The snow exploded in his wake, his serpentine body darting across the terrain like a white streak against the frost.

I felt my gut twist. My jaw clenched.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

I surged forward.

As we neared the outskirts of the village, the smoke thickened. The wind carried more than ash; it carried the sharp tang of burning wood and something far worse: the iron bite of blood.

Then I heard it.

Screams.

High and ragged, filled with panic.

My heart hammered. Pingyao came into view—or what was left of it.

Bodies lay strewn along the main road, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, faces frozen in expressions of terror. Snow was stained red, steam rising from fresh blood soaking through the frost.

I spotted Tianyi first, her form a flickering blur above the village rooftops. She dove sharply, momentum folding into a corkscrewing spin as she clashed with two cultists on the rooftops. One of them scaled a broken scaffold with animalistic speed.

Windy struck from below, coiled tight around the base of the scaffold. With a hiss, he yanked him down, slamming him into the earth hard enough to splinter the frozen wood beneath.

But the second cultist was unimpeded. He pushed off from a shattered roof tile, claws dragging sparks, and lunged upward, following Tianyi with unnatural agility, limbs arcing wide as if swimming through the air.

Tianyi twisted, wings tucking for just a breath. She dropped like a falling star, wings slashing downward. Her strike tore through the cultist’s shoulder as they passed mid-air, spinning him sideways with a howl.

Jian Feng and the others had already split off, some moving to the wounded, others seeking survivors. I caught a glimpse of Miao Hu shielding a mother and her child behind a collapsed cart, while the others tended to the wounded.

And then there was Ping Hai.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even look around.

He barreled through the chaos like a man possessed, eyes wide, darting toward the heart of the village—toward the houses, toward the deeper smoke.

Xu Ziqing was on his heels, calling out something I couldn’t make out, chasing him through the ruins.

I stood still for a breath. Just one.

Chaos churned all around me. Screams. Steel. Blood. The noise was overwhelming. My mind flared while my body remained frozen.

Where was I needed most? Who should I help? Should I regroup with Tianyi? Follow Ping Hai?

But then I saw him.

A figure turning the corner from one of the houses—gaunt, bloodied, eyes sunken deep in a skull-like face. His robes were tattered, soaked in someone else's blood. One hand dragged a limp corpse by the ankle, a body trailing behind him like a sack of grain.

My feet slammed into the snow as I surged forward. All my doubts, my fear, my hesitation... it burned away in that instant.

I threw my fist straight into his solar plexus, imbuing my strike with the power of the Heavenly Flame Mantra.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

My qi surged as I struck, rushing forward with violent heat. My knuckles drove into the cultist's chest, the fire lashing out as if hungry, searing his robes and skin in an instant.

It was a blow meant to kill, not subdue.

The cultist didn’t even scream—his mouth opened, but no sound came out, only a rasping wheeze. His entire torso recoiled from the blow, ribs crunching under the force.

But I didn’t stop.

I twisted, pivoting on my heel, and drove a follow-up kick straight toward his jaw.

He moved faster than I expected.

His arm snapped up, clawed fingers catching my ankle in a vice grip.

Pain exploded along my shin as his nails dug through cloth and into flesh, tearing in like hooked barbs.

I gritted my teeth and didn’t panic.

ROOTED BANYAN STANCE!

Qi surged downward, anchoring me in place. My body hardened instantly, muscles locking down with earth-born rigidity. The sudden shift in weight caught the cultist off-guard. He stumbled forward.

That was all I needed.

With a snap, I yanked myself free, retreating back a step, foot bleeding but stable.

The cultist came forward with no hesitation, eyes gleaming with a frenzied gleam. His lips curled into a grin, bloodstained teeth bared in glee.

That wasn’t the look of a sane man.

That was the look of someone who could lose an arm and still come at you laughing.

Despite his inferior martial skill, despite the disparity in our qi reserves—he pressed me. Each movement was wild, unrefined, but relentless.

Fear clawed at the edges of my thoughts. Every instinct screamed at me to pull back, to regroup. But I didn’t run.

I ducked beneath a swinging claw, my robes fluttering from the close shave, and drew a small vial from my storage ring.

Glass cold in my palm. I didn’t hesitate, and hurled it.

The vial struck his face with a sharp crack, shattering into a puff of pale orange mist.

The cultist reeled back, stumbling.

He tried to swipe the cloud away, but it was already working, his eyes reddened instantly, his breath catching in his throat. He let out a hacking cough, then another, then a sneeze so violent it nearly threw him off balance.

Pepper powder. Infused with other toxins and yang-based plants to transform it from a minor irritant into an inescapable, burning sensation. They can override pain, and ignore broken bones or severed limbs, but... no amount of madness could ignore the act of breathing.

His eyes bulged. His mouth opened to scream, but instead came a gut-wrenching series of coughs, each one more violent than the last. His body convulsed, knees threatening to buckle. Tears streamed from bloodshot eyes, and he twisted back, reflex overriding resolve.

I didn’t miss the opening.

My feet slid forward. I pivoted low, drawing my qi into my palm, not caring how crude or ugly it looked. Not every strike needed to be elegant.

