Blackened sacraments are no method to [Demonic] strength.

One will not turn by alighting newborn babes in pitch nor consuming the innocence in their hearts.

Put notions of fable to the wind, and bid they stay there.

Our foe is no tale for maintaining order in your house, and those that disseminate such are no more friend than the blaggards we face.

Bloodis the foil to cultivators. Flesh consumed, Qi swallowed, [Dantian] refined.

To partake of the flesh of humans is heinous and abhorrent, met with the keenest of blades, and most righteous of furies. But it is no temptation for those who walk with the [Dao], who know the path to the Heavens.

Evil.

Wicked.

Villainy.

Names given, but ill understood.

For it is the man that practises the [Demonic] knowingly that embodies these terms, not the warrior that succumbs to rage in its presence. Not the fluid spilled and unwillingly imbibed, nor the corrosion of their passing, [Gu] soaked influence.

It is these we must be wary of. The traitors that reject nature for short-lived, aberrant power, and the tragedy that follows hence.

“On Gu,” - A Primer of the Western Demon Front

His eyes woke to the dead about him.

Bent, broken, decapitated, leaking - but a few states in the list that he might use to describe all he saw. Piles of three or four, lumped as mortarless bricks in a wall about his person, only a handful of strides beyond where he unfurled from his cultivation.

The scene over their tattered hanfu and mangled wounds, that which he saw upon standing, shared a similar sense of dread. Fu craned his head towards the pillar-drawn cords, and saw there how the balance had shifted.

How the glow of humanity dimmed.

The foreboding clash of weapons reached him, and the cries of fury that flew from each of his comrade’s lips. Queer in placement, if expected, for the sources rang from east and west, with pockets of rising pitch elsewhere.

“Hushi,” he said, drawing his chain. “Are you well?”

An eager affirmation returned from his chest where the octopus slung. Hushi tapped twice on his [Dantian] before returning to the douli, sharing his thoughts, and having Fu conjure the [Ink] that reflected their efforts.

Though discordant with the ambient screams, Fu smiled. His [Bone Refinement] had exceeded expectation, despite the limitations imposed by this pit of withering [Air Qi] they found themselves in. Solidity radiated from his skeleton, from wrist, to hip, and all else he had suffused during his last several weeks. Now, culminated.

Each minor connection he had reforged while training with Niharika, the spare minutes he had used to reinforce an edge or splinter, the hours in which he had forgone sleep, they had all led to this. The reason for his smile.

But three bones remained, and served as all that separated him from a full [Refinement].

I stand a stone’s throw from [Core Formation]. Far from equal standing. But…

“It is a step, Hushi. Of countless more, but a step.”

Fu stepped beyond the corpses, finding it less a field than a garden. Irregular still, for the time he reckoned to have passed. So with newfound [Might], he drove to the gully’s edge and immersed himself in the din.

[Dao Principles] had tinged the air with a golden glow. Characters aplenty, adorning qiang, axes, lengths of cruel, blood-soaked metal. The divine presence, the sheer profundity that clotted the battlefield had him draw a breath, and steel himself against the meaning that assailed him.

For here was clear insight into the [Dao of Death], or [Butchery], [Slaughter], and as his roaming gaze fell to a familiar form, he spied [Hope].

At a pace hitherto undone by fishermen, Fu launched over Zhu’s shoulder to smash his shin into the emaciated [Demon] that pressed him. The complimentary force of momentum and reinforced bone doing well to crack it sidewards. Yet-

It fell slow.

The impact of Fu’s strike to malefic temple… lingered. He found that heartbeats passed wherein his body could exert another motion. His speed, he realised, was greater than what they faced.

Mid-air, he found the space, the time, or coordination to lash out again. The [Demon] crashed bodily to the earth, clouding dust where it did. Where Zhu’s twinned tong fas plunged wetly into the rear of its skull.

“Zhu,” greeted Fu. “Gratitude, a hundredfold.”

“Seventeen passes of the [Hegemon’s Spear]. They come on the hour,” said Zhu, prying several trinkets from the corpse and vanishing them into his storage. “We fall dangerously close to adopting the mark.”

“Then my gratitude is a thousandfold.” But conversation ceased, giving way to flight.

The pair descended the gully, flocking by singular bouts. Zhu held the lead, proving himself to hold a higher claim of [Hegemon’s Pillars] than before by the grace of his step. In how he wove through, his [Senses] expanded to judge where next they might strike.

“Gao Fu,” he called, levered a baton not a breath before he leapt.

