Dozens of figures crept through wasted fields in the ebbing moonlight, dawn delayed by the shadow of the craggy mountains above them. Each step was calculated, their approach shielded from line of sight by the largest standing buildings in the razed village they were bearing down on.

A dusting of snow fell lazily around them, dancing carefree through the air. It helped soften the occasional crunch of ice or muttered curse that escaped the group.

If viewed from above, one would see three streams of cultivators pouring towards the ruined settlement from the surrounding forested hills. Zhao stood at the forefront of the most exposed of these groups, slipping behind a burnt out wall that remained standing on the edge of the village.

Blood dribbled down his forearm, littering a smattering of crimson spots to mark his passage in the snow and be trampled by those following him. Evidence that they had successfully dispatched the lookouts stationed in the surrounding forest.

According to Shu Chiu, when she had been working with the demonic cultivators their sentries would change off at first light. So far it appeared they had not altered their schedule since her defection.

Now, she stood in the growing group behind Zhao lining up against the barricade he found.

At the ninth realm of Qi Condensation, Zhao could not afford to leave her out of the battle despite concerns regarding her loyalty. He hoped her change of heart was deeper than a tactic to stay alive.

Together with Zhao, Tai Yang, Che Fang, and Gu Hong, that meant they had five such peak Qi Condensation cultivators.

Bai Chi and Nan Xi were each in the eighth realm, while Ming Fe was in the sixth.

Their strongest recruit was in the third realm, save Wu Hua who had gradually revealed her cultivation as if building it up for the first time.

Their strength was not nearly enough.

Zhao’s breath came heavy, misting in the air before him and drifting away in the wind.

As the sun broached the tip of the nearest mountain he gave a signal and the gathered cultivators began utilizing their combined Spirit Arts, a dense cloud spilling forth from their number and invading the ravaged village.

Before anyone could recognize the thickening mist as anything more than the regular morning weather, Zhao bore towards the center of the village.

He took a sharp turn and found himself face to face with another cultivator, though the stranger resembled a bandit more than a disciple of any self respecting sect.

Instinct took over, the world seeming to slow around Zhao as he stepped forward. The man’s mouth opened in surprise, but his exclamation was muffled by a hand around his throat.

Given the differences in their cultivation bases, it was nothing to snap the unfortunate soul’s neck. Zhao proceeded to lower the body down slowly, the whole affair clinically calculated.

As he finished his grizzly task and moved onwards he passed by similar scenes sporadically as the stream of Misty Cradle recruits began their infiltration in force.

Finally, Zhao came upon a tent staged against the remains of a burnt out stone house. Charcoal burned lazily in a campfire that was surrounded by the remnants of the night’s dinner.

Slipping under the tarp languidly, the distinct odor of alcohol revealed itself alongside the snores of his inebriated targets.

There were six people sleeping in the tent, so an equal number of Zhao’s followers filed in behind him. Each person drew a blade and took up a position next to one of the enemy.

On Zhao’s signal they each claimed their victim.

The act was near silent, the sounds of death suffocated, only a series of gurgles announcing the struggle taking place. When the last of the wretches died a moment of stillness passed between the gathered group.

Nothing happened.

Pushing his way through the now blood soaked fabric of the tent, Zhao emerged back into the world accompanied by a stubborn scarlet dripping that refused to let him forget what had happened.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, belatedly realizing his mistake when a metallic wetness touched his scalp.

Zhao clenched and unclenched his fists, then his jaw. Those who had been behind him were gone already, disappearing into the mist to take more lives.

The morning quietude remained unbroken.

No, Zhao realized, there was a growing thrumming. He spun around, attempting to locate its source as the sound grew louder until it was deafening.

His breath came in short gasps as he failed to identify the cause of the noise. The ground seemed to tilt beneath him.

Zhao tried to press a hand against a wall to steady himself, only to tumble through the frame of the tent.

His landing was soft and wet.

Scrambling to his feet, he tried to ignore the ruckus he had caused upon the collapse of the tent.

A shout echoed in the mist.

The power of Foundation Establishment exploded nearby, and Zhao found himself racing in the direction of the danger.

Numb feet carried him forward, forcing Zhao through the molasses he felt clinging at his skin.

It felt like he was running in place, each step failing to accomplish anything meaningful.

The rhythmic pounding he heard intensified, like a river in his ears. Even as he closed in there was no obvious cause.

Then he picked up words, mumbled under the roar of whatever was happening.

Breaking into the town square, Zhao found himself exposed as the mist stopped unnaturally to leave a perfect circle untouched.

His eyes darted around, identifying everyone who needed to be there. Che Fang’s lips moved as if he were whispering a secret, but Zhao couldn’t hear it.

The disciples had surrounded a wild man, clad in well worn leathers and equipped with a vicious machete. He, too, was speaking words that were too quiet for Zhao make out.

An aura of violence emanated from the Foundation Establishment cultivator, lighting up Zhao’s divine sense like a whirlpool in a calm ocean.

Whatever exchange was happening between his companions and the stranger was inaudible to Zhao over the incessant rushing noise, but he noticed the tension escalate as the demonic cultivator took a step forward.

