Welcome The Six Elders

The chamber was carved into the heart of a forgotten mountain, far beyond the reach of kingdoms and sects, hidden not by illusion nor camouflage, but by the sheer absence of life and sound around it, as though the land itself refused to acknowledge what had been built there—and deep within that obsidian hall, illuminated only by blue hellfire lanterns suspended from bone-carved chains, six figures stood in a semicircle before a great black curtain, behind which sat the one being they all obeyed, but whom none of them had ever seen in full light.

The silence that fell over the room as the curtain rippled ever so slightly was not out of fear, nor deference born of hierarchy, but something far more rare and dangerous—faith.

When the voice finally came from beyond the veil, smooth yet impossibly deep, it did not roar nor echo, but seemed to resonate within the bones of all present like the unyielding pressure of the ocean pressing against flesh, and in that single word—"Speak"—the weight of strategy, conquest, and bloodshed was passed to the six figures who bowed without hesitation.

It was Fang Ya, the Sixth Elder, who stepped forward first, his skeletal frame wrapped in the shadow-dyed robes of the Black Mist Sect, a place where men and women were trained not in the art of combat, but in the obliteration of presence itself. His voice, though low and unhurried, held a rasp that curled at the edge of each syllable like smoke drifting from a dying incense stick. "We have received confirmed reports that the Haohui Dynasty has completed its conscription across the Southern Thirteen Prefectures," he began, the corners of his lips twitching into what might have been a smile, "and they've begun to convert their farming class into irregular militias to sustain the rear lines. Their numbers, as projected, exceed two million—though less than a tenth possess real martial ability, and even fewer hold genuine Qi cultivation."

Before silence could reclaim the chamber, the Fifth Elder, Li Wu of the Mount Chun-Ya Sect, shifted his massive frame, the iron plates of his armor clinking like mountain stones grinding against one another. His sect was known not for stealth or elegance, but for brutal strength honed through centuries of hardship atop cursed peaks, where even the snow turned black from Qi saturation. "Fang Ya is correct about their numbers," Li Wu rumbled, his tone lacking the politeness of court-trained diplomats and replaced instead with the blunt confidence of a general who had never once lost a battlefield, "but underestimating those numbers would be a mistake. The Haohui Dynasty is not merely gathering soldiers—they're gathering momentum. They're building morale. Farmers who hold hoes today will hold spears tomorrow, and if we wait too long, their blind loyalty will become a storm that even our assassins and poison arts cannot weather."

At that moment, a light sigh echoed from the cloaked figure of Xin Yi, the Fourth Elder, whose entire existence was wrapped in silence save for the moments she chose to speak. Leader of the Heaven Assassin Sect, her every movement was fluid, her voice like the barest thread of wind through a crack in a temple wall—unassuming, but impossible to ignore once heard. "Mass does not equate to power," she said, her eyes glinting behind the black silk that masked the lower half of her face. "Their formations are thick and slow, reliant on pride and borrowed honor. Let me send thirty shadows to Haohui's command camps. When the heads of their generals fall beneath their pillows, their army will crumble like a sand pagoda beneath rain."

"Assassination," interrupted Yu Xuan, the Third Elder and master of the Cold Fate Defiance Sect, whose chilling presence seemed to lower the very temperature of the chamber itself, "will only delay the inevitable. The dynasty is no stranger to loss—they've endured the fall of dynasties before and emerged stronger. No, we must consider how to shatter their heart, not just their hands. We must break not their soldiers, but their ideology. Haohui survives because they believe they are righteous, and their righteousness gives them resolve. Destroy their sacred mountain. Desecrate their founding temple. Burn their ancestral banners where all can see, and they will begin to question the gods they pray to. And once their faith dies… so too will their desire to fight."

The pause that followed was not one of shock, but of cold appreciation—these were not men and women bound by the limits of conscience or law, but cultivators who had long abandoned humanity to chase something far darker.

It was Ming Long, the Second Elder and the only woman whose voice rang with both elegance and thunder, who then took a step forward, her silken crimson robes embroidered with gold rivers that shimmered even in the bleak flame-light. As the leader of the Deserted River Heavenly Sect, her cultivation was forged in desert storms and ancient riverbeds, and her strategies were known for their precision and cruelty alike. "All of your points are valid," she began, her voice melodic and sharp, like the pluck of a guqin string just before it snaps, "but each of them only addresses the symptoms, not the source. The Haohui Dynasty draws its strength not from its armies, nor its temples, but from its bloodlines—the families of ancient martial prestige, who hold secret arts passed down from eras even older than the dynasties themselves. We must infiltrate those bloodlines. Turn their heirs into corpses, or better, into traitors. Poison their lineage from within, and the dynasty will rot not in battle—but from the cradle."

For a long moment, none spoke, for it was clear now that every elder had not only prepared for this moment, but carried plans already half in motion.

It was then that Han Zhoung, the First Elder, stepped forward—not with the robes of a sect nor the arrogance of title, for he had long since discarded all affiliations save for his loyalty to the Cult's mysterious leader. His face was lined not with age but with battle-earned serenity, and even among the six, there was an invisible distance between him and the rest, for all present knew that Han Zhoung's power did not come from technique nor bloodline, but from mastery so absolute it bordered on transcendence.

And yet, when he spoke, his voice was gentle—almost teacher-like—though it carried a gravity that silenced even breath. "The Haohui Dynasty will fall," he said, not as prophecy, but as certainty. "Not by sword. Not by poison. Not by corruption. But by revelation. When we unveil what they have buried—when we summon that which their ancestors sealed away in fear—there will be no dynasty left to resist. But until that hour comes, we must act as the storm's edge. Let the others rage while we prepare the lightning."

Then, the chamber returned to silence once more, the six elders lowering their heads in solemn agreement.

And from beyond the veil, the voice of the Cult Leader returned, darker now, as though touched by something ancient and inhuman: "So it shall be."