THE WORDS SEEMED to drain him of all his pride and strength. Xue Meng closed his eyes, tears coursing down his cheeks.
"Stop fighting…"
But the conflict was like an inferno—easy to ignite and hard to put out. The battle had already left dead and wounded strewn over Loyalty Hall; their blood had become the fuel that fanned the flames of resentment and madness to a roaring peak. Few people heard Xue Meng's howl or Xue Zhengyong's sigh. Even if they did, their eyes were dyed red with bloodlust; they wouldn't stop.
Too much had transpired. Murders, the Heavenly Rift, the Zhenlong Chess Formation, the dead of Guyueye, the mess of Jiangdong Hall, the leaderless Bitan Manor, the massacre at Wubei Temple. Many of the cultivators present had lost friends and family in recent days.
Who was behind it? Who spoke the truth, and who was lying? They had no answer, but everything pointed to Sisheng Peak. The accumulated hatred and fear had detonated here today.
Water spilled could not be gathered up.
Xue Meng hadn't been in a great many battles; he couldn't see the direction things were headed. His chest heaved as he stood in place, staring at the scene of slaughter.
But as Xue Zhengyong looked over the battlefield, he saw it clearly. At this point, no one was in control—this was likely far beyond what even the instigators had imagined. He clenched his jaw, blinking stars out of his eyes as he shoved down the devastating pain in his abdomen. He grabbed Xue Meng by the shoulder. "You need to go. Now."
"Dad?!"
"Get out of here! Go to your mom; don't argue!"
But the horde had already surrounded them, mad with bloodlust. "Xue Meng, you killed my shixiong—you'll pay with your life!"
"You're the son of a beast!"
Xue Meng froze. He'd killed this person's shixiong? When…? He'd never hurt anyone, or taken a life; he'd never…
His mind was a complete mess. In the chaos, he looked down and saw Longcheng dripping with blood. Terror engulfed him. Yes, he'd killed people. He'd killed—first that lying matchmaker, and then…
He didn't remember. He'd madly begun the killing; his face and hands were covered in blood…all of him covered…
Xue Meng threw back his head and howled like a dying beast. Veins stood out on his temples, his face a rictus of agony. How had it come to this… Since the day Mo Ran left, everything had gone wrong. Everything had spun out of control; he'd drifted farther and farther away from the person he used to be.
"I killed someone. Dad… I killed someone…"
He turned in a panic and met Xue Zhengyong's eyes, stark in a bone-white face. Xue Zhengyong grabbed his hands and pulled Xue Meng behind him, wielding his iron fan as he blazed a trail of blood through their attackers.
"Go." On the verge of death, he still gave his son, no longer so young, a way out. "Meng-er, go now."
But Xue Meng only stood there, lost. Yet another attacker came at them, but Xue Zhengyong could no longer swing the fan. He reached out and grabbed the attacker's blade. Blood spurted from the bone-deep cuts. Xue Zhengyong swore, unsheathing a dagger at his waist and burying it in his opponent's belly.
Blood ran in rivers over the floor of the hall.
"Go!" roared Xue Zhengyong. Catching sight of a face in the crowd, he shouted, "Hanxue! Take him! Take him away!"
Mei Hanxue had been trying to press closer this whole time; finally, he broke through. He flew to Xue Meng's side and looked one last time at Xue Zhengyong, his eyes full of suppressed pain. Then he grabbed Xue Meng's arm. "Come with me," he said in a low voice. Cutting a path through the carnage, he dragged the numb Xue Meng toward the back door of Loyalty Hall.
Perhaps the defection of Taxue Palace was too shocking—by the time anyone realized what had happened, Mei Hanxue was at the door, Xue Meng in tow. The remaining cultivators charged at the two of them, shrieking. "You killed our sectmates, and now you're running off? Who's going to pay?!"
One-handed, Mei Hanxue strummed his harp. The clang cut through the air like a storm of stone, sending their enemies staggering backward. But he'd barely exhaled in relief when he heard Xue Zhengyong yell, "Behind you!"
Mei Hanxue whipped around to see a man, face streaked with grime, grinning malevolently as he slashed down at Xue Meng. He raised his hand, too late—
An iron fan scythed through the hall, full of spiritual energy. It swerved in midair and tore a hole through the man's chest.
