“Master Mùchén, we received the jade slip over an hour ago. Would the patrol team still be—agh!”

  A young?faced swordsman in a pure white robe trimmed with teal yelped as a sharp slap cracked against the back of his head. Tears welled in his eyes as he clutched the sore spot and glared at his twin sister.

  “Idiot! Why would you curse them like that? HUH?!”

  The equally young?faced swordswoman snapped, her glossy ink?black hair whipping in the wind.

  “Do you think Master would bring three Thunder Cranes if he didn’t expect them to be needed? They’re for the injured, you dolt.”

  She jabbed a finger toward the majestic creatures gliding behind them. Two elegant white cranes followed in formation, their feathers tinged with blue and marked by a jagged golden stripe along their backs. Their fifteen?meter wingspans cut through the gold?tinted clouds with effortless grace, each broad enough to carry three adults lying flat.

  Atop the leading crane stood Master Mùchén, exuding an aura of calm authority. His robe matched his disciples’ in cut, but charcoal and gold trim marked his rank. The wind tugged at the fabric as his torso?length chalk?white beard fluttered gently.

  He stroked it absently, eyes fixed on the distant horizon, ignoring the twins’ bickering entirely as he extended his consciousness outward — searching leagues ahead for the skirmish the jade slip had warned them of.

  “Brother Long! NO!” A female disciple's bloodied scream pierced the mist-laden air, her voice raw with pain and desperation. She watched in horror as her sect brother, clad in tattered robes, charged at the twelve-meter-tall Mist Tiger. Its fur exuded a thick, swirling mist that cloaked the area, reducing everything to ominous shades and shifting silhouettes.

  The brave, desperate figure of the man was barely visible before his silhouette was mercilessly sliced into three by the tiger’s relentless paw, spraying a crimson red just outside the fog’s periphery, splattering blood on the young woman’s face, streaks nearly entering her eyes.

  “NO!”

  “DAMN YOU!”

  “I’ll cut you down till my robes are red!” The three remaining team members were left in tears, their faces marked by broken, dull eyes. Two of them, however, let out final war cries, determined to leave at least to leave a scar on the beast that had torn their sect family apart.

  “Not good! Five are injured, three dead, with no signs of the remaining two. They are fighting a Rank-5 Mist Tiger. We need to hurry; we can’t lose another disciple!” The stalwart elder urged the three cranes to pick up their speed beyond their limits while maintaining his senses on the dwindling team. Being cautious and protective in nature, he reached deep into his inner robe for a long-distance talisman to strike the beast, either as a distraction for the team to run away or to kill the infernal beast that dared to kill his sect members quickly.

  “We obey!” The twins responded with determination, their voices steady as they tightened their grips on their swords, their eyes gleaming with resolve. They understood the underlying message in their master’s words: prepare for battle.

  Sensing the onslaught unfolding ahead, Master Mùchén realized they would not arrive in time. His jaw tightened. With a swift motion, he drew a talisman from within his inner robe and began channeling spirit energy into it, invoking its dormant power.

  Talismans of this caliber were rare — a discipline reserved for those of the ‘Ascended Realm’, each one a precious consumable. He had been fortunate to acquire this particular talisman at an Imperial Auction, though neither he nor the Sect Master had ever deciphered its full capabilities. Both were only at the ‘Golden Pill’ realm; the talisman’s secrets lay beyond them.

  Even so, he poured his pale gray spirit energy into it, exhausting more than half his reserves just to awaken it. The air rippled. A faint hum vibrated through his fingers as the talisman grew warm.

  “Please… do something helpful,” he murmured under his breath, anxiety and hope threading through his voice.

  “Hmm?” Her ears pricked at the sound of a high-pitched whine barely piercing through the rushing wind.

  “What?” The swordsman glanced at his twin sister, who seemed to have caught onto something.

  “Do you hear something?” the swordswoman scanned their surroundings to find the unnatural source, seemingly coming closer.

  “The wind?” The twin responded, confused.

  “I know what wind sounds like, you dolt!” she lashed at her brother, readying her hand for another slap.

