The Looming Storm and a Reckoning

The night wind, carrying the damp chill of the cloud sea, brushed against Mo Tingbei’s robes.

He stood utterly still at the cliff’s edge, like an ancient stele silent for a thousand years, gazing down upon the brightly lit sect below.

All preparations had been meticulously arranged.

Tomorrow, this place would host a grand ceremony of unprecedented scale—the Golden Core Grand Ceremony.

For the Three-Unity Sword Sect, nestled in the harsh, desolate lands of the Eastern Barrens, a celebration of this magnitude had not graced their halls for an age.

Even as the sect gradually revived under Mo Tingbei’s guidance, they rarely indulged in the leisure or inclination to host the usual festivities common among other immortal sects.

Perched atop the Scripture Pavilion, Mo Tingbei’s fingers unconsciously tapped against the white jade railing, producing a faint, crisp sound.

The bustling figures below, diminutive as ants, nonetheless exuded vibrant vitality.

Up and down the various peaks, brilliant lights shimmered and flowed.

Disciples rode the wind, cleansing jade steps with spiritual springs, coaxing exotic flowers to bloom with wondrous spells, and weaving resplendent nebulae into tapestries that unfurled along the mountain paths.

The air was thick with the elegant scent of sandalwood and the rich fragrance of hundred-fruit spirit wine.

This long-absent clamor dispelled the lingering gloom that had shrouded the sect for so long.

Perhaps it was the eradication of the monstrous beasts that had lifted a heavy burden from the disciples’ hearts, for now, smiles often blossomed unbidden on their faces.

The Three-Unity Sword Sect, it seemed, was finally beginning to recapture a semblance of the magnificent prosperity recorded in ancient texts.

Having reviewed the scrolls meticulously recorded by Qingping during his absence from the sect, the faint thread of worry in Mo Tingbei’s heart eased somewhat.

The aura Jiang Jinyue had spoken of, the one that instinctively repulsed her, was indeed not the work of an internal traitor within the sect.

Yet, to infiltrate the sect without alarming the great mountain-protecting array… aside from a Golden Core Dao Monarch standing at the apex of countless cultivators, only the legacies of the ancient era could accomplish such a feat.

And those legacies, perhaps, were more aptly termed ‘lingering calamities.’

The mention of ancient calamities inevitably brought to mind Wu Yin, then Chaoge, and finally, that suffocating tableau.

It was laughable, truly.

The moment he unleashed the techniques of the Heavenly Evolution Scripture and beheld that boundless sea of blood, what flashed through his mind was not concern, nor pity, but a ridiculous calculation.

He found himself calculating the scope and scale of the calamity’s impact: Wu Yin’s seven provinces and twenty-three prefectures, with a population of roughly five hundred million.

Judging by the scale of the blood sacrifice, the survival rate in the core regions was less than one in ten thousand, and the peripheral areas would be tainted by malevolent qi, taking centuries to recover…

He even subconsciously assessed how long it would take for the sect to once again receive a substantial number of cultivable immortal seedlings after such a disaster.

Only after this almost instinctive, cold calculation did the empathy and grief belonging to a ‘person’ belatedly surge into his heart.

‘A cultivator, can they truly no longer be considered human?’

A wave of self-mockery washed over him.

‘I am a man on the verge of death; should I still be agonizing over such matters?’

Perhaps it was precisely because death loomed that he clung so greedily to something, anything, to prove that he had not become like the people he most loathed—to prove that the spark within him, a mere flicker not belonging to this world but solely to him, had not yet been extinguished.

He repeatedly savored that fleeting moment of grief and impulse, like a drowning person clutching at a piece of driftwood.

However belated that emotion arrived, however much it was suppressed by calculation, its essence remained scalding hot—it was the instinctive compassion and fury of a ‘person’ confronting the tragic plight of their kin.

His heart, at least, was not so small as to be unable to contain the tragedy unfolding before his very eyes.

Suddenly, a belated premonition flickered in his mind.

With his cultivation fully restored, even surpassing its former peak, his perception of the world’s qi dynamics had sharpened to an astonishing degree.