"Uncle!"
"Dad!"
Both young men turned in shock. Xue Zhengyong was gasping for breath; he'd clearly spent too much of himself in that final strike. The iron fan, having felled its target, clattered to the floor. Crimson ran down its spines. The words written there, whether Xue Is Beautiful or Others Are Ugly, were no longer legible.
Xue Zhengyong waved a hand, feebly shooing them away. Voice faltering, he urged, "Go—"
He was still speaking; in Xue Meng's shrinking pupils, a blade appeared, suffused with spiritual energy. A disciple from Jiangdong Hall stood behind Xue Zhengyong with his sword held aloft. Before Xue Meng could cry out, he brought the blade whistling down on his father's head.
The world seemed to go silent.
Xue Meng's eyes widened; he couldn't hear a thing. It was like he'd sunk to the depths of the sea—there was no breeze, no warmth, no light. Everything was dark. All the blood in Xue Meng's body seemed to freeze, then boil. Hairs stood up on the back of his neck, his face a rictus of grief as he stared at his father through the mayhem.
Xue Zhengyong had only just watched his son get to safety. A look of relief lingered on his face, frozen in that instant. It almost looked as if he had gone peacefully.
The sea was so deep, a void without end. The freezing water pierced his flesh in an eternal ache. It was so quiet. Dead quiet. There was no sound at all…nothing…
Blood ran from that cracked skull, trickling down his eyes and his cheeks. Two thick streams fell like twin tracks of red tears.
For a single mad moment, Xue Meng thought it must be a joke, or a dream. That everything could be turned back, that there was still time. But he was wrong. He was too late. To care for anyone was to have a weakness—even gods of war could die.
"Dad—!"
His howl echoed like the fall of a mountain into the sea. The silence shattered—waves surged like frothing snow, heavy stone breaking through the surf in a hideous crash that shook the skies. Crazed with grief, Xue Meng staggered toward Xue Zhengyong; his bestial wailing made everyone pause and turn toward him in fear.
The tides parted. He staggered through the crowd, running for Xue Zhengyong.
His father was still standing; his spine had never bent. Even now he stared at Xue Meng, his tiger eyes wide. As if he was still alive, as if he could be saved, as if they could…
Yet as he drew closer, Xue Zhengyong fell. With a great thud, he collapsed, his body still unbent. His assailants scattered.
The fighting had stopped.
Xue Meng stood frozen. He didn't take another step. He simply stood, shaking from head to toe. His minute trembling turned into violent spasms, rippling through his lips, his fingers, every part of him out of his control.
He mumbled, questioning, hesitant, "Dad?"
The hall was awash in blood. No one would ever answer him again. Longcheng clanged to the ground. Xue Meng took a few steps back, then a few more…but where could he go? Back to yesterday? Yesterday would never return. Any step in life—whether taken by thoughtless coincidence or in scouring anguish—could never be undone.
It was silent in Loyalty Hall. Xue Meng's feet stopped; with a shudder, he knelt on the ground, staring dully at the scene before him. Tears streamed down his face; he reached up to scrub them away, but none of his wiping was any use. His tears kept coming. At last, he buried his face in his palms, whimpering softly. His sorrow was like ink on paper, slowly spreading—filling the page with smears of black.
"Dad… Dad!" Those swallowed-up sobs became howling wails. The man who had shielded Xue Meng would never stand up again. Would never beat back the trials of life with his broad shoulders and sunny smile. For the darling of the heavens, the carefree days of his youth now truly came to an end, reduced to a crumbling ruin.
It was a mess—all of it a mess.
The disciple from Jiangdong Hall still stood behind Xue Zhengyong. His sword fell from limp fingers. "No," he mumbled. "No… It wasn't me…"
He shook his head, trembling like chaff as he watched Xue Meng where he knelt, wild-eyed. He wanted to run, but all eyes were on him. There was nowhere he could go.
"No… I can explain—I… I only wanted to strike the weapon from his hand."
He stared at Xue Meng, swallowing anxiously. Xue Meng was drowning in grief, but the disciple knew the moment Xue Meng looked up, all that awaited him was death.
"Go get Madam Wang." The Xuanji Elder was the calmest among them. He looked at Xue Meng, shivering on the ground. He was still kneeling; he was still sobbing. Xuanji instructed his disciple softly, "Hurry. I fear no one else will be able to stop the young master."