  “It is coming!” Master Mùchén exclaimed as the talisman’s power finally began to manifest. The air thickened with turbulence, wind currents spiraling around him as spirit energy surged outward in violent ripples. Focused, he directed the released force toward the Mist Tiger, now visible just a kilometer ahead.

  But before the talisman’s energy could fully take shape, a strange, high?pitched sound shrieked from above.

  “IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!”

  A blurred object tore past the convoy of Thunder Cranes, blasting them into a chaotic midair scramble. The elegant beasts let out startled cries, wings flaring as they fought to regain formation.

  Master Mùchén’s eyes widened in shock, the unexpected disruption leaving him momentarily frozen. His mind raced to make sense of what had just occurred, unsure if it was the talisman’s doing—or something far stranger.

  “What in the heavens was that?” the swordsman shouted, gripping his sword with trembling hands, awe and confusion battling across his face.

  The swordswoman scanned the sky, brows knitted. “It wasn’t the wind, that’s for sure,” she muttered.

  Master Mùchén forced himself back into composure. “Stay focused! We still have a mission to complete.” He glanced at the talisman — now burning away in his palm, its power spent.

  While the twins struggled to steady their cranes, the elder stared downward, still shaken by whatever had streaked past them. Regaining his senses, he guided the cranes into a descent toward the battlefield.

  A massive plume of dust, shredded grass, pulverized meat, and white fur billowed upward from a newly formed crater — a vast pit gouged fifteen meters deep into the earth.

  “Itch Meteor?” Master Mùchén murmured, utterly baffled. He blinked several times, trying to reconcile what he’d witnessed.

  “That was incredible, Master!” the swordsman exclaimed, his eyes still wide with awe, the sight of his Master’s power making him giddy.

  “Amazing! As expected from the Elder of the sect,” the swordswoman added, her voice filled with admiration and pride.

  cough “Of course.” Mùchén straightened, smoothing his robe and forcing his expression back into the calm dignity befitting an elder. “Quickly, give treatment to the wounded and recover the fallen.” His voice was authoritative, a clear directive in the midst of chaos.

  “Yes, Master.” The twins responded with gazes of admiration and respect towards the elder, causing him to look away from the awkward atmosphere.

  The convoy landed beside the wounded disciples. The twins immediately set to work, distributing recovery pills, binding wounds, and splinting broken limbs. The air was thick with the smell of blood and the groans of the injured.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Their earlier bickering forgotten, the twins moved with practiced precision. They offered aid to their battered comrades, who accepted with weary gratitude. For the fallen, they draped cloth over each body with solemn care, whispering silent prayers for their departed sect siblings.

  The crater was a gruesome sight. The remains of the Mist Tiger were scattered in mangled heaps, its flesh and fur splattered across the torn earth. Blood slicked the ground, making every step treacherous. The stench of death and decay clung to the air, mixing uneasily with the fresh scent of the surrounding forest. Nearby, the Thunder Cranes stood with ruffled feathers stained in red, their usual elegance warped into something surreal.

  “Greetings to the Elder.” The squad leader bowed weakly, struggling to stand as the recovery pills slowly took effect. Her face was pale, her body trembling from exhaustion and the lingering terror of watching her team be slaughtered.

  “No need. Rest your wounds.” Master Mùchén raised a hand gently. “You faced a battle you were not prepared for. The Mist Tiger’s speed and mist are meant for ambush and slaughter. None of you have stepped past the Foundation Stage — it is commendable you lasted as long as you did, and even more so that you managed to send a jade slip.” His voice was steady, warm, offering comfort without diminishing their effort.

  “Are you able to explain why the Mist Tiger left its hunting ground?” His tone remained gentle, but his eyes searched her face for answers.

  “Responding to the Elder! While patrolling the silver bamboo forest, we were ambushed by the beast, which appeared to be wounded from a failed ascension to the 6th rank. Its wounds were the reason we lasted as long as we did.” She stared at the ground absentmindedly recalling the deatils that got muddled away with the confusion of combat.

