Chapter 23: The Factions of the Sect (Part 2)

...A bitter, metallic tang cut through the air as a gust of wind swept down from the northern peaks. Zhang Yan's eyes watered; poison. High above, the jagged spires of Pill Refinement Mountain pierced the clouds, its cauldrons belching acrid smoke. The Fire-Wine Pavilion's alchemists brewed demonic elixirs there, distilling venom, despair, and shattered cores into pills that could warp qi or melt flesh. A disciple nearby coughed violently, his palm streaked with black veins after a failed experiment.

"One sip of their wine," he smiled bitterly, "and your soul belongs to the pavilion."

At the heart of a ghastly mountain, a forge roared to life. Disciples clad in charred aprons hauled carts piled with bones whether human, beast, or things unnamable; toward a gaping furnace. The Slaughterer's Smelt's blacksmiths did not craft weapons; they unmade flesh, reforging the dead into blades that screamed when swung. A boy no older than Zhang Yan staggered under the weight of a freshly forged dagger, its hilt still studded with teeth.

"The weak are ore," a smith growled, shoving the boy forward. "Burn them. Shape them. Use them."

Zhang Yan's shadow stirred, restless. These factions were pillars of the sect, each a path to power; and a trap. The Corpse Courtyard demanded surrender of the flesh. The Blood Banner hungered for unthinking loyalty. The Fire-Wine Pavilion and Slaughter Smelt traded autonomy for potency, their gifts laced with subjugation.

He curled his fingers, feeling the Devouring Nine Shadows' qi coil beneath his skin. He had no patron, no lineage, no poisoned elixirs to cloak his weakness. Only the manual; and the ravenous dark it had awakened in him.

A gong rang out, its vibrations humming in the teeth of every disciple. Elder Wu emerged from the shadows of the murals, his bone-mask gleaming. Behind him drifted four figures; the faction envoys.

Representing the Corpse Courtyard; A skeletal man with skin like parchment, a preserved vulture perched on his shoulder.

A spear-bearing woman, her face and neck tattooed with kill tallies stood cloaked in armor before two Blood Colored Banners fluttering in the windless night.

Fire-Wine Pavilion sent an recently promoted outer elder; an androgynous figure veiled in smoke, carrying a gourd that sloshed ominously.

 A hulking blacksmith, his apron crusted with dried viscera was also sent to represent the Slaughterer's Smelt.

"Choose your path," Elder Wu intoned, "or be chosen..."