The disciple had just watched his sect leader die, and his own face was streaked with tears. "But Shizun, it was the sect leader who forbade the madam from coming. The madam never gets involved in things like this, she…"
"Is this the time? How are you still nattering on? Hurry!"
Scrubbing at his face, the disciple nodded and took to his heels, sprinting toward the back of the mountain.
Now that a sect leader had fallen, the fighting finally died down. Some whimpered from the pain of their injuries, while others were slightly green. Some stood with their lips pursed in silence, while one person whispered, "What happened? Xue Zhengyong shouldn't have been so weak. Why didn't he dodge the blow?"
None of them knew Xue Zhengyong had been attacked by a Zhenlong pawn only yesterday, gravely injured during his mission in Wuchang Town. They sighed. "Ah, I guess he's been a sect leader for too long. Everyone gets old—he was a hero past his prime."
Xue Meng couldn't hear the whispering. Slowly, his vision was dyed red by tears and hate. Choking, sobbing, weeping, his eyes flared scarlet like a sea of red maples. He looked up, staring at the crowd of cultivators. All the clarity and earnestness in those eyes had burned out, leaving only blood and hatred, resentment and fury.
A roar tore from his throat as Longcheng rose to kill.
This time, Xue Meng had truly lost his mind. Those around him screamed; he had become terrifying, devoid of rationality or fear.
Who could stop him? No one! Wubei Temple, Guyueye, Jiangdong Hall, Huohuang Pavilion… No. He saw none of them. All he could see were the faces of vicious ghosts, the twisted shapes of shadows. He wallowed in purgatory, in the void, in an endless sea of blood.
All he felt was hate.
Why?
Why had twenty years of devotion crumbled before one scheme, a handful of rumors? Why had a lifetime of earnestness become wasted sincerity, empty effort? Why was a singular act of kindness rewarded, while a habit of doing good deeds was met with scorn?
Why was he so, so foolish?
Blood ran in torrents. He couldn't hear. The pleading of those under his blade was foam and nothingness. Xue Meng had gone insane. A bloodied phoenix amidst burning flames, a crimson-eyed beast rising from an inferno with fangs dripping, snapping its jaws around the throats of all who stood in his way.
Once upon a time, during the year Xue Meng had come of age, Xue Zhengyong had patted Xue Meng's head in the midst of ringing cicada song and asked him with a smile, "What does my son want to do in the future?"
"I want to be just like Dad." The little phoenix had looked up through limpid eyes. "I want to be a great hero, a good man who punishes evil and upholds justice. I want to die with no regrets."
Blood sprayed over his face. Someone was screaming. Who had he killed? Someone's sister, maybe, or their wife. It didn't matter. They could die, he could kill. He had no innocence to preserve. They'd brought this on themselves, after all—they'd driven him to this!
He slaughtered them, consumed by madness. Distantly, he saw that the crowd had parted. He couldn't hear a thing… He couldn't hear…
A quiet voice cut through the ringing in his ears.
"Meng-er."
A shaking voice, doing its best to suppress some great emotion; soft as a spiral of smoke rising from an incense burner, dissipating at the touch of a finger.
The words seemed to grab him by the heart. Xue Meng paused, dazed.
"Take him down!"
"Stop him!"
People came at him from all sides.
"Meng-er…"
Xue Meng was like a panther surrounded by wolves, bathed in blood. His injured arm was shaking uncontrollably—at this rate, he might never be able to fight with it again. He narrowed his eyes, scarlet streaking his vision, and turned numbly toward the voice.
The back door of Loyalty Hall was open, hazy sunlight slanting in. Madam Wang had appeared at the doorway, dressed in white. Her health was fragile and her temperament gentle; she'd never intervened in such matters—until now, having heard the news and rushed toward the hall. The woman they had always known as meekly beautiful arrived a tear-sodden mess.
"Mom?" rasped Xue Meng, his voice shredded by grief.
The disciples of Sisheng Peak knelt in greeting. "Madam."
The elders made their bows. "Madam Wang."
Her face was white as paper, the bright coral beads of her earrings the only spots of color on her pale figure. She said nothing, first flinching as her gaze fell upon her husband's corpse, then paling further at the sight of Xue Meng disoriented and forced to his knees.