Especially after such a prolonged period, he had almost begun to touch, in advance, fragments of the authority that only beings beyond certain boundaries could wield.

On this night of surging sect prosperity, he nonetheless dimly perceived an exceedingly faint yet profoundly ominous thread of karma, emerging from the void, its other end distantly tied to Chaoge, the capital of the Wu Yin Dynasty.

That wisp of karmic thread exuded an almost suffocating scent, as if it had emanated directly from the depths of the soul.

Mo Tingbei alone perceived five distinct flavors: cloying sweetness, astringent sourness, bitter sorrow, frenzied rage, and profound weariness.

This scent was intimately familiar to him.

That very essence had continuously accumulated within his body over the past eight years, and now, it had become the flame consuming his life.

Ye Jinghuang’s effortless success in casting the forbidden art and seizing the Foundation Establishment cultivation he had preserved within his tribulation body was largely thanks to the poison of the mortal coil he had accumulated by excessively meddling in Wu Yin’s affairs.

This familiar scent, seemingly presaging some sinister plot, made him feel as though he had glimpsed, or perhaps even seized, the poorly concealed ‘fox’s tail’ of a certain faction.

Mo Tingbei, in truth, cared little for countless so-called schemes.

He had long made peace with his choice to embark upon the path of cultivating the Dao through the mortal coil, a path no one had ever successfully traversed.

Those who chose other paths to enlightenment each faced their own tribulations.

Such tribulations might manifest as an imposing, tyrannical, yet unreasonably powerful heavenly lightning bolt; or as an invisible, formless flame that incinerated the soul; or perhaps even as a seemingly gentle breeze capable of reducing everything to dust…

For Mo Tingbei, however, the machinations of human hearts were precisely the expected calamity on this solitary path, a poison he had willingly ingested.

He had once been a chess master, but upon entering the mortal coil, he too became a chess piece; he harbored no resentment for this.

Upon sensing the karmic thread tied to Wu Yin, his initial thoughts were clear and cold.

If it were merely a mundane war or the rampage of some demonic overlord, he could, by his own power, sever the karmic ties with thunderous means.

Even if it demanded a price, he could contain it within a certain scope, preventing it from affecting the nascent sect.

Furthermore, he could leverage the Immortal Alliance’s rules, using the counterfeit Immortal Alliance star-skiff as a bargaining chip, to secure some support as an assurance.

This was the most efficient choice, the one most beneficial to the sect.

He had always weighed matters thus; for fifty years, it was this almost ruthless rationality that had sustained the Three-Unity Sword Sect, guiding it from ruin.

The calamity of Wu Yin, it now appeared, was not a mere spark he could easily extinguish, but a brewing maelstrom capable of incinerating the world.

The level of power involved, the forces at play behind it, far exceeded the scope of what individual martial might could resolve.

It might even touch upon terrifying ancient existences that the Immortal Alliance itself was unwilling to lightly provoke.

He hesitated.

Yet, it was not out of fear of death.

His days were numbered; he was hardly one to begrudge such a meager flame of life.

However, if a force dared to scheme against a Purple Mansion Sword Venerable who had embarked on the path of cultivating the Dao through the mortal coil, then the power behind it would certainly be no weaker than the Immortal Alliance, which currently lacked a Golden Core Dao Monarch.

After all, in that era where the ancient times had receded and the modern era of cultivation was just beginning to flourish, there existed a hidden history of the Immortal Alliance conspiring against a Purple Mansion cultivator who had chosen the mortal coil path.

It was said that in the brief interval between that being’s enraged strike and the forced intervention of a Golden Core Dao Monarch who had not appeared in the world for ages, no one in the entire Immortal Alliance could withstand their furious blow!

Wherever their fist-edge struck, not only did the Immortal Alliance’s meticulously arranged layers of killing formations shatter like paper, but even the numerous so-called descendants and Dao seeds who had fortuitously acquired incomplete ancient inheritances and believed themselves to have glimpsed a corner of the Golden Core realm, were brutally pulverized by the most tyrannical and purest force upon their path to ascension.

