Chapter 100

"Su Ran! Su Ran—!" Ji Chun's desperate cries filled the chamber as he shook the unresponsive figure on the bed. The kneeling sect members exchanged horrified glances, frozen in place—until Elder Hua surged to his feet.

"Worthless quacks!" he bellowed, dragging a physician back by the collar. The doctor trembled as Ji Chun—eyes bloodshot, face hollow—mechanically shifted to allow another examination.

When the physician whispered, "Master... has passed," Ji Chun moved like lightning. He hurled the man into the cowering crowd, his voice a blade of winter wind: "Out."

Not even elders dared breathe as they scrambled away. The door slammed shut, sealing Ji Chun alone with his dead lover.

Su Ran lay peaceful as moonlight, his still chest mocking yesterday's promises—their plans to fetch Ze'er, to build a life. Ji Chun slumped against the bed, tears splattering the dark floor. Shifu gone. Su Ran gone. Was loneliness his eternal fate? He'd never asked for grandeur—only warmth, only...

Night deepened. The courtyard outside stood empty, every disciple prostrate in silent vigil.

At dawn, the door creaked open.

The figure that emerged wore Ji Chun's face, but something fundamental had shifted. His gaze cut like unsheathed steel; his very presence radiated lethal intent.

"Zhang Lun," he demanded, voice dripping with Su Ran's old authority.

A trembling voice answered: "Hall Master Zhang gathers intelligence as ordered—he's not yet returned."

"Summon him immediately upon arrival." Ji Chun's glare swept the crowd—loyalists and opportunists alike. "The rest, return to your duties. Any negligence will be met with death."

The chorus of "As you command" scattered like leaves before a storm.

Ji Chun strode to Su Ran's study, his grief hardening into purpose. Account books, supply logs, secret correspondence—he scrutinized all. One by one, he summoned officers, probing for dissent. Loyalty was rewarded; treachery would be excised without mercy.

Su Ran's legacy—and Ze'er's future—would be protected. Even if it meant becoming the monster the world already believed him to be.

From dawn till midnight, unease spread through the Demonic Cult like wildfire. Sect members moved in fearful whispers, dreading summons to the sect leader's study. None who entered emerged unscathed—some limped away after harsh caning, while others never returned at all. By day's end, countless hidden threats had been purged.

When Ji Chun emerged at next dawn, his expression had darkened further into something truly terrifying. His first demand echoed yesterday's: "Where is Zhang Lun?"

The kneeling attendants trembled. "Hall Master Zhang still hasn't—"

"Send riders to retrieve him immediately!" Ji Chun's palm struck the table with a crack. "He'll report to the Discipline Hall first, then to me!"

The servant scrambled to obey as Ji Chun launched into a ruthless inspection. Any disciple caught idle met instant punishment—public floggings that left the entire sect tense and vigilant.

"Second Master!" A voice interrupted his rounds. "Hall Master Zhang has returned!"

Ji Chun turned slowly. "Bring him."

Zhang Lun approached with the gait of a condemned man. He dropped to his knees without prompting. "I accept my punishment."

Sparing no glance for apologies, Ji Chun demanded: "What of the other sects?"

"Disaster approaches." Zhang Lun's voice tightened. "The White Sects believe we hold Di Mang captive—that you and the Master conspired with him to weaken the martial world. They've formed an alliance... and will march against us within days."

Ji Chun's fists clenched until his knuckles blanched. Shang Luo's scheme was unfolding perfectly—first Shaolin, now the Demonic Cult, all destroyed without him lifting a finger. By his calculations, if Wu's information held true, the architect of this carnage was already dead.

"Tend your wounds," Ji Chun finally growled. "Return to gathering intelligence—and don't fail me again."

As Zhang Lun bowed away, Ji Chun threw himself into fortifying the sect's defenses. When the next report came—confirming the White Sects would attack in five days—he maintained iron composure. But his orders grew ever more exacting, his punishments more severe. The Demonic Cult would stand ready, even if he had to remake it in fire and blood.