Knowing how frail she was, the members of Sisheng Peak feared she'd faint from the shock. But Madam Wang only trembled, her lips moving but failing to form speech. On her second attempt, she spoke—her voice was awful to hear, but she'd composed herself with all the will she had. "Let him go."
Three words, said softly to those surrounding Xue Meng.
Many of these cultivators had never laid eyes on Madam Wang. Seeing her now, they thought her merely a weak woman and snarled back at her, "Your son's killed so many people; why should we let him go?!"
"He must be brought before Tianyin Pavilion for sentencing!"
Madam Wang's eyes swam with tears, but she repeated herself, resolute: "Let him go."
No one moved. They were locked in a stalemate.
Madam Wang raised her chin, as if trying to keep her tears from spilling over, but to no avail. Salty tears rolled down her cheeks, and she closed her eyes, her slender body shaking like willow fuzz in the wind.
"Sisheng Peak refused to disband and harmed countless cultivators," someone called out. "Not to mention the matter of Mo Ran and Chu Wanning, which is far too suspicious. Regardless, justice must be served. Murder must be paid for with the murderer's life; that's the natural order. Madam, our apologies."
Madam Wang said nothing. She didn't look at her husband's body again. The crowd parted for her as she slowly ascended the steps up to the dais of Loyalty Hall and came to a stop before the sect leader's seat.
A susurration of murmurs continued beneath her. "The death of Xue-zhangmen was an accident, but Xue Meng was aiming to kill."
"That's right, he must be taken into custody!"
The noise rose and fell like the tide. A draft swept through the hall; the curtains fluttered, and a cool light shone through the inner drapes.
"Xue Meng's crimes—"
A resounding boom startled the cultivators into silence.
The person slamming their hand down on the table was this woman as frail as a weed. Madam Wang's eyes were wide, her beautiful face flushed. She had never been given to fits of temper, but fury had kindled in her heart. She stood before the hall, eyes sweeping over those assembled.
"Meng-er is my son, Ran-er is my nephew, and Zhengyong is my husband." Her voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear and firm. "You've torn out my nephew's core and taken my husband's life. Now, you want to take my son from me as well?"
For all that Jiangdong Hall had the highest proportion of female cultivators in their sect, it was they who were least sympathetic to Madam Wang. One young woman immediately spoke out. "Lady Wang, be reasonable."
"That's right. If your nephew hadn't cultivated forbidden techniques, would we have cut out his core? If your husband had listened, would this tragedy have occurred today? If your son hadn't killed so many, would there be a need to detain him? Lady Wang, your bias shouldn't be so overt."
The sects had honed their hate for Sisheng Peak. They wouldn't let them off easily.
"Disband the sect!"
"Take everyone who fought here today away! They must all be tried! None of these murderers deserve to go free!"
"None of them should be let off! Round them up!"
Madam Wang stood before the hall, facing the disastrous aftermath of the battle. She closed her eyes, then slowly spoke. "I stand here now as the sect leader's widow. None of you will lay a hand on Sisheng Peak or my son while I live."
The audience found this laughable. Only Jiang Xi's expression shifted. At the side of the hall, another woman from Jiangdong Hall was the first to respond. "My, you certainly have an elevated opinion of yourself!"
Madam Wang descended the steps, ignoring the female cultivator. She gazed steadily back at those watching her. "What righteousness is there in bullying a fatherless child and a widowed mother?"
She reached the last step and came to a stop on the burgundy carpet embroidered with pollia flowers. When she looked up again, her eyes were still beautiful, her features still gentle, but her gaze was determined. She raised a hand and pulled a silver bangle off her wrist.
The mocking female cultivator narrowed her eyes. "What's this?"
Madam Wang reached up. A beam of blinding red flashed in her palm as she brought her slender hands together and crushed the silver bangle to dust.
Terrified, several people in the crowd took a step back. Even those of Sisheng Peak were stunned into silence; Xue Meng looked at his mother with astonishment. Jiang Xi, and Jiang Xi alone, looked at her without surprise, his expression dreadful.
"Sisheng Peak will persist, in life or death. Those of you who wish to dissolve our sect, come up—" Madam Wang let the silver dust trickle through her fingers. She looked out at the crowd, speaking words that made them pale in fear. "And challenge me."