A flaxen-robed cultivator was ahead. Skittering back, the socket of her missing arm clutched, her [Spirit Beast] dissipating. Her rictus, defiant, as she collapsed against a withered trunk.

Zhu’s flow bypassed her, for his arrival was a descent into layering blows. His tong fa unloaded, breaking from the guard at his wrists. An extension to swat aside a halberd of [Demonic] design that struck in an overhead swing. He dissuaded the length by a stride, both burying its grim head in the sand and emerging within the guard of the [Demon] that bore it.

Their foe discarded its grip with a grunt, a gangly, violet-skinned giant of distended nose, and levied a punch forward. It caught in a cross of Zhu’s weapons, where one bore the brunt and another snuck beneath to hammer out.

It took Fu four heartbeats to arrive, directing his efforts low. A knee to the ground served as his anchor, slowing him enough to gain control of a slide that brought him to the [Demon’s] legs. Dust entrenched him as he swept, slashing a groove along the thing’s spinal flesh. Horizontal, and frustratingly shallow.

Though, enough to draw its ire.

The [Demon] surged back, making to grapple with Fu. More swiftly than the last.

Fu met its fist with a dislodging kick, yet the force slid him sidewards a stride. He rolled beneath the next, and sprung inverted to hammer his foot into its jaw, having it reel by a single step. It fell prey to Zhu’s advance not a half moment later, where shuddersome cracks sounded upon each connection of the tong fa.

A [Core Formation] equivalent, however, would not be felled thus.

The pair were driven back with a stentorian roar, prefacing the conjuration of its [Dao]. An escalation, Fu knew.

A simulacrum of the [Demon’s] face spawned in golden light above the fray. Its jaws yawning, its features grotesque and disproportioned.

The [Dao of Suffocation] washed out in counter, sealing the visage tight. Zhu grunted in an advance, his weapons locked tight to accentuate the force of his driving fists. One step back, and the [Demon] recovered, surging out a wave of pure [Killing Intent] to sever Fu’s own.

“Zhu,” he called, knowing a suppression of his [Spirit] would spell ruin. His hook flew wide, launched as one might a dagger. Rotating, end over head, its tail draped in such a way that had it rest on the [Demon’s] shoulder.

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Their foe advanced in the interim before its landing, seeming to grow as the [Dao]-infused face above pealed off a wail. The Qi around them grew thinner, swallowed in each passing stride. No draw came from his own [Dantian], though, for this attack was a befoulment of the ambient,

and as such Fu flashed by [Might[ alone.

His chain pulled taught as he stepped, and again when he bounded through the [Demon’s] elongated grasp. Over, to secure the noose formed around its neck, and allowing Zhu to yank as he went.

Each link tore the flesh beneath. A blunt tooth, and a horror, enacting a suffocation that no [Dao] had enforced. The [Demon] scrambled for air, for [Gu] or Qi, rending its own flesh to remove the length fixed around its throat.

Failing, as the ghosts combined [Might] squashed it like rotten fruit. The viscera showered, the spoils were divided, and the pair moved on.

A cascade of arithmetic soon turned prominent. Fu’s bane of numbers and counts. For it was steps, numbered before the sequential assault, then moments taken - counted, before these fraternal ghosts triumphed. Hooks thrown, bones crushed, wounds taken. Peace lasted for a count of breaths between, however slight, and it began again.

One [Demon]. One gash on his shoulder. One [Demon]. A sprain to Zhu’s wrist. One, and one, and so on until both men were ragged. Heaped with their backs to the other, having forced their way back to where Fu had emerged from his cultivation.

“Thirteen additional attributes,” acknowledged Zhu. “Desperate stragglers.”

“Eight,” replied Fu, sharing all that his [Ink] had gained. “You would imply these [Demons] weak, yet they take a toll.”

Zhu’s flask of spirit wine granted but one more drop into his mouth before he cast it aside, frowning. “Their strength doesn’t bely desperation. They’re as we are- outwith the order now.” While nursing his wrist, he put Fu’s attention to the battlefield. Fractured where countless [Hegemon’s Spears] had decimated the landmass. “Those that stepped forth first have undergone exponential growth. Attributes gained that lead to attributes gained.”

“You are at a loss by my hand, Zhu,” started Fu, stopping as his blood turned frigid. His comrade stalled in similar fashion, and they glanced down the length of each other. “Safe.”

“As are you.”

The constructs of bronze reared heavenward once more, conjuring their lengths of ominous light. A clear majority held in the blazing corona at the [Demon’s] side.