He saw Gu Hong shatter the glass bottle and thereby activate their lifesaving treasure.

A white blanket thicker than the disciples' own mist burst forth, the shadow of a dead demonic cultivator flicking from within.

For a moment Zhao was blinded, but the treasure seemed to recognize him as the obstruction to his vision shifted, allowing him to see clearly.

The ambient Qi shuddered as Foundation Establishment techniques were exchanged between the summoned specter and its living counterpart. The gathered Misty Cradle disciples circled as bestial grows escaped the brawl, Qi empowered blows flickered faster than Zhao could follow.

He made to enter the fray, only to stop short. Zhao gripped his chest against a tightness spreading from within. The inexplicable throbbing intensified, more a physical sensation than a sound now.

Everything started spinning, and the pressure in his ribs metastasized into agony.

Zhao couldn’t breathe.

He fell to his knees.

Ahead the Qi Condensation cultivators rallied against their better.

The ghostly form of Jian Hu, killed by Gu Hong months ago, warred against their nameless foe. Martial techniques continued to fly with speed on the edge of what the disciples could perceive, though noticeably slower than the initial melee.

Even so, there were opportunities to strike. Under the cover of the enhanced mist the cultivators' movements were masked from their adversary's senses, enabling them to dart in and out without suffering retaliation.

Bai Chi sliced a shallow cut. Tai Yang landed a blow that disrupted their target’s balance. Shiu Chu launched a gout of fire that concealed an incoming strike from the risen Jian Hu.

On and on, tiny victories piled up as Zhao watched helplessly.

Seconds dragged into minutes, and then a ferocious strike of the machete landed squarely on the haunting visage of Jian Hu. The shade dissipated into nothingness, the ivory cloud shielding their presence vanishing with it.

Suddenly Zhao could hear again.

“Well,” panted the demonic cultivator, “that was fun. I always wanted to teach that bastard a lesson. But now, I think, its time to put an end to this farce.”

He lashed out, towards Gu Hong.

Zhao watched in horror as the blade closed in on the boy’s neck.

Suddenly Bao Chi was there to block with his sword. The gaudy Dao screamed as the more brutal weapon carved through it and into its wielder.

A sputter of lifeblood escaped the old disciple. He collapsed onto the ground.

Then Tai Yang was behind the stronger cultivator. Fists rained, a tempest of muscle and furor accompanied by a bellow of outrage.

A few of the blows landed, but the viscous man quickly regained the upper hand. The majority of Tai Yang’s blows went from making contact to being deflected or absorbed effortlessly.

In a handful of seconds the counterattack came, a palm that sent the mountainous Misty Cradle disciple hurtling through the air after the sound of shattered bones ground against Zhao’s ears.

Next came Nan Xi, hurling Spirit Arts at the murderer ceaselessly only seconds too late to help her downed companions. Shiu Chu joined her, adding her own arts to the assault.

Roots rose from the ground and the man tore through them. Fire enveloped him, only to be shrugged off. A whip of water screamed through the air but was caught. On and on it went, a stalemate that would be broken when the women ran out of Qi.

Zhao turned to Che Fang but found his own conclusion reflected back at him. The disgraced man desperately cradled the obsidian ring on his hand, praying for a savior. A moment later Che Fang's pleas were answered, his form blurring into a harpy.

Power radiated from her form. Yet rather than engage the demonic cultivator, the Che ancestor cast a forlorn glance at their efforts before vanishing abruptly.

Zhao felt his stomach drop.

He turned to Gu Hong, finding the youth cradling the remains of Bao Chi with distant eyes. Tai Yang lay unmoving in a meaty heap on the street.

Without a main character event victory was impossible. They were all going to die.

The barrage of Spirit Arts came to an end, Shu Chiu collapsing while Nan Xi wavered on her feet.

Face snarled in fury, the Foundation Establishment cultivator advanced on the spent cultivators.

Zhao rose to his feet. He watched himself take one step, then another, before lunging at the undefeatable devil.

Up close it was clear that the man was not invulnerable; he was riddled with wounds, though none were serious enough to hinder him individually.

He had seconds to decide upon his course of attack. Zhao wracked his brain for a solution, asking himself what a main character would do to escape the situation.

Zhao had no old geezer, no legendary treasure, no forbidden technique- no, that wasn’t true. He had the Myriad Voices.

Qi lurched as he poured his entire cultivation base into the technique, desperate for a solution. Memories surfaced, as if dredged from his subconscious. Countless ideas flittered through his mind, only to be discarded.

Save for one.

Zhao closed in, fist flying in a wide waymaker.

His opponent caught the blow with a raised eyebrow. “Rather foolish,” he observed pompously.

Whatever insults were prepared caught in the villain's throat when Zhao slammed his other hand into the man’s stomach. Instead of loosing an insult, the fiend howled with unhinged laughter.

The demonic cultivator never looked down. He never realized that Zhao’s spatial storage bag was pressed against his stomach, the formation holding it together on the precipice of destabilizing.

Then space distorted and rent the two men's bodies mercilessly.