Chapter 96

Without another word, they mounted their horses and raced toward Shaolin. Along the way, scattered rumors of the temple's massacre reached them, spurring them onward. For days and nights, they rode without rest until, at last, the gates of Shaolin Temple loomed before them.

Ji Chun's horse reared to a halt. His breath caught as he took in the sight—the once-familiar gates now splattered with blood, the lifeless body of a monk sprawled across the threshold. His throat tightened, his eyes burning dry with shock. He leapt from his horse and rushed to the fallen monk, crouching beside him.

It was the young gatekeeper—the Shidi who had always trailed after him, calling out "Shixiong!" with bright-eyed reverence. Now, he lay cold and still. Ji Chun's hands trembled; a strangled sound died in his throat. His lips parted, pale and cracked, but no words came. Only a hollow ache of failure.

Without a glance at Su Ran, he staggered into the temple.

The courtyard was a charred ruin. Bodies of his fellow disciples littered the grounds, their robes stained crimson. Rage seared through Ji Chun's veins—Whoever did this will pay in blood. He moved as if in a trance, past the smoldering scripture pavilions, through the desecrated halls where Buddha's gaze had once presided in serenity. At last, he reached his master's meditation chamber.

Behind the torn curtain, the old monk lay rigid on his mat, eyes closed, a trickle of blood drying at his lips.

Ji Chun's knees struck the floor. "Shifu—" His voice shattered. He was too late. Too late to speak to him, too late to introduce Su Ran and the child, too late to beg for forgiveness. The weight of it crushed him.

Gritting his teeth, he gathered his master's body onto the bed, draping it gently with white cloth. The old monk's expression was oddly peaceful. What had happened in his final moments?

Shang Luo. The name pulsed in his skull like a wound. I will kill him. I swear on it.

Memories surged—his master's teachings, his kindness, the decades of guidance—now ending in this brutal stillness. Grief curdled into fury. Ji Chun would hunt that monster to the ends of the earth. Even if it took his last breath, he would see Shang Luo drown in his own blood.

He knelt, fists clenched so tight his nails drew blood. His breath came in ragged bursts, sweat and tears mingling on his face.

"Who's there?!"

Su Ran's shout snapped him back. The demonic cult leader had lingered silently, unwilling to intrude on Ji Chun's grief—but now, footsteps echoed outside. In a flash, Su Ran lunged past the doorway.

Ji Chun bolted after him.

In the courtyard, Su Ran had already pinned a young monk to the ground, gripping his collar. As Ji Chun approached, the monk's glare locked onto him.

"Traitor!" the monk spat. "Kill me if you dare!"

Su Ran's eyes darkened—no one insulted Ji Chun in his presence. His fingers twitched toward a lethal strike, but Ji Chun caught his wrist.

"Wu Zhi?" Ji Chun frowned. "What is going on?"

"What's going on?" Wu Zhi laughed bitterly. "You slaughtered everyone—even Shifu! And now you return to play the mourner? Shaolin lies in ruins because of you two!"

Ji Chun's voice turned icy. "You accuse us of this?"

"Who else?" Wu Zhi snarled. "Who but you could walk into Master's chamber unchallenged? Who but you could make the disciples lower their guard? The entire martial arts world knows the truth—how Shaolin's 'virtuous' Ji Chun conspired with the Demonic Cult leader! You lured the sects into the mountains for your scheme, all for Di Mang!" He spat at Ji Chun's feet. "A monk betraying his master for a demon lover—disgusting!"

"We were framed!" Ji Chun's mind raced. Shang Luo's plan was clear now: Shaolin will perish, the Demonic Cult will be annihilated. He'd orchestrated this massacre—and ensured the blame fell on them.

Wuzhi's laughter was raw with hatred. "Framed? The world already judges you! 'The demon monk and the demonic cult leader—a match made in hell!'" His voice cracked. "I once revered you. Now? You're just filth."

Ji Chun felt as though a thousand blades had pierced his heart as Wu Zhi hurled those cold, cutting words at him. The accusations about Di Mang were baseless—he had never sought it, nor did he care for it. But his bond with Su Ran? That was real. He hadn't expected understanding or acceptance from others, but to be maliciously slandered—especially by a former Shidi—was a pain beyond bearing.

"Wu Zhi," Ji Chun said, his voice steady despite the bleeding wound in his chest. He knew no explanation would sway the younger monk now. "Leave. This matter is no longer yours to interfere with. I will handle it."

Su Ran's gaze was glacial, his murderous intent simmering. Were it not for Ji Chun's presence, he would have ripped the insolent monk's tongue from his mouth. At Ji Chun's dismissal, he shoved Wuzhi aside and folded his arms, watching with icy disdain.

Suddenly, a dozen black-clad figures dropped from the temple walls, lunging toward them. Ji Chun barely had time to register their arrival before the clash began—and within moments, he realized these were no ordinary fighters. Though Wu Zhi'a words had been venomous, Ji Chun still shielded him, their past bond outweighing the bitterness.

Amid the fray, a shadow slipped through the side gate. Unnoticed, the figure raised an object—aiming straight for Ji Chun's exposed back.

Ji Chun was already struggling. Protecting Wu Zhi while fending off multiple masters left him vulnerable. His mind raced—Shang Luo must have sent them to silence Wu Zhi—when a pained gasp cut through the chaos.

"Su Ran—!"

He whirled around. Su Ran staggered back, clutching his shoulder. Without a word, Su Ran flicked his wrist—silver needles flashed through the air, embedding into the wall as the black-clad assailant vanished over the courtyard roof. The remaining attackers disengaged at once, fleeing as swiftly as they'd come. Two, too gravely injured to escape, collapsed before Ji Chun could interrogate them—bitting down on hidden poison, dying before his eyes.

It had all happened in seconds.

"Su Ran!" Ji Chun rushed to his side, his hands hovering over the wound, his face etched with guilt and fury. Someone had hurt Su Ran right in front of him, and he'd been powerless to stop it. Just as he'd failed his master. Just as he'd failed Shaolin.

Su Ran frowned, flexing his arm. The projectile had struck deep, yet beyond the initial sting, he felt... nothing. No numbness, no weakness. "It's fine," he muttered, baffled. Seeing Ji Chun's distress, he shook his head. "We can't delay. If Shang Luo struck Shaolin, the Demonic Cult is next. We must go."

Ji Chun's throat tightened. He'd already lived through the devastation of losing his sect; he wouldn't let Su Ran suffer the same. Even if it cost his life, he'd stand beside him.

As they turned to leave, Ji Chun caught Wuzhi's dazed expression. The younger monk had seen it all—Ji Chun's panic for Su Ran, his priorities laid bare. There was no returning to the past.

"Bury our brothers," Ji Chun said softly, passing Wu Zhi without meeting his eyes. "No one else will come. We... have our own path now. Goodbye."

That single word sealed their parting. With their master gone and their paths diverged, the past was already ashes.

"Shixiong..." Wu Zhi's vision blurred. When the attackers had come, Ji Chun had shielded him—just as he always had. But the man before him now was different. The warmth in his eyes belonged to another, and that truth carved a chasm between them.

The Shaolin they knew was gone. And so was the brotherhood they'd once shared.