CHAPTER 174: CH-174: NOT LEAVE ALIVE

The mountain plateau, scarred from the battle, still smelled of scorched stone and blood when dawn crept over the ridges. Ash clung to the air like a lingering memory, refusing to disperse.

The cries of the wounded had quieted into groans, and the Feilun Sect’s banners fluttered weakly in the chill morning breeze. Yet beneath that calm, tension brewed like an unspoken oath—this victory was only the first spark of a greater fire.

Tian Shen stood alone at the cliff’s edge. His silver spear rested at his side, faint embers coiling from its tip as if reluctant to sleep. His eyes swept across the horizon, watching where the eastern sky darkened unnaturally, storm clouds coalescing though the air was dry.

The foreigners had fled, yes, but not broken. He could still feel their hatred, clinging to the wind like the echo of a blade unsheathed.

Behind him, footsteps approached. Elder Su’s steady gait, measured and unhurried, stopped a few paces away.

"You did well," the elder said, voice quiet, grave. "But you know as I do... it is not finished."

Tian Shen nodded without turning. "Their leader still lives."

"Alive, and with vengeance burning in his veins." Elder Su folded his hands behind his back. His eyes studied Tian Shen not with admiration, but with scrutiny. "You have stepped into a realm few dare, but that makes you a beacon. The enemies you cut down will only draw stronger ones to your light."

Tian Shen finally looked over his shoulder. His expression carried no arrogance, no satisfaction, only calm resolve. "Then let them come."

For a moment, silence lingered. Elder Su’s lips curved—not quite a smile, but something like approval tempered with worry.

By midday, the Sect’s inner council gathered in the Hall of Confluence. The chamber’s tall stone pillars, etched with runes of protection, seemed heavier than ever as elders, strategists, and core disciples assembled. A map of the Central Region lay unfurled across the jade table, marked with black tokens where enemy scouts had been sighted.

The Sect Master sat at the head, his expression carved from steel. "Reports confirm it. The foreigners are not withdrawing—they are gathering. Allied forces from beyond the borders, warlocks from the Wastelands, and remnants of the Demon Sect rallying under their banner. Their numbers grow by the day."

Murmurs spread like wildfire. Some elders clenched their fists, others glanced uneasily toward the younger disciples in attendance.

"They seek vengeance for their leader’s defeat," Elder Su said, his voice cutting through the noise. "But vengeance alone would not draw so many. There is a greater design at play."

Lian Hua leaned forward, her phoenix-embroidered robes catching the light. "The foreigners carry artifacts unlike our own. The gauntlet Tian Shen faced—it bore runes unfamiliar even to my sect’s archives. They are wielding power from beyond the four great regions, power that defies our traditions of cultivation. This is no mere border dispute. This is a tide pressing into our world."

Feng Yin’s gaze shifted toward Tian Shen. He sat near the edge of the gathering, silent, listening. His presence weighed heavier than the elders’ arguments. They had all seen him fight. They had all felt the storm he commanded. To ignore him now would be folly.

At last, the Sect Master addressed him directly. "Tian Shen. You have crossed the threshold into the Utopian Core realm. You alone have tasted the strength of their leader and lived. Tell us—what do you see in this storm?"

The hall fell quiet.

Tian Shen’s hand rested on his spear as he spoke. His words were not loud, yet they cut sharper than any blade. "They will come not as raiders, but as a tide. They will not stop at Feilun Sect. Their aim is broader. To test our foundation. To see if the Central Region still has the strength to defend its own. If we falter, others will join them. Sects already harbor doubts; the balance is fragile."

He paused, silver eyes sweeping across the map. "If we retreat, they will devour us piece by piece. If we stand divided, they will break us. The only answer is to strike—not blindly, but with precision. To show them that this land does not yield."

The Sect Master’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Spoken like one who has seen war."

Elder Su added.

"And one who knows it will only grow darker."

The decision was made: Feilun Sect would not wait idly. Scouts would continue to shadow the foreigners’ movements, but the Sect would begin forging alliances with neighboring sects, preparing for a campaign. Messages were dispatched by sword talisman and spirit crane, calling allies to council.