Blood stained the sky, and their Dao paths were utterly severed.

‘What a tragic and heart-wrenching spectacle that must have been!’

Had it not been for that final moment, when the legendary first Golden Core Dao Monarch of this world, who pioneered the modern path of cultivation, cast their gaze from an unreachable space-time and personally intervened, forcibly quelling that monstrous catastrophe which threatened to shake the very foundations of the modern Dao, then the immortal fortunes of this world would likely have remained stagnant for at least another millennium before barely recovering to their present state.

This blood-soaked lesson was deeply etched into the hearts of all cultivators who reached the peak of the Purple Mansion realm, yearning to glimpse higher realms.

It became a secret that was not a secret, a silent alarm bell.

And now, another force dared to repeat history, extending its hand towards yet another Purple Mansion cultivator on the path of the mortal coil… their audacity, their schemes, their power, were terrifying to contemplate.

Even more unnerving was that, unlike the Immortal Alliance’s overt aggression in that ancient secret, this opponent remained perpetually hidden behind deeper, darker mists.

Their traces were elusive, their true nature unfathomable, like a colossal beast dormant at the bottom of an abyss; a mere hint of their inadvertently revealed aura was enough to send shivers down one’s spine.

The boundless karma of the mortal coil, like the most malevolent curse, had already marked him.

‘This is merely the overt method of that force; who knows what other means they possess in the shadows?!’

If he were to follow his initial impulse, intervening alone or with only the sect’s limited power, it would be akin to a mantis trying to stop a chariot.

Countless lessons lay before him; when a great calamity arose, even a Purple Mansion True Person’s body could still very likely be crushed by the catastrophe.

Intervening prematurely, beating the grass to startle the snake, might even detonate the disaster ahead of time, dragging the Three-Unity Sword Sect into a place of eternal damnation and rendering his master’s and previous generations’ painstaking efforts, as well as his own century-long struggle, utterly meaningless.

Conversely, if he chose to be wise and preserve himself, completely severing the karmic ties with Wu Yin, he might secure the sect’s temporary peace.

‘But… was that truly possible?’

Such a force would never limit its ambitions to a mere mortal dynasty; it was undoubtedly brewing an unimaginable catastrophe.

Once the catastrophe erupted, it would inevitably sweep across the world.

How then could the sect truly remain aloof and untouched?

By then, today’s retreat would merely postpone their destruction, and they would bear the shame of abandoning others to their fate, only to eventually suffer the backlash themselves.

Mo Tingbei closed his eyes, once again carefully probing that karmic thread which existed beyond any temporal or spatial dimension.

Amidst the howling despair of karmic energy, he seemed to hear countless faint, familiar voices.

The irrepressible satisfaction on the faces of the common folk when the high-yield rice he had personally spent five years using his divine sense to select appeared on their dinner tables.

The hoarse yet flavorful cries of ‘Candied Hawthorn!’ from the hawkers in West Market, carrying the tanghulu he had invented, as they wound through streets and alleys.

The initially numb, then gradually brightening eyes of those gathered around the storytellers as they recounted tales from another world, tales they had received from him.

And even more, earlier scenes, from a time when this land was not yet called Wu Yin.

When he first arrived in this world, arbitrarily conscripted for forced labor, there were people whose clothes barely covered their protruding ribs.

For him, who had fainted from hunger, they had collectively saved a meager ball of dough from their dry rations—rations so hard they resembled withered tree bark—a morsel barely palatable.

On a rainy night, at a stall that had already closed, a newlywed couple had left him a bowl of huntun.

It appeared half-eaten, but in truth, not a single bite had been taken, and it was so scalding hot it almost brought tears to his eyes.

He had breathed in their joys and sorrows, walked amidst their daily lives.

Their dynasty had once been the very soil upon which he cultivated his Dao.

Now, this soil was being eroded by the most defiled power, and this abyss was opening its blood-gaping maw to devour everything.

‘How could he remain a cold observer?!’

Reason told him that the optimal solution might be to immediately seal the mountain gates, reinforce the arrays with full power, and pray that the calamity would spread slowly, granting the sect a sliver more of a chance at survival.

