Blossoming Path
Chapter 207: One Ring for the Dead

The night was black as pitch.

No stars. No moon. Only the crunch of frost beneath feet, muffled beneath layers of shadow and silence.

Five figures moved through the treeline like phantoms, their robes trailing behind them. Even the birds dared not cry in their wake.

Gentle Wind Village lay several li ahead. Distant lanterns glowed like fireflies on the horizon, their faint orange light bobbing with the movement of patrols. From here, the village looked small. Quiet. Vulnerable.

The leader raised a hand, cutting off the whisper. His head turned sharply.

Movement.

But not from the village.

Closer. Much closer.

Downhill, barely twenty paces ahead, something stirred. A small silhouette, hunched and meandering along a half-buried footpath. One of the cultists narrowed his eyes, focusing through the gloom.

He shuffled forward, his steps uneven, a long cane sweeping before him with each stride. With every swing, the cane rang with a faint chime, soft and metallic; like a bell hanging from its end. The sound was faint, barely audible over the wind.

The figure paused, tilting his head. His eyes were white, milk-clouded and unblinking. The old man turned, facing them, though clearly not seeing. He tilted his head again, as if listening to the snow.

The youngest of the five cultists sneered. “He’s blind.”

The leader said nothing.

“I’ll handle it.”

He leapt forward with a predator’s grace, qi pooling into his legs and claws. Snow hissed beneath his footfall as he dashed toward the blind old man, already imagining his nails ripping through fragile ribs. Normally, he’d have drawn it out, savored the panic, the screams... but not now. Not with patrols so close and orders to follow. This one had to be quick. Quiet. Clean.

The old man didn’t move.

He simply turned, slowly, and raised his cane again.

'No', the cultist realized mid-strike, 'not a cane.'

The end was curved like a shepherd’s hook but gleaming. Polished. Metal.

The “cane” caught the lantern-glow just enough for him to notice the glint. The old man wasn’t holding a walking stick.

He was gripping a blade by the hook.

The air rang.

A chime—clearer, brighter than before—sliced through the dark.

The cultist’s vision tilted suddenly. No pain, no pressure. Just the cold rush of disorientation. He saw the ground twist sideways, snow flying past him. His body kept moving, stumbling another step.

And then, collapsing.

From behind, he saw his own body hit the ground. The headless stump spurted red.

His consciousness faded before it understood.

The hook-blade whistled once through the air, and blood arced free from the polished steel.

Ren Zhi sighed as he gently tapped the end of the blade against his boot, letting the chime ring out once more.

“A shame,” he muttered. “Only one stepped up. I’d hoped for a five-head sweep.”

He let the first hook-blade fall into his off hand, flipping it in a smooth reverse grip. Then, from his back, he drew a second blade; identical in shape, glinting like silver under snowlight.

He stood straight for the first time, his cloak shifting.

No longer a hunched figure, but a killer at rest.

“I suppose the rest of you need encouragement.”

He turned his head, the bells on his blades chiming gently in the wind.

And he lunged forward.

For a moment, the remaining four cultists were frozen.

They snapped out of it fast. One snarled. Another hissed.

Ren Zhi stepped in with deceptive ease, dragging both swords low across the snow. They sparked faintly as he swung wide, arcing a crescent of death through the frost. Three moved just in time.

The fourth did not.

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A cultist's leg came off at the thigh with a wet snap, a clean cut through bone and muscle. He crumpled backward with a scream, clutching at his stump.

The scream barely had time to echo before Ren Zhi moved again.

He stepped back, hooking both blades together at the crescent ends in a lazy, fluid motion. They clicked into place, forming a flexible link—two swords now acting as one.

The cultists hesitated. But the moment was already lost.

A flicker of pale blue in the darkness.

Then Ren Zhi swung.

The right blade carried the motion. The left followed like an anchor on a chain, launched outward with terrifying force. The hooked edge extended the arc, dragging through the air like a reaper’s scythe.

It sliced across all four cultists in one sweep.

They barely had time to react.

No flash. No grandiose wave of energy. Just blood, quick and clean, blooming in the snow as bodies hit the ground.

Five cultists. Gone. Their lives extinguished in less time than it took the wind to carry their final breath.

Ren Zhi exhaled quietly, the bells on his weapons ringing in a fading echo. He stood still, listening. Not to the corpses behind him, but to the village lights ahead.

