The guards were visibly shivering. Morning dew clung to them like parasites sapping their warmth, though Zhao suspected their reaction wasn’t a result of the chill in the air. Every step his party of cultivators took caused the two mortal men to twitch, each one seemingly ready to bolt.

On the left stood a young man on the verge of hyperventilating, his shallow breaths obvious to Zhao’s enhanced hearing.

Opposite the rookie stood a veteran showing no outward signs of distress. He buried his reaction so well that Zhao only picked up on the pungent odor of sweat laced with stress once an arm's length from the mortal.

The sole reason the pair hadn't abandoned their post, he suspected, was that Zhao was one of a handful of disciples wearing the official Misty Cradle Sect robes.

As he walked between them, neither of the mortals would meet his eyes, nor did they voice any complaints they may have had.

Upon their last return, everyone had been eager to clean up before returning to the sect. This time no such niceties were enjoyed.

Everywhere they passed villagers dispersed, the tension in the valley thick enough that they could immediately see it; in the way the mortals cowered, the deathly quiet that pervaded the entire settlement, and, more obviously, in the decapitated heads mounted along the cobbled road that led to the sect.

The formal torii stood only a few strides ahead when a group of disciples sporting robes from the Enforcement Pagoda intercepted them.

“Zhao Mi, I presume?” their leader intoned neutrality.

After receiving a nod the inquirer handed a sealed scroll over, producing his own copy to read aloud from. “You are hereby rendered into the custody of the Enforcement Division on suspicion of shirking your assigned duties.”

The head disciple flared his cultivation base after saying so, revealing he was a Foundation Establishment cultivator. A follow up question came in tune with the pressure: “Will there be a problem?”

With a frown, Zhao considered revealing his own cultivation for a brief moment before shaking his head.

“No,” he said, enjoying the look of surprise that passed over his interlocutor's face. “I will come willingly.”

Having said so, he surrendered his hands to be bound.

Though the man seemed thrown off at the way their exchange had gone, he still sent one of his subordinates forward to bind the proffered hands.

“May I ask,” Zhao said while being tied up, recalling his previous interactions with guards at the gate, “where Cai Yua is today?”

With a sneer the stranger spat on the ground. “That bitch isn’t around to save you. You have the honor of being detained by your father, Li Chen.”

Obviously unwilling to share any further information, the Li clansman turned to regard the gathered cultivators that had followed Zhao. He stared them down one by one, face gradually overcome by a deep scowl when none refused to look away from his scrutiny.

“How childish,” Zhao chided, more thinking aloud than intending insult.

Regardless of his intent, the ‘senior’ cultivator clearly heard his muttering. Spinning with the supernatural speed of Foundation Establishment, he landed a heavy slap on Zhao’s cheek.

Thinking quickly, Zhao bit into the side of his cheek and prodded the self-inflicted injury with his Qi to exacerbate its condition.

When a mouthful of blood splattered on Li Chen’s feet, the surrounding guards passed uncomfortable looks amongst each other. The violent imbecile in question worked his jaw, but chose to end the confrontation at a single strike despite the fury burning in his eyes.

Turning back to the crowd of recruits, he pulled his hands behind his back and held his head up. “As for all you recruits,” he announced, “you will also be coming with me under the authority of the Enforcement Pagoda. Do not resist.”

Shifting his gaze to Nan Xi and then the rest of the actual disciples, he added, “You will also be joining us to be debriefed.”

Not giving anyone time to muster a response, Li Chen swaggered uphill towards the sect proper.

The more junior Enforcement Disciples exchanged another round of glances, the one closest to Zhao licking his lips.

Approaching the young man, Zhao placed a tightly bound hand on his shoulder and smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said loudly, “we won’t be giving you any trouble.” Inclining his head to further demonstrate respect managed to wipe the worst of the hard lines off his captor’s face.

With renewed discipline the men and women from the Enforcement Pagoda circled Zhao’s party and began to efficiently direct them after the form of Li Chen, growing smaller in the distance as he walked ahead without waiting for them.

The sect grounds that had once been meticulously manicured to craft an image of immortality passed by as scenes of ravaged landscape. Trees were felled, boulders scorched, and craters abundant, all complimented by the occasional rusty smear of dried gore visible amongst the destruction.

For Zhao the shattering of the propagandistic illusion was less distressing than what he saw thanks to the Myriad Voices. Spirit fragments littered the landscape thoughtlessly, all human in origin.