But something deeper, more stubborn, roared from the depths of his heart.

That something stemmed from the hunger and cold in a ruined temple, from a stranger’s bowl of thin porridge offered when he was near death, from the warm and steady hands of his master when she led him and Jinyue out of that living hell.

The attachment to ‘life,’ the faint persistence of ‘goodness’—these were the cornerstones that allowed Mo Tingbei to stand here, performing his ridiculous calculations.

If he were to abandon Wu Yin today, he might indeed live a few more days, perhaps even preserve the superficial appearance of the sect’s temporary resurgence.

Yet, that would mean he had personally negated himself, denied the worth of his master’s act of saving him, and repudiated the enduring spirit within the Three-Unity Sword Sect’s heritage—that subtle distinction from the Immortal Alliance which had never been completely extinguished.

‘Such a sect, even if it were to endure, how would it be different from a walking corpse?’

‘Such a man, even if he lived a few more days, how would he be different from one already dead?’

Reviving the sect was not merely about its existence; it was about allowing something else to continue.

‘Precisely.’

‘He was not aiming to become a saint who saved all living beings; that was too illusory.’

‘He was merely defending the proof of his own existence, safeguarding what his master had passed on to him, and choosing a path for the Three-Unity Sword Sect that might be more arduous, yet would allow them to face their consciences without shame.’

Some tribulations could not be avoided.

Some paths had to be walked.

‘However, before all that, he would first extract some grease from those wealthy dogs of the Immortal Alliance.’

Mo Tingbei’s eyes, the last ripple of emotion subsiding, returned to stillness.

He slowly raised a hand, his fingertips lightly tracing the air, and a faint golden talisman coalesced out of nothingness.

Daoist patterns flowed across its surface, imbued with undeniable majesty.

“Issue the command.”

His voice was not loud, yet it pierced clearly through the night, settling into the minds of every Elder of Affairs and disciple below.

“For tomorrow’s grand ceremony, add an item to the guest reception protocol: Instruct the Ritual Hall disciples to ‘invite’ the Immortal Alliance envoys to wait in the side hall.”

“Inform them that this Venerable One has prepared a generous gift concerning the Immortal Alliance’s reputation and the stability of the Eastern Barrens, and that they must patiently appreciate it.”

He bit down hard on the words ‘generous gift,’ imbuing them with a hint of icy mockery.

As the command was issued, a faint, suppressed stir rippled through those below, but it quickly settled.

No one questioned Mo Tingbei’s decision, even though it seemed so abrupt, even bordering on provocative.

Grand Elder Mo, in their hearts, was no different from a deity.

He had led the sect out of calamity and towards revitalization, and by slaying the monstrous beasts, he had thoroughly cleared the gloom from everyone’s hearts.

Compared to the genuine yet distant new Golden Core, Jiang Jinyue, Mo Tingbei actually better fit the disciples’ image of a Dao Monarch.

Since it was Grand Elder Mo’s command, there was nothing to question.

After a brief discussion, several people left their ranks to clean the side hall.

Mo Tingbei turned, no longer looking at the bustling, prosperous scene, and returned to his cave dwelling.

Clouds parted automatically beneath his feet, and moonlight spilled upon his azure robes, reflecting a sense of profound solitude.

He knew this was a high-stakes gamble.

He was wagering the momentum of the sect’s resurgence and his own dwindling life as chips, to fight for a slim chance of survival, not only for the myriad common folk but also for the unextinguished spark within his heart.

He gazed towards the direction from which that malevolent force originated in the ethereal.

‘Scheming against me, are you?’

‘With such a grand appetite, I shall add a little something more for you.’

‘One Purple Mansion cultivator who achieved the Dao through the mortal coil is not enough; the Immortal Alliance, and even the entire cultivation world—now those are targets befitting your faction’s style.’

‘Let’s see if you can still swallow it all!’

Since he couldn’t hide, he would meet it head-on.

Since blood must be shed, then let it flow with purpose.

Since he was destined to be consumed, then before he was extinguished, he would burn brightly enough to scorch the heavens and earth!