"They won’t notice," he murmured, tilting his head to the side as though the faint bob of a lantern confirmed it. “Good.”

He flicked the connected blades apart with a practiced twist, the metal singing as it broke from the lock. In a single motion, he wiped them clean in the snow, the twin bells giving a satisfied jingle.

But his brow furrowed beneath the hood.

“More cultists than before... Are they targeting this place too?”

His voice was soft. Barely a whisper. But there was something heavier in it now. Awareness, edged with old regret.

You swore not to interfere.

That old promise echoed in his thoughts.

He was no cultivator anymore. No master. No leader.

Just an old man with fading eyes and a few tricks left in his bones.

And yet—

He looked back toward Gentle Wind Village. Toward the warm lights. The quiet patrols.

This place was safe. Forgotten. Only a single person knew his true name, his deeds. And that was how it needed to stay.

Better a hermit in peace than a legend forced to kill again.

Besides, the real battles were elsewhere. Crescent Bay. The frontlines. That was where the weight fell now.

These cultists were just remnants. A few snakes slithering where the storm hadn’t yet reached.

But…

He turned his head sharply.

Above, high in the air, something shifted.

To anyone else, it would’ve been empty sky. But Ren Zhi’s ears twitched. His head tilted.

He lifted his hook-blade again, gripping the curve this time, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, slashed at the air.

A thin arc of qi surged outward, invisible save for the ripple it left in the wind.

A shriek.

Two dark eyes—floating midair—split apart like painted glass. The illusion collapsed with a shimmer, as if ink had been cut from parchment.

“True Sight Eyes,” Ren Zhi muttered, sheathing his sword on his back with a tired motion. “So the cultists have the ability to perform such advanced formations? Perhaps this is indeed too much for the cultivators of this region to handle.”

The bell of his sword chimed again, slower this time.

“…but with the Heavenly Interface empowering everyone with ambition... who knows anymore?”

He listened a moment longer.

Silence.

No more watchers. No more stray souls.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned his back on the corpses and began walking slowly toward the path, snow crunching under each step.

“The boy Shan Ming’s expecting tea,” he muttered. “Can’t be late. He always brews it too bitter if I am.”

The blades disappeared beneath his cloak. His shoulders hunched once more.

Just an old man, wandering off into the snow.

The woman hissed in pain, cradling her face with both hands, fingertips twitching as if to claw her own eyes out as she backed away from the stone basin covered in dark liquid.

“Damn it,” she rasped. “That bastard shattered the formation. I pulled back just in time, or I'd be blind.”

Beside her, the man with the heavily scarred face watched her with a furrowed brow, half his mouth permanently twisted in a sneer. A long welt split one side of his lip, never quite healed.

“He saw through the True Sight Eyes?” His voice was low, edged with incredulity. “How?”

“I don’t know,” she growled, breathing in shallow gasps. “He shouldn't have been able to. No cultivator should have the sensitivity to detect it, much less strike it down. He's undoubtedly in the Spirit Ascension Stage.”

The scarred man clenched his fists, the ridges of his knuckles bone-white.

“The Envoy stationed in that region... you think he—?”

“It has to be him,” she cut in. “Same region. Same pattern. It matches perfectly. That wasn't luck or poor reporting.”

He looked toward the eastern wall of the cold, torchlit chamber, where no light touched the farthest stone.

“A force like that can’t be ignored.” His qi flared slightly in his chest, readying itself. “I’ll go deal with him myself—”

And then, they both froze.

Something pressed down on them. An intent. Not a voice, not a sound, but a presence, heavy and undeniable. It coiled around their minds like frost on bare skin; slow, creeping, and suffocating.

Come.

The air itself grew heavier. Colder. Not in the way of mountain wind or drifting snow, but in the damp, breathless chill of a tomb. The kind of cold that never left the stone, where water clung to the walls and refused to evaporate. Where time did not move.

The woman straightened slowly, one hand still covering her eyes.

The man beside her stepped back from the wall and bowed his head once. Both turned in silence.

They passed through the stone corridor without speaking, feet slick against the black, sweat-slicked floor. The air smelled faintly of wet rot and burnt metal. The walls wept moisture that never dried, the condensation trailing down like blood from unseen wounds.

Silence dominated.

