Fatherly Asura

Screams died on the Imperial’s lips.

Specks of [Spirituality] swept as ash from a pyre.

Corpses fell.

Silence extended.

Violently, did the gold then wash.

Within a misty tendril, Fu weathered the anathema to all ghosts, and skulked once more into the black as it surged like a returning tide.

The true spectres did not shrink from this light. Yet they might only be identified by what devastation trailed in their wake.

Fu impaled an Imperial’s eye socket before returning to the crags of familiar passages to await the [Array’s] next activation. His respect had only grown, commensurate with reverence were he able to hold love for any but his treasures.

Wicked, crimson threads heralded a decapitation. Pristine holes punctured guts to drip forth the contents. Myriad wounds blossomed on the hundreds with profound discrepancy in their position.

Those of the Cloud Gathering reaped from thin edges, where [Foundation Realm] sacrifices had the misfortune to tread- bullied forth by the seniority at this force’s back. It choked the rocky channels with the dead until corpse-strewn mounds cluttered the path forward.

Qi-rich lanterns were foisted into the prison’s air, thick in inscription and meaning. Paper things to suspend and flood this slaughter with light.

Here the dark shapes of uncountable [Spirit Bats] swarmed.

Blackness returned.

Chaos.

“Allow fear to foster,” whispered Meng Ai’s voice, prefacing a great quiet wherein the orchid horde did naught but solidify their footing.

Pushing a resonance through his brooch, Fu drew forth. Clad in shadow, the Cloud Gathering widened their approach in a swift navigation to the eastern front.

“Shoots of grass, you allow the enemies of [Spring] to shame us so?” rallied a taller blade, delineated behind scores of base fodder with those of suitable station.

A hand pressed on this cultivator’s shoulder. “Amituofo, brother, you allow this darkness into your heart. Grass cannot grow without the sun, these shoots should not be judged harshly.”

This Vajra, one of warlike bearing- latticed in scars so profound they shone across the intervening distance- parted his juniors. Hanfus flared as they came to knee, ill-daring, or unworthy of meeting the gaze of he nor his [Spirit Salamander].

Shoulder high and wreathed in vines.

Meng Ai or our seniors are challenged.

Again Fu studied the scene.

The pandemic of fear, the stall of feet, the escalation birthed that a single pause in death had wrought.

An evolution of tactics. This must become as natural as my breathing.

“Amituofo. Let us not play games, those of clouded serpents!” he called, flashing a war fan where previously his grip was bare. “This taller blade would not see needless blood spill.”

Gold flared to illuminate him, elongating his shadow.

Then passed the whisper at this Vajra’s ear, delivered by the ghost one pace aside it. Unheard, Fu could not guess the words.

But the emboldened cultivator trembled, war fan scything into the open air where his foil had stood not half a breath before.

That pride of Zhu’s mention touched upon Fu.

Blackness returned.

🀦

Meng Ai orchestrated his slaughter with perfection over what his foes would feel to be intolerably long breaths. These passed into an hour, or near, threshing the trespassers so that only dozens remained.

[Ink] burned upon Fu, and he knew in equal measure that Zhu would feel this gratifying pressure.