This one just had to end him.

With a yell, I drove my palm straight into his throat. The moment my hand connected, a lance of heat surged through the strike, fire roaring along my veins, and I felt the man’s windpipe collapse under the combined force.

There was a squelch. A hiss. The scent of scorched flesh and bile filled my nostrils.

His body went slack, mouth frozen in a gurgling scream. He dropped to his knees, then to his side, twitching once, then went still.

I stood over him, my breath fogging in the air, hand still crackling with residual heat.

The blood was everywhere. On my sleeves, on my knuckles, soaking into the snow beneath his body. A pool slowly spreading out from under his neck like an inkblot on silk.

I couldn’t look away.

It was the first life I had taken with my own hands.

Not an assisted one. Not a kill confirmed by someone else.

Mine.

He was dead because I chose for him to die.

And yet, I didn’t have time to feel anything about it.

No horror. No relief. Just—

Stillness.

The battlefield didn’t pause for me. It never would.

I turned away before it could settle in.

Around me, the chaos still raged.

Jian Feng was at the village's edge, dueling cultists alongside the other disciples. One of them was hunched over an old woman, hastily administering a healing draught while shielding her with his own body.

Another scream echoed, closer now, sharp and panicked.

I spun toward the sound, scanning the road.

Villagers were being herded into corners, corralled like livestock. Some were still trying to fight with shovels and pitchforks. Others just ran.

I grit my teeth, scanning the skirmish. The number of cultists wasn’t overwhelming. Maybe a half dozen, at most. But chaos was chaos. And rank-and-file or not, these were still demonic cultivators, twisted by doctrine and corruption. Their strength didn’t come from polish. It came from the fact that they didn’t care about their lives, let alone anyone else's.

There were no Envoys among them; a small reprieve. But even these “soldiers” had left corpses scattered through the snow.

I couldn’t lower my guard.

A blur to my left—Xu Ziqing, engaging one of the cultists while trying not to endanger the injured villagers trapped behind them. Every strike he threw was calculated, aimed to keep the fight moving sideways, away from the defenseless.

But that restraint was slowing him down.

That’s where I needed to be.

I dashed in, my qi surging to my legs.

“All of you—” I called out, voice ringing above the chaos, “—head west! The Verdant Lotus will protect you. Go!”

One man hesitated, clutching his wife. I ran to them without pause and lifted the injured woman into my arms.

“Go!” I shouted to the rest. “Now!”

I carried her as fast as I could, zigzagging around rubble, blood, and bodies. A screaming child clung to my leg—too terrified to move. I scooped him up with my free arm and kept running.

Behind me, I could hear Tianyi and Windy fending off another pair of cultists, pushing them away from the villagers like living shields. Windy’s tail crashed into a burning post, toppling it onto a cultist’s path. Tianyi circled above, putting herself between civilians and enemies.

Smart. Instinctual. They were buying space, just as I was.

I dropped the child beside Jian Feng, who was holding a defensive position near a collapsed hut. “Focus on defending! I'll go on ahead!"

Jian Feng nodded. “On it!”

Then another sharp intake of breath cut through the air. I turned just in time to see Xu Ziqing stumble.

The cultist he was facing landed a strike—a glancing blow, but still strong enough to double him over. The bastard was already raising his claws for the follow-up.

No time to think.

I launched forward.

My fist caught the cultist in the ribs mid-strike, sending him skidding backward in the snow, his feet gouging trails through the frozen earth.

He snarled, turning toward me with wide, bloodshot eyes and a lip curled into an expression of irritated fury; like I was a fly interrupting a meal.

I stepped in between him and Xu Ziqing, who was clutching his side, blood leaking through his robes.

“Pour this on the wound,” I said quickly, pressing a purification elixir into his hand. “It’ll draw out the corruption and seal it. Just keep pressure for the first few seconds.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

Simple. Quiet. Genuine.

And then I was moving again.

The cultist lunged. I dodged low, striking at his exposed thigh with a flame-touched palm. He growled, retaliating with a sweeping claw, barely missing my shoulder. His strength was leagues above the last one I fought—faster, tighter movements, more controlled rage.

Not at the level of an Envoy. But it didn't lessen the danger he posed to me.

I fought to stay standing, giving his deadly claws a wide berth. Each step backward was another inch conceded. Each blow I landed felt like punching a wall of wet rope; strong, but yielding enough to absorb and counter. His eyes never blinked, his mouth stretched into a permanent grin.

Then I stumbled. My foot slipped, something beneath it giving way.

A body.

A villager, no older than thirty, face frozen in a grimace.

My heel buckled, leaving my stance exposed.

The cultist moved in immediately, claws coated in some black qi, swinging toward my torso in a blow meant to cleave straight through.

ROOTED BANYAN STANCE!

I threw my weight down, feet locking in place as my body hardened. I gritted my teeth, knowing there was no guarantee I'd come out alright even with my newly blessed technique.

Clang!

Steel met claw in a flash of light. Sparks flew as Xu Ziqing’s blade intercepted the strike, redirecting it away from my body. The impact forced both fighters apart.