  “We lost Brother Eric and Brother Bo in its first attack, then Sister Pwei, Brother Xiong, and Brother Long during combat.” Tears welled in her eyes as the memories resurfaced, raw and vivid.

  Master Mùchén placed a steady hand on her trembling shoulder. “Be at ease. You have done all you could. Gather onto the Thunder Cranes. We will return to the sect for proper treatment and to place memorial plaques in Valor Hall.”

  The twins moved swiftly, helping the surviving disciples onto the cranes and securing them for the journey back. Despite the carnage around them, their movements were practiced and sure, their earlier bickering long forgotten. They distributed recovery pills, wrapped wounds, and offered quiet reassurances.

  Master Mùchén watched the limping disciple being helped toward the cranes, remorse tugging at his chest. They had suffered greatly… yet he hoped this ordeal would temper their resolve and push them toward greater diligence in their cultivation. He let out a long, weary sigh.

  A frantic waving caught his attention.

  His direct disciples were calling him over.

  Hands clasped behind his lower back, he walked toward them with measured steps. “Hmm?” he intoned, raising a brow.

  “Look, Master!” Excitement practically vibrated in the twins’ voices as they pointed toward something half?buried in the crater.

  “A strange piece of armor fell from the sky! It must be a heaven?grade armament to survive both your strike and the fall!” the brother exclaimed, eyes shining with awe and no small amount of pride in his master’s supposed power.

  “What an unusual design,” tMùchén stroked his beard thoughtfully, eyes narrowing as he examined the object. It lay precisely where his talisman’s energy had struck. “Perhaps… a summoning spell? But why would it manifest with such ferocity, and not upon the summoner’s body? Most curious.”

  He set aside the thought. Whatever it was, leaving such a profound artifact behind would be wasteful.

  The Mist Tiger’s remains were strewn across the uneven ground in a grotesque display. Pools of blood and torn flesh littered the crater, the air thick with the metallic stench of iron and decay. Even breathing felt like a challenge.

  “… Retrieve it for me.”

  “Yes, Master.” The twins responded to his orders, thier eyes shining woth anticipation what treasure was buried in the bloody pit.

  “Holy mother! AaaHHH!” The brother’s face turned red, veins bulging in his neck as he struggled with the heavy armor.

  “Belligerent piece of metal!” The sister’s body was sharply angled, her muscles straining as she tried to muster all the strength from her arms and legs.

  “We… can’t… Master!” They panted between words, struggling to free the armor from the bedrock and corpse beneath it.

  “Hmm… Step aside.” Mùchén motioned them away, stepping forward with dignified calm. He grasped the armor’s leggings and pulled.

  Nothing.

  He tried again. And again. Each attempt was accompanied by a subtle shift of posture, as though he were merely adjusting his stance, but the armor refused to budge.

  Finally, maintaining what remained of his dignity, he said, “Why are you standing there? Go back and feed the cranes.”

  The twins exchanged embarrassed glances, cheeks flushed. Believing their master disappointed in their strength and abilities, they hurried off, stumbling slightly on the crater’s uneven walls as they went to tend to the cranes.

  Only once they were out of sight did Mùchén’s expression twist.

  “Pigheaded piece of scrap!”

  He wrestled with the armor in a private, undignified tug?of?war. After several minutes of grunting, straining, and nearly losing his footing, the suit finally tore free from the ground and corpse remnants.

  The elder stood hunched over, sweating and breathless, a sensation he hadn’t experienced in decades.

  “If it is this heavy… can I even wear it? Do I need to refine it first?” he muttered, brushing off clumps of dirt, blood, and flesh. His hand happened upon a small release mechanism on the back and pressed it.

  The armor split open with a hiss. Its contents spilled out — revealing an unconscious, unkempt man surrounded by a faint, pale gray aura.

  “What on earth was that talisman…?” Master Mùchén froze, eyes widening.

  Master Mùchén cautiously surveyed the unconscious man, searching for any telltale signs of identity. A fellow cultivator, a divine beast in human form, a weapon spirit—none of these could be determined, even when he channeled his own energy into the man’s body to test the meridians.