“Opportunity,” continued Zhu. “That [Dao] of yours, the insight into traversal. Might it move the pair of us?”

Fu was unsure, voicing such.

“Have it sweep us to the impact site. We’d do well to catch those injured from its blast.”

Guided by instinct, Fu placed a hand on Zhu’s shoulder. “Be ready then,” he said, and braced for the upcoming devastation. Seconds of further counting later, they struck. Heaven-defying explosions in tandem, centralised on the [Demonic] edge of the battlefield.

[Dao of Wayward Breezes].

The wind stole him into a simmering dome of power, bright enough that Fu had to shield his eyes with a sleeve. Sense had him drop it in a heartbeat, for it was a foolish gesture when [Demons] prowled nearby.

To drop it revealed the scant stride of earth beneath his feet. One haven amongst a pox-marked blight of missing ground, and the glaring expanse of void below. A meagre set of islands his only haven.

First he turned to Zhu, sighing to find his [Dao] could not carry another, and expanded his [Senses] for the deluge of scavengers that were certain to join him soon. He searched for strained lungs, or peripheral wheezes, finding few.

The spear was indeed thorough.

Yet as he hopped between what ground still stood there was a dissonance in the Qi. The search for [Gu Cores] and [Dantians], returning a fluctuation in both.

He went low, for all the good it might do in this place, and advanced.

Death sweeps swiftly.

From his east, to his north. South, and west. Life was fading, and he could not place it as happenstance, or the cumulation of injuries from the spear’s descent.

Fu sobered as the radiant dimmed, and the douli ahead blurred. An outline of such, black, as was her hanfu. Iron grey vapour trailing. The cultivator ahead, his quarry, was upon him in mere heartbeats, her weapon driving for his face.

No [Demon], her presence stole nothing from the [Half Cloud Step] that followed.

His hook screamed as her blade- a needle-wide saber, scraped against it. A poor counter, and testament to the [Might] behind it in its trajectory. The tip punched clean through his ear, scraping a cruel path in the scalp behind.

All airborne.

All as he blurred to rearward ground with all he might muster.

She landed as he did, one hop distant. No true gap for one as skilled as she, and here, she pandered. “The serpent,” she hissed. “Face me, tha-”

[Dao of Wayward Breezes].

🀧

If Fu’s intervention had unblocked the seal on this woman’s stealth, he cared little. Upon return from their brief bout, and through questioning, Zhu had revealed her to be hitherto unseen. Yet this conversation was an hour prior, and had lasted only as long as the [Trial’s] nature would allow.

“If you’re not to be quartered for your murderous ways, Fu, realms such as this might serve as ample training for our squad, no?”

Fu pushed out a breath. “Is this our priority?” he managed. “She yet continues.”

The blight of their foe punctured the battlefield a ways distant, ever held in the pair’s view. As she had been since Fu’s [Dao] had returned him.

Vapour marked her position, iron-grey as though she were a furnace’s vent and all that fell before her were materials to be refined. [Dao Principles] could not stem the tide she was, nor [Demonic Arts], skill or blade.

As such the ghosts might only place her in their mind’s eye, knowing that to challenge her was folly.

Yet so too did the [Demons] know this. Adding discourse to their ranks, to their swarm that flocked to weaker cultivators such as Fu. Pockets, again, were forged anew. Though the propriety of tournamental etiquette was eschewed for fear and sacrifice.

Zhu stood taller, loosing a shake that sent Tanshuai to the air. “The weak are funnelled to us, around those who lead in pillars claimed. Wits are needed, yes, but we’ve little need to discuss other matters when our tactics are as clear as limpid water.”

“That is…” Fu sensed the point. “It is more that I would have my own mind clear.”

“Unsurprising,” sighed Zhu.

The pair shared a commensurate nod to signify their readiness, and burst forth. Here at the furthest edge, the [Demons] were thinning. Funnelled, as Zhu had stated, around the boundary of an expert’s bout.

Fu spared a singular glance at the swordsman to his left, a set of mismatched jian readily tearing through her [Demonic] foe. The cords above shifted their allegiance as she rid the blood from her metal, beckoning another sacrifice to enter her domain.

Ten steps put him closer to those already clashing. A retinue of a mere dozen cultivators set in their own bouts. Five steps, and he leapt, blurring over the heads to where two [Demons] oppressed a singular man.

His hook connected with its shoulder, gouging a great channel of flesh. He landed, sprung, and wheeled from the path of its weathered axe with nary an inch to spare. The head flung beneath him, close enough to sever the nose that faced it.

