Chapter 23: The Factions of the Sect (Part 1)

The survivors gathered in the Demon Sect's central courtyard at dawn, their new gray robes clinging to bodies still trembling with the aftershocks of the previous night. The courtyard was a relic of ancient malice; its towering walls etched with faded murals of skeletal hands clawing from graves and phoenixes reborn from ash. Sunlight spilled weakly through the cracks in the stone, casting jagged shadows that seemed to twitch like living things. Here, power was not earned. It was taken, carved from the bones of the weak.

Zhang Yan stood apart, his shadow coiled tightly at his feet, its edges flickering as if tasting the tension in the air. Around him, disciples murmured in clusters, their voices hushed but feverish. The courtyard was not just a gathering place; it was a crossroads of ambition, where the sect's four dominant factions lurked like predators scenting fresh meat...

A cloying stench of decay rolled across the courtyard as a group of disciples passed, their robes stitched with thread the color of dried blood. One dragged a half-rotted corpse behind him, its limbs jerking unnaturally; a puppet strung with blackened qi. The Corpse Courtyard's disciples cultivated death qi, turning fallen cultivators into fuel for their macabre Dao. Their laughter was brittle, their eyes hollow as they whispered of rituals that blurred the line between corpse and disciple.

"Rot is the purest form of rebirth," one hissed, stroking the corpse's cheek. "The dead do not betray."

...Near the courtyard's iron gates, a trio of disciples stood sharpening jagged blades. Their robes were streaked with rust-red stains, their faces scarred from battles beyond the sect's borders. The Blood Banner's enforcers; raiders and soldiers who waged the sect's wars against righteous sects and rival demons alike. Their leader, a hulking woman with a gnarled spear strapped to her back, barked a command, and the group marched out, their boots crushing petals from a bloodroot shrub that dared bloom too close to the path.

"Glory is written in blood," a disciple muttered, watching them leave... "Theirs or yours."