That night, the Sect brimmed with restless energy. Disciples sharpened weapons, blacksmiths reforged damaged armor, and healers moved tirelessly among the wounded. The great mountain, usually serene, throbbed with urgency like a heart bracing for war.

Tian Shen, however, sat in meditation within the lantern grove. His spear lay across his knees, silver flames flickering faintly along its edge. His body still carried the scars of his tribulation and the battle against the gauntlet, but his cultivation surged like a tide refusing to rest. His veins pulsed with silver light, his meridians straining as his newly-formed Utopian Core stabilized.

Within his mind, the tribulation echoed—lightning, fire, shadow, blood. The trial had burned him hollow and rebuilt him anew. He had survived, but the memory of it did not fade. It clung to him, whispering that survival was not victory, only preparation.

The rustle of cloth stirred him. Feng Yin stepped into the grove, moonlight weaving through her hair, her presence soft but unwavering.

"You didn’t join the celebration," she said quietly.

Tian Shen opened his eyes. "There is little to celebrate."

She tilted her head, studying him. "You won. You carried the Sect’s pride on your spear. Even the elders cannot deny it."

"I won against one man," Tian Shen replied. His tone carried no bitterness, only truth. "But beyond him, a tide rises. One victory means little when the storm has yet to break."

For a moment, Feng Yin said nothing. Then she sat beside him, her sword resting across her lap. "Then we prepare. Together."

Their eyes met. No words needed to bridge the silence that followed. Her presence was steady, grounding him as the weight of war pressed heavier on his shoulders.

...

Days turned into weeks.

News spread quickly through the cultivation world—Feilun Sect had stood against the foreigners and lived. Tales of Tian Shen’s silver spear grew in every retelling, painting him as both hero and warning. Some sects whispered admiration, others skepticism, and still others fear. But no one could ignore it.

All the while, scouts returned with grim tidings. The foreigners were gathering near the eastern borderlands, their camps sprawling like black scars across the plains. Strange obelisks of stone and bone were raised among them, pulsing with foreign qi. Each one was a beacon of their alien strength, their unfamiliar laws of cultivation bleeding into the land itself.

The Sect Master convened another council. This time, the urgency was greater. Allied sects had begun to answer the call—some sending envoys, others only promises. Still, unity was fragile, trust thinner than silk. Old rivalries threatened to fracture the alliance before it was born.

And through it all, Tian Shen trained.

His nights were spent driving his spear into the mountain winds, his qi slicing the air into thunderclaps. His days were spent sparring with Feng Yin, Elder Su observing quietly, sometimes offering a single correction that shifted an entire form. His cultivation deepened, his spear art sharpened, his aura grew heavier—until disciples could no longer stand near his training without trembling.

Yet the storm pressed closer.

...

One evening, a scout staggered into the Sect, bloodied and half-broken. He collapsed before the council, clutching a cracked talisman in his hand. His voice trembled as he spoke.

"They’ve begun to march."

The words silenced the hall.

The Sect Master’s hand tightened on the table. Elder Su’s eyes narrowed. Feng Yin’s gaze flicked toward Tian Shen, who stood at the edge, spear in hand.

The scout coughed blood, his body shaking. "They’ve raised banners of conquest. Thousands march beneath them. At their head—" He shuddered, as though recalling a nightmare. "—the foreign leader. Alive. His gauntlet reforged. And with him, others. Each bearing artifacts of nightmare."

The hall erupted into shouts and fear. Elders debated, disciples whispered, strategists scrambled to sketch hasty defenses.

But Tian Shen’s voice cut through them all, calm, cold, unyielding.

"Then the storm has arrived."

The council fell silent.

His spear gleamed faintly in the firelight, silver flames dancing along its edge. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, carried the weight of his vow.

"We will not kneel. We will not retreat. If they march to our gates, we will show them that this land has teeth. And if their leader dares stand again before me..."

His voice hardened into iron.

"...this time, he will not leave alive."

The Sect Master rose slowly, his expression like stone. "Then prepare, all of you. The battle for the Central Region begins."

And so it was decided.

Feilun Sect would stand at the frontlines of a storm that threatened to drown them all.

Tian Shen’s spear would be its anchor.

And when the foreigners came, the mountain would not bow.