  “Most curious… if I hadn’t cast the summoning spell myself, I would have judged him a commoner.” In all his years - from the Imperial Archive to the Swift Gale Sword’s ancestral records -he had never read of a summoning that produced a mere man. “Spirits, weapons, items… even the undead, certainly. But not this.” Mùchén mused aloud, gently stroking his beard.

  It was certainly not a teleportation talisman; those required a circle of five 'Golden Pill' stage cultivators to operate. Yet, the man before him was undeniably a living, breathing human. “The only thing that feels impossible are the precious metals placed inside of him. They are… part of him.” His gaze sharpened. “How?”

  A faint groan disrupted the eerie stillness of the crater. The stranger stirred, his pale gray aura fading weakly as his fingers twitched against the blood-streaked ground. Mùchén watched the man's eyelids flutter open, revealing dazed, disoriented eyes.

  “Aw… ngh…” The stranger stabilized his head, squinting at the jagged crater walls before his eyes landed on the elder. His breathing was uneven, his voice hoarse. “W-Where am I? Who—”

  His words faltered as nausea overtook him. He leaned over, retching violently.

  Blargh… Blargh ah ah ahh.

  “What the fuck happened? W-what… did you do?” The stranger’s hand trembled against his face, the taste of stomach acid tainting his tongue. Through the slits of his fingers, one eye locked onto the old man. A murderous green sheen flickered in the pupil, radiating a sense of dread that seeped into Mùchén’s core.

  The Master felt goosebumps rise; his hair stood on end at that gaze. Barely overcoming the instinct to strike first at this anomalous creature, he took a tentative step forward, steadying his nerves. “You are safe now," he said, his voice measured and calm. "Rest.”

  To his surprise, the stranger bolted upright, clutching his head. “Safe? What happened? The experiment—the director—Susanna! Did they…” Panic clouded his expression. He clumsily reached for the scorched armor beside him, scrounging for a communicator. His fingers brushed the charred edges, small cuts forming against the splintered metal.

  “I am unaware of those names,” the old man said, lifting his arms to show he bore no ill intent toward the frantic man who appeared to be turning hostile in each spent breath.

  “How did you take me outside of the facility?! Those damn droids never help… What of my friends, are they okay? What about… What about—”

  *Slap “OW!” Rayleigh’s rapid-fire questions died in his throat. He stared at the elder, his hand instinctively going to his reddened cheek.

  “Finally calm now?” Mùchén gazed at him, seizing the lead of the conversation. “I am Master Mùchén of the Swift Gale Sword Sect. I used a talisman to aid in combat; you appeared in the wake of its power.” He pointed toward the man, who was still blinking in confusion.

  “Combat… COMBAT?! Those damn feather-backs! Where are they?” Rayleigh’s eyes darted around, searching for a weapon or the enemies that haunted his memory. He shifted into a low battle stance, prepared for the monsters that had brought him misery and blood-stained hands.

  Master Mùchén observed the transition. He was taken aback by the "sky-fallen" man’s reactions, from his stance, vocabulary, and most importantly, his gaze. A cold shiver ran up Mùchén’s spine. Those were not the eyes of a common soldier or even a combat veteran. They were the eyes of a mass slaughterer—a genocider with unfinished business.

  “There is no one else besides us and my disciples,” Mùchén spoke tentatively, ready to subdue the man if he lunged. “The only feathers here belong to my cranes, who mean you no harm.”

  Rayleigh didn't move, his eyes locked on Mùchén with a predatory stillness. He wasn't looking at a man; he was deconstructing the gait and the muscular frame hidden beneath the Elder’s robes. He recognized Mùchén's subtle shift in posture that was tuned to react the moment he took any volatile action. A lethal state of readiness Rayleigh himself had tested across a thousand battlefields.

  Rayleigh let out a long, ragged sigh. He forced his muscles to relax, though he continued running mental simulations to explain his surroundings. Reaching the conclusion that revealing his true nature would be unwise, he pulled a distant, cold persona over himself like a mask.

  “Is that so?… I guess I need to introduce myself, then.” He looked at the Master with guarded eyes. “My name is Xīn yuè Soloman.”