“Don’t freeze,” Xu Ziqing said, stepping beside me. “Follow my lead.”

His sword pulsed with a strange white glow, soft and muted, like the ghost of moonlight trailing behind every motion. He launched forward, blade carving a crescent arc through the cultist’s guard.

I understood immediately. His strikes weren’t just strong, they were directing the flow of the battle. Herding the cultist’s movements.

I mirrored him, matching his rhythm the best I could.

The cultist lunged, claws slashing in an erratic flurry. I ducked under one blow, twisted around the next; but then he vaulted sideways, pushing off a ruined cart, and climbed the air as if his body obeyed different laws altogether.

I backed off instinctively. This style of fighting wasn't something I could adapt against so easily. The structured way cultivators fought was like calligraphy; but the cultists... they were like ink splattered across parchment. Wild. Asymmetrical. No rhythm to read, no form to follow. Just violence, improvised in real time, as if the cultist’s body moved faster than his thoughts could catch up.

Xu Ziqing adjusted instantly, shifting his stance to intercept—but even he had to step back, his blade forced into a defensive arc just to track the cultist’s angle of descent.

SCHWING!

A slash forced the cultist to dodge left, barely avoiding a fatal blow. But despite being a hairsbreadth from being bisected, the gaunt man remained focused on the singular goal of slaughtering us.

He leapt again, bounding off the shattered wall of a house, claws outstretched mid-air, limbs angling for another spiraling dive. My Refinement Simulation flickered to life, mapping the force of his jump, the curve of his momentum, the angle of descent. I saw it. The collision point.

“Back—now!”

Without waiting, I drew two vials from my belt.

I hurled them in quick succession, angles calculated to collide.

Glass shattered with twin cracks. The two clouds met and bound together instantly, the pepper powder I used previously latching onto the thick, odorless smoke produced by the second vial. The two compounds combined in the form of pale orange fog across the cultist’s path, the air thick with stinging particulate.

Even from here, I felt it burn in my nostrils; a sharp, acrid bite that made my eyes water. The cultist took the brunt of it, mid-lunge. His form jerked, coughs wracking his chest as instinct kicked in before thought.

The cultist flinched mid-air.

Not from pain. From instinct.

His dive stuttered, the momentum halting just enough to ruin his timing. His form hit the ground in a crouch instead of a slash, legs bent awkwardly to arrest the fall, claws raking across the snow in frustration.

That was the opening we needed.

I stepped in, holding my breath as the remnants of the powder faded, and drove a flame-enhanced palm into his kidney.

The blow punched through cloth and flesh alike.

The cultist roared, staggering back.

"YOU INSIGNFICANT GNATS!"

But Xu Ziqing was already there, blade arcing again, drawing the curve of a waning moon.

It sliced through the cultist’s chest, just short of the heart.

Another strike. A high feint, followed by a slash to the thigh.

The exchange continued, and though the cultist fought like a cornered beast, Xu Ziqing’s blade moved with purpose. Each swing wasn’t just an attack; it was positioning, cutting off angles, driving momentum, laying down a path I could follow without hesitation.

It was like stepping into a sequence already written.

After several moves, we reached the conclusion.

"You dare—!"

Xu Ziqing stepped past me, sword raised high, and brought it down in a gleaming arc that cleaved straight through the cultist’s neck.

The body fell with a wet crunch, the head landing seconds later. We barely had time to breathe, much less celebrate the victory, as we focused on the next task.

I breathed, scanning the chaos again, “Where’s Ping Hai?”

His gaze hardened, flicking toward the deeper smoke. “He ran ahead. I stayed behind to hold this position so he could search for his parents. He wouldn't listen to reason.”

I didn’t reply; I didn’t need to. Together, we moved forward, stepping carefully through the ruins and smoke. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and coppery blood, mixing into something foul and oppressive.

We followed the trail of broken bodies. With each corpse we passed, my chest tightened. I tried not to let my gaze linger on their faces: frozen in fear, disbelief, and desperation.

Ahead, the smoke was thicker, choking. My eyes watered as I squinted through the haze, searching.

Then, I spotted Ping Hai.

He emerged from a building engulfed in flames, his hulking frame illuminated against the inferno behind him. He carried two limp figures, one over each shoulder. Even from here, I could see the strain etched deeply onto his face.

I started forward instinctively. “Ping Hai!”

He turned sharply, eyes widening when he saw us. “Help!” he shouted hoarsely, coughing harshly from inhaling the smoke. “They’re still alive! Hurry!”

Xu Ziqing and I closed the distance in seconds, ready to help him carry his burden. But just as we approached, something shifted.

A sudden groan echoed, like the cry of breaking wood and crumbling stone.

The house he exited shuddered violently, flames roaring brighter. My heart stopped for a beat.

“Get clear!” I shouted desperately, voice barely audible above the crackling flames.

We surged forward to try and meet him halfway, but before we could even take another step—

SNAP!

The home began to fall.

With a horrifying sound, the supports gave way, and the burning structure toppled unnaturally forward, threatening to bury him beneath an avalanche of blazing timber and debris.