Emotion stirred just out of reach of his conscious mind, hints of grief and loathing reaching out at his passing.

Having ascended to Foundation Establishment, Zhao was able to turn his focus away from the foreign influence much more easily than previously.

Eventually their trope reached the liminal spaces that hosted other disciples, earning them looks of confusion.

Not that they stood out as much as they might have, Zhao noted, given that many of the official disciples had apparently lost their own sect robes. Those that still wore their sect’s accouterments exposed the state of the sect through the singes, frays, and tears universally present.

Even the rare core disciples he caught moving about in their paler uniforms had not been spared the effects of the conflict.

Whatever other observations he might have made were shoved to the back of his mind when Zhao realized their destination had crept up on him.

Whereas the Spirit Art Pagoda gave off a sense of mysticism through the talismans that coated it, the Enforcement Pagoda projected a far more severe aura.

Jet tiles laced the ceiling, the wood of the structure a hearty pine that retained the fierceness of ramparts hastily erected in the wilder parts of the empire.

Then there was its size, easily thrice the height of the other various pagodas that dotted the mountainside.

A majestic double door smithed from midnight black steel shuddered open at their approach, lines of servants straining against massive chains to allow the behemoth entryway to open like a predator’s jaw.

Once their lot had filed in under the watchful eyes of Li Chen, the sea of servants rushed forward to seal them inside.

“Your first time in our revered pagoda, Zhao Mi?” prodded the Enforcement Disciple. He snorted in amusement, leaning in close to Zhao to comment, “Unsurprising for one as… provincial as yourself.”

Had he been raised in Jianghu, Zhao might have actually taken offense to the comment. Having transmigrated from a modern metropolis, he couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him at the thought of the Misty Cradle Sect being considered anything but remotely rural.

Face pinching in response to Zhao’s laugh, the Li cultivator huffed before removing a key from the depths of his robes, which, Zhao noted, were remarkably pristine considering the state of the disciples they had passed on their journey.

In fact, at some point along the journey through the sect Li Chen must have changed his uniform as there were no lingering signs that Zhao had coughed blood on him.

Presumably out of patience, their escort rushed everyone down into the depths of the Enforcement Pagoda, leaving little time for Zhao to admire the dark granite floor or any of the weapons on display throughout the home of the Enforcement Disciples.

After a couple flights of stairs the wooden walls gave way to stone passageways carved straight into the mountain.

The atmosphere grew strained when they rounded a corner to find a line of cells lined with runes. Each and every guard escorting them subtly shifted towards their weapons, as if expecting resistance to emerge at this point in their arrest.

To the Enforcement Disciples' credit, Zhao could tell his own people had also shifted their positioning; each having chosen a target and ready to strike should he order it.

He allayed both sides’ fears with a raised palm. “Come everyone, I believe the Enforcement Pagoda will wish we disarm before entering our accommodations.”

Peeking at Li Chen’s expression proved as humorous as Zhao thought it might, the man’s eyes bulging at the casualness present in the statement. If he were any more perturbed by the situation the cultivator might suffer a Qi deviation.

Zhao smiled cruelly at the thought, wondering if such a technique would work. He would need to experiment whether he could create a heart demon in egotistical cultivators by responding to situations like a rational human rather than a violent lunatic.

To that end, he turned to Li Chen and gave one of his signature bows. Though out of practice, the move came naturally to Zhao and proved its utility by allowing him to savor how it pushed the other cultivator to his wit’s end.

“You bastard,” Li Chen snarled, “stop playing around this instant! Do you understand how serious the crime you are accused of is?!”

The Li clansman raised an open palm as if he were about to slap Zhao for having the insolence to bow in front of him. Unluckily for him, a hand emerged from the darkness to stop his palm before it could descend.

“That will be all, Li Chen,” said a raspy voice. An equally rough looking man materialized from the shadows, Zhao only barely managing to catch the unknown Spirit Art’s effects and avoid being caught flat footed by the stranger’s appearance.

Li Chen’s perception did not appear as keen as Zhao’s, given how his expression morphed from outrage to confusion before settling on embarrassment.

The idiot coughed into his free hand. “A-ah,” he stuttered, “Warden, thank you for your timely intervention.”

At the unamused look leveled his way, Li Chen began backpedaling out of the hallway, the so-called warden having released him. “I will leave Zhao Mi and the rest of them in your capable hands!” he called out, before disappearing around a corner.

