Chapter 15: The Sect’s Fracture

Chapter 15: The Sect's Fracture

The mist swirled over Mistveil Valley with a restless hunger, its gray tendrils clawing at the stone walls of the sect and cloaking the night in a shroud of unease. Ming You stood at the eastern perimeter, his gray robe a shadow against the crumbling defenses, his sharp eyes piercing the haze where danger loomed. At twenty-three years of age, he wielded the 4th stage of Qi Condensation with a precision honed by relentless ambition, its quadruple strands a silent force he concealed beneath a mask of unassuming diligence. The jade slip of the Threads of Chance and the scroll of the Ninefold Mist Barrier rested within his sleeve, twin keys to a destiny he would forge with ruthless cunning.

The sect trembled on the edge of chaos, its disciples whispering of Ashen Hollow's scouts, their sightings a prelude to the storm Ming You had long anticipated. The air thrummed with the faint hum of defensive arrays, their energy a pulse he had mapped with patient scrutiny, their weaknesses a canvas for his schemes. The spirit herbs he had claimed—the Silverleaf stalks hidden in his sleeve—were a prize he would wield when the moment was ripe, a resource to turn disaster into gain. His lips curled into a faint, mirthless smirk, his mind a labyrinth of calculated intent, poised to exploit the fracture he had sown.

A guttural horn shattered the stillness, its echo rolling through the valley like a beast's roar. Shouts erupted from the perimeter guards, their voices sharp with alarm, as dark figures emerged from the mist—Ashen Hollow cultivators, their robes tattered, their blades gleaming with Qi. The assault had begun, a tide of aggression Ming You welcomed with cold detachment. He felt the tension like a thread in his grasp, a chaos he would bend to his will with opportunistic greed.

Elder Liu's voice barked through the din, rough and commanding as he rallied the outer disciples. "To the walls!" he bellowed, his scarred face a mask of grim resolve, his single eye sweeping the line. "Hold them back—arrays first, blades second!" His gaze lingered on Ming You, a flicker of expectation in its depths, a remnant of past praise Ming You would twist to his advantage.

Chen Hao pressed close, his patched tunic a faint outline beneath his robe, his hands trembling with fear. "They are here," he whispered, his voice tight, his eyes wide with dread. "What do we do? They will kill us all!" His trust in Ming You shimmered beneath his panic, a loyalty ripe for exploitation.

Ming You turned his gaze to him, his expression a slab of ice, his tone a blade sheathed in velvet. "Death comes for the weak," he replied, his words a calculated lure to tighten Chen Hao's leash. "Stay near, and you may yet breathe tomorrow." He offered no comfort, only a cold directive, his manipulative intent hidden behind a veneer of wisdom. Chen Hao nodded, his faith unshaken, his naivety a tool Ming You would wield with silent cruelty.

The outer disciples scrambled to their posts, their movements clumsy, their Qi weak and untested. Ming You joined them, his steps deliberate, his senses sharpened by the 4th stage's gifts. The eastern wall—its stones cracked, its array faltering—was his target, a flaw he had suggested to Elder Zhang with tactful deception. He reached the array's anchor point, a rune-etched stone half-buried in the earth, its glow dim and unsteady. His fingers brushed its surface, his Qi probing with resourceful precision, seeking the sabotage he had planted.

Ashen Hollow's vanguard struck, their Qi-infused blades slashing through the mist, their shouts a cacophony of bloodlust. A cultivator at the 5th stage of Qi Condensation charged the wall, his spear crackling with energy, its tip aimed at the weakened rune. Ming You stepped aside, his Ninefold Mist Barrier rising with calculated grace, its misty veil dense and sharp-edged, deflecting the strike into the stone. The rune flared, then sputtered, its energy fracturing—a crack he widened with a subtle surge of his own Qi, masked as defense.

The array faltered, its protective shroud thinning, a breach he had engineered with patient ruthlessness. Shouts of dismay rose from the disciples as Ashen Hollow poured through, their blades cutting down the unprepared. Ming You retreated, his presence a shadow in the chaos, his mind fixed on the storehouse—a squat building beyond the courtyard, its wooden door shimmering with a faint Qi barrier. The sect's spirit herbs lay within, a wealth he would claim amidst the storm.

Chen Hao stumbled after him, his breath ragged, his trust a chain Ming You tightened with cold efficiency. "The wall—it broke!" he cried, his voice breaking. "We have to stop them!" His earnestness grated, a reminder of his simplicity, but it served a purpose—a pawn to shield his movements.

"Hold here," Ming You commanded, his tone a whip of icy purpose, his hand guiding Chen Hao to a fallen beam. "Guard this point—prove your worth." He turned away, dismissing the boy's protests, his steps swift and discreet as he slipped toward the storehouse. The clash of steel and cries of the wounded faded behind him, a symphony of chaos he orchestrated with Machiavellian precision.

The storehouse loomed, its guard distracted by the battle, his post abandoned in the panic. Ming You extended the Veil of Fortunate Shadows, its lattice weaving outward, a nudge of luck that drew the man's attention elsewhere. He pressed his Qi into the door's barrier, its shimmer yielding to his 4th-stage strength, a lock he picked with resourceful cunning. The door creaked open, revealing shelves laden with herbs—Bittervine, Mistroot, and a rare clutch of Spirit Ginseng, their potency a glow in the dimness.

He moved with silent greed, his hands swift, claiming a bundle of Spirit Ginseng and tucking it into his sleeve beside the Silverleaf. The sect's wealth was his now, a prize stolen under the guise of war, its loss a wound he would deepen. He retreated, the Veil cloaking his exit, his presence unremarked as he rejoined the fray.

The battle tilted, Ashen Hollow's numbers overwhelming the weakened defenses, the sect's retreat a desperate scramble. Ming You found Chen Hao, his tunic bloodied from a shallow cut, his eyes wide with relief. "You came back," he gasped, his trust a chain Ming You accepted with silent disdain. "I held them—they ran when the elders arrived."

Ming You nodded, his expression a mask of detached purpose. "You endured," he said, his tone a whisper of deceptive ambiguity, concealing the indifference beneath. "The sect survives—for now." He turned away, his gaze sweeping the carnage—bodies strewn across the stone, the eastern wall a ruin, the array's failure a testament to his sabotage.

Elder Liu emerged, his scarred face grim as he barked orders to secure the perimeter. "You held the line," he grunted, his eye lingering on Ming You. "Quick thinking—again." His approval was a tool, one Ming You would wield with tactful cunning, his role as savior a lie woven with strategic patience.

The mist settled over the wreckage, a silent witness to his schemes. Ming You retreated to the hall, the herbs a weight in his sleeve, their potency a step toward immortality he would hoard with unscrupulous resolve. Chen Hao trailed him, his loyalty a resource to exploit, Lin Xuefeng's absence a note of suspicion he would address. The sect was fractured, its defenses brittle, and he would widen the cracks with relentless precision.

He sat, his mat a throne of solitude, his Qi refining itself with persistent effort. "The storm breaks the weak," he murmured, a poetic breath of cynical intent, "and the bold rise on its winds." The night deepened, his mind a labyrinth of plans—Ashen Hollow's retreat a pause, not an end, and he would turn their next strike into his triumph. Immortality beckoned, a star he would seize, leaving the sect in ashes if it served his will.