Only the drip… drip… of ancient water. The breathless hush of something breathing in the dark.

And chanting.

Low. Rhythmic. In a tongue that felt stitched into the stone itself. The deeper they went, the louder it became.

By the time they reached the inner sanctum, neither of them could hear their own breath. The sound of their heartbeat had retreated, as though the body itself feared to make noise here.

They reached the final threshold, marked by twin obsidian pillars. Upon them, rows of bone-carved talismans shimmered faintly, their surfaces writhing with characters that refused to stay still.

The scarred man hesitated for only a breath, then stepped forward and knelt, pressing his head against the icy floor. The woman followed a beat after.

From beyond the veil of smoke and shadow, something began to move.

And the pressure only deepened.

Something vast stirred in the dark.

A figure, draped in ragged robes that hung loosely, more akin to a burial shroud than proper attire. The darkness surrounding him felt unnatural, thick and heavy as if woven from something beyond mere shadow. He faced the cold stone wall, his voice rising and falling in an unending chant that resonated with eerie clarity.

The two envoys pressed their foreheads harder into the cold floor. Neither dared move nor speak until the chanting finally ebbed into silence, leaving an oppressive void in its place.

The Bishop turned slowly, revealing aged but powerful hands clasped loosely at his sides. Though his face remained cloaked in darkness, his presence filled the chamber, heavy and oppressive, pressing down upon their shoulders.

"Where are the Phoenix Tears?"

The heavily scarred envoy swallowed audibly, daring briefly to lift his gaze toward the Bishop before flinching and returning his forehead to the stone. "We still have not located the final cultivator in possession of the remaining vial. He has fled out of range, or is using some form of magic to obscure his location."

A sharp inhale hissed through the Bishop's teeth, echoing subtly in the confined space. "Then find him. Track him relentlessly. I will personally ensure his capture."

Immediately, both envoys bolted upright, desperation replacing their fear. "Bishop, please reconsider!" the scarred envoy pleaded. "Do not risk yourself unnecessarily. This failure is mine alone. Allow me one final chance to right my mistake."

The Bishop stood motionless, the silence stretching thin until a quiet, almost gentle drip echoed against the floor. A dark liquid splattered softly; blood tears weeping slowly from beneath the hood.

"Centuries," he whispered, the words heavy with longing and sorrow. "Centuries of patience, of suffering, waiting to fulfill our sacred vow and awaken the Heavenly Demon."

He stepped forward, his robes whispering against the stone. "Lead me. We can delay no longer."

The envoys dropped again, foreheads pressed painfully against the floor. "Please, Bishop," the woman gasped softly, her voice thick with fear, "consider your condition. Should you suffer injury, all our efforts would unravel. Allow us to secure the Phoenix Tears."

The Bishop paused.

The silence was suffocating. His presence alone seemed to press down on the marrow of their bones. Slowly, he turned, facing them for the first time. His eyes were clouded, milky with age, yet they gleamed with a malice that was timeless. Not dimmed. Not dulled. Only buried, waiting.

"You will take command of the faithful below you," the Bishop said, his voice dragging through the silence like rusted chains. "Gather them. There can be no hesitation now."

He did not turn as he spoke. The wall before him remained untouched, though his hands trembled faintly against the stone.

"A ritual will be prepared," he continued, and the air around him seemed to grow colder with each word. "The rain will fall. It will seep into the bones of mortals and cultivators alike. Even those with golden cores will feel their meridians blacken. The land will dry. The rivers will choke. Let them eat dust and drink ash until their knees buckle from hunger. And when they break, when they cry for salvation, they will come out of hiding. The one who holds the final vial. They will show. They always do, in the end."

He lifted his head slightly, as though scenting blood in the air.

"Let those who resist have their hearts torn from their chests, their blood scattered into the wind as penance. Let the red mist rise, and may it stain the sky until the heavens remember our name."

A beat of silence.

"You may go."

They kowtowed once more, foreheads scraping the stone, then rose and backed away with trembling steps, robes dragging through the condensation-slick floor.

The Bishop remained still until their presence vanished.

Then, with the stiffness of something ancient waking, he turned back toward the wall. With slow precision, he sank to his knees. His palms pressed once more to the cold surface, and from his mouth, the chant resumed; low, otherworldly, and wrong.

The air thickened with every syllable.

And the walls wept anew.