Zhao snorted. He would have found the situation comical if his safety was not now in the hands of a far more serious and dangerous cultivator.

Bowing to said individual, Zhao reiterated his instruction to his companions to disarm. When they did so unquestioningly, handing off their weapons to the nearest Enforcement Disciple, the warden raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“Into the cells,” the more powerful cultivator ordered callously, slamming the bars shut the moment the final members of their band entered carrying Tai Yang’s unconscious form.

The mysterious man subsequently vanished back into the shadows.

“Was it really wise to follow Li Chen like that?” Che Fang questioned in a hushed tone from next to Zhao, breaking the silence he had maintained in the presence of the Enforcement Disciples. “It seems our lives are now firmly in the grasp of the clans.”

With a sly smile Zhao disagreed. “No,” he said, “if that were the case we would have already been executed. Li Chen was fishing for an excuse to escalate our capture to violence from the moment he saw us, which means we are safe. For now, at the very least.”

Che Fang took on a pensive expression before nodding. Zhao let out a small sigh, grateful for all the young masters and main characters he’d read about on Earth. It was all too common to bait another cultivator into breaking decorum and using it as an excuse to justify murder in xianxia novels.

With nothing else to do, Zhao settled onto the cold stone and took up a meditative posture. The Qi in the area responded sluggishly, the bars that imprisoned them daming the natural flow of energy into the cell.

The effect was enough to preclude any real cultivation, so he decided to practice one of his Spirit Arts. Operating under the assumption that the warden would not take kindly to mist obscuring his captives, Zhao chose to circulate the accursed Myriad Voices.

After breaking through to Foundation Establishment his ability to resist its assault had been bolstered enormously. Unfortunately, Zhao could feel the art manifesting the slightest progress in overcoming his newfound mental fortitude.

Regardless, his intuition was telling him that the key to mastering the art was exactly that: mastering the art. That meant hours of practice and a further understanding of what it was doing.

Such a solution was not exactly logical, as leaning into the art could just as easily strengthen its hold over him, but Zhao knew that doing nothing was the wrong option. He had to trust that his line of thought was not being twisted by the insidious art.

Letting his worries dissipate, Zhao centered himself and began his practice in earnest.

His Qi acknowledged Zhao’s desire earnestly, trailing through spiritual roots as the Myriad Voices instructed the world’s energy and thereby heightened the art's effects.

A clarity superseded his senses, allowing Zhao to know the slaughter that had taken place at the sect in their absence. Dozens of voices, wisps scattered in the distance, speaking of a great loss of life.

With concentration Zhao could distinguish between each wisp and even determine their direction relative to his position. Whereas months ago the competing whispers would have been unbearable, now they were merely a constant distraction.

Satisfied with the progress he was making, Zhao continued to hone his skill with the art for hours until the recognizable feeling of burn out crept up on him. A deep breath later and the Myriad Voices was winding down, drifting back into passivity.

Until it wasn’t.

Zhao was suddenly seized, his mind bedeviled, by something. Or, more accurately, someone.

It wasn't the art itself acting upon him as he initially feared. Instead, he could feel an interloper within him in the same manner he could feel the spirit fragments of the disciples that had fallen defending the sect. Whatever, whoever, it was accosted him from deep underground, having cut through tons of stone to grip his soul.

A foreign schadenfreude colored his emotions as the separation between Zhao and the other that shared his head bled away.

‘A babe of the Misty Cradle,’ he thought to himself in a voice that was not his own. ‘He heeds not the warning given but instead approaches! How misfortunate.’

Rising dread gripped Zhao as the essence of who he was began to slowly erode thanks to the being in his mind, his identity straining under the toothy embrace of the invasive entity.

‘Oh, he does not truly consider himself one of the little ones of the Misty Cradle, but instead an intruder?’ the voice crowed as it dug further into him. ‘Perhaps the misfortune is-’

Zhao gasped, released from the presence as abruptly as it had taken hold of him.

He fell from his meditative pose, muscles trembling and slick with sweat.

Clutching his head, tears came to Zhao’s eyes. Being replaced in his own body was an inexplicably terrible sensation. No metaphor or similar could adequately describe the experience.

He just wanted to forget it.

Around him Zhao’s companions had stirred, calling out to him through the molasses that drowned his head. He didn’t have the energy to reassure them.

To escape the torturous memory of what had just happened Zhao let sleep wash over him.