With his back to the empty space of the ‘arena’ behind, he paced, inviting the [Demon] to charge.

A [Dao Principle] tore out in its stead. Some suffusion of golden light that loosed a ten-pace long edge to chase him.

It came horizontal with the intent of removing his legs. He leapt, and the second blitzed near his chest. So he kicked himself flat, turned, landed, wove between the third and fourth, and conjured his [Dao of Wayward Breeze] to arrive on the backswing of the fifth.

White-hot pain tore up his back the moment he emerged from the air, and he bellowed his anguish for all to hear. It dissuaded his strike, and all momentum was lost as sweltering-wetness gushed into his robes.

The [Demon’s] haft crashed into his gut, barrelling Fu across the battlefield in brutal, thumping arcs. His recovery of egregious grunts was put to pause however, under the threat of his bounding foe.

This beast of egg yolk-yellow, and trunk-thick limbs, pounced.

Air fled at its landing, a shockwave displacing all. Compressed, as though a star had fallen from the Heavens themselves.

Fu was swept back like tossed parchment, caught unkindly by the embankment at his rear. Here he joined the blown fragments of withered trees, muddying the sense of what, exactly, had cracked at his landing.

Hushi rose to show his concern, urging his cultivator to rise. Which he did, under the duress and fear of incoming [Dao]-made axes. Fu clenched a fist, dumbfounded as breath still filled his lungs, as his limbs moved as he bade.

Conspiring facets of his cultivation. His [Bone Refinement], pairing well with the Qi impartment of his [Teal Supple Physique]. Force- blunt at least, taking less hold. Unlike the grisly wound well slashed upon his back.

What this said about his [Dao] might wait.

As best he was able, Fu somersaulted from the advancing [Demon]. Continually. Spring after roll in a dance that had him dogged by axes both animate and close. The wound had him sweat. Shudder feverishly in his inversions. Curse.

A moment will come. When it believes the final blow draws near.

As aeons passed in weaving, this moment struck with strange occurrence.

Marked in gold.

The [Demon] had leapt with axe poised to cleave, its cruel, gleeful mouth agape. A true strike, fierce, one pace distant. The [Prowess] it held was undeniable, skilled, instinctual, graceful with its tool of lopping. But before Fu’s eyes, when his veins ran cold against what at best may rid him of a leg, and at worst…

Gold flocked to Fu, cocooning him in warmth.

No. Not this-

It was plain before the [Demon’s] breath gushed upon him. Fetid and warm. Before its palms drummed out to create distance between them. For its eyes held his [Hegmon’s Mark], reflected in its pitted eyes, highlighted further as it closed.

He felt a count begin.

Steps taken once more. By the [Demon], by himself. By each combatant within thirty strides. By the weapons that ceased in sequence, clashing no more.

By his heartbeat.

Thunderous.

My rank. It must progress.

The great constructs rose, and he needed no eyes to see them. Their rumble told all, sounding this most final of counts. Convening light, drawn from each cord above, each noose that only tightened and-

As the waves around him broke in footfall and [Might] spurred step, he set his gaze to wander by. [Demons]. Cultivators. The distant iron-grey fiend that brought this upon him.

The pockets.

The funnels.

A waist now formed on the gully’s demonic side, a bronze-clad navel, the makings of a chest thereafter.

No less than this is required.

“Hushi,” he broke, and the scene slowed with a [Half Cloud Step]. Conjured for the abundance of space around him.

Faces blurred in myriad colours as his hook raised high. The point levelled, his arm taught, and there on the fringe his clarity won out. Displaying a scene that could only echo his own, prideless thoughts.

Zhu’s tong fa, one twin of his set- interred through a [Demon’s] eye. Fountain, and inconsequential against the second. For his comrade stood rigid in the most strained of forms, his body to Fu, his grimace tight as he looked, and looked away. Signalling with a levelled twin where best his hook might land.

To a pair, ahead. A cultivator engaged, and the [Demon] upon him.

And Fu’s [Dao of Wayward Breeze] carried him.

A gale in the streams behind the fleeing masses, through this he swept. Betwixt legs, foreign and friendly. About their countless armaments, near razor’s edge and qiang’s resolute tip, he arrived where the tong fa ordered.

To the peripheral combat so far from his origin that none had yet turned tail, paused only for the quake beneath their fray.

Fu struck here, and fulfilled his title as ghost. A deft move that opened the distant, unsuspecting cultivator’s neck to the earth, and rid himself of the gold in favour of a crimson tide. One he rode down as his total pillars spiked, foisting his fate on the next unwitting soul.