Chapter 19: Mist and Shadows
Ryo's wounds closed slowly under the glow of the healing pill's energy. Pale blue light danced across his skin as Flux monitored the spell array's perimeter. Outside, the mist still swirled lazily, hiding every tree and stone like a shroud.
Eventually, Ryo sat up, flexing his arm. "Not bad. Hurts like hell, but I can move again."
"Then we rest a bit longer," Flux said, voice calm. "We'll need every bit of energy."
They remained silent. The forest whispered in the wind, a hush broken only by distant howls and the occasional crack of shifting branches. When their energy stabilized, they packed up their shelter and slipped quietly into the fog once more.
They moved like ghosts, weaving through brambles and low-hanging vines. Hours passed in silence as they avoided stronger qi signatures—some too dense and wild to approach. Once, they crouched beneath a ridge as a powerful pressure swept past. A disguised formation master, perhaps an elder from one of the sects, observing from afar.
"Judges," Flux whispered. "Core Formation, probably. Keeping us in check."
Ryo nodded. "They're not part of the trial. Just watching."
After more searching, they caught the sounds of clashing weapons ahead—grunts, shouted techniques, and the unmistakable boom of spirit force colliding.
Flux held up a hand. They crept closer until they reached a high ledge veiled by vines. Below them, two teams of Foundation Establishment disciples fought savagely in a clearing littered with shattered talismans and broken weapons. Spirit energy crackled in the air—one group was down to three cultivators, the other had four, but all looked ragged, bloodied, drained.
Flux narrowed his eyes. "Almost spent… a perfect time to strike."
But then, he sensed something strange—qi signatures hidden unnaturally well, like whispers beneath a storm. His gaze shifted to the edge of the clearing where shadows moved ever so slightly.
"Hold," he said quietly.
There—figures crouching beneath cloaks laced with concealment spells. Their robes bore faint traces of red and black trim. Crimson Vail Sect.
Flux focused his spiritual sense, trying to pierce the veil. He couldn't determine their exact levels—but they felt solid.
"They're waiting," he whispered. "Planning to finish the survivors and take all the tokens at once."
Ryo leaned close. "How many?"
"Five. All well-hidden. Same sect."
Ryo frowned. "What sect?"
Flux nodded. " Probably Crimson Vail."
"They're definitely at least at middle Foundation," Flux muttered. "Fifth level, maybe sixth."
His tone remained cold. "Strong enough to overwhelm what's left."
He outlined a plan. Ryo's grin widened with each word.
"Oh, I like this one."
Down below, the battle reached its peak. The last cultivator of one team unleashed a flaming spear strike that shattered a defensive wall, and two enemies flew back, unconscious. But just as the victors began to catch their breath—
A cold wave of killing intent surged.
The Crimson Vail disciples emerged without a sound. All five struck simultaneously, blades glowing a faint crimson, eyes gleaming with murderous intent. Blood-red talismans burst into the air like petals, activating instantly.
"What—who—?!"
One cultivator tried to flee, but a crimson whip lashed out, coiling around his leg and yanking him backward mid-sprint—his body slammed against a boulder with a bone-snapping crack. Another raised a barrier, only to scream as a piercing illusion flooded his senses—his own allies turning into monsters in his eyes—before a blow took him down.
The weakened survivors turned instinctively, trying to form a desperate front.
"Together!" someone shouted. "We take them down!"
But it was too late. The Crimson Vail formation was merciless. Blood arts surged with terrifying precision. One disciple's sword dissolved into a cloud of crimson mist that bored straight through a shield and struck flesh. Tokens flew into the air as disciples were knocked out in flashes of white light.
Victorious, the Crimson Vail cultivators stood in the ruined clearing, laughing as they caught their breath.
"Pathetic. They didn't even last that long."
"We'll clean this whole trial out before nightfall."
But then the air grew cold. Mist curled unnaturally around their feet.
Flux burst from the shadows with Miststep Flow, flickering between form and vapor. He danced through the fog like a phantom, his blade humming with silver radiance. A single blur—then steel bit into a disciple's chestplate, carving through the defensive charm in a flash of light and steel.
"ACK—!"
Then came the thunder.
"CRIMSON FREAK SECT, SURPRISE!!" Ryo roared as he exploded from the trees, lightning sheathing his entire body. He spun mid-air and hurled twin arcs of lightning like twin spears—both struck home, one blasting a disciple into the dirt, the other severing a weapon mid-guard.
Two Crimson Vail disciples screamed and rolled away, robes scorched, aura flickering.
"Who the hell are you?!" one shouted, panic rising.
"We're the ones who'll eliminate you," Ryo growled back, hurling another bolt that obliterated a tree beside the disciple's head.
Their formation cracked under the assault. Two were limping. One was missing a gauntlet. Blood already soaked their sleeves.
"You're all injured," Flux said coldly, blade spinning in a lazy crescent. "This won't take long."
A fierce battle erupted—mist and lightning colliding in a chaotic ballet of death. The forest lit with silver arcs and crimson flares, branches split, roots scorched, talismans igniting the air.
One Crimson Vail disciple launched a spinning glaive technique, flames licking the edge—but Flux vanished into vapor, reappearing behind him. His blade carved a crescent across the man's back—clean, efficient. The disciple crumpled before he could even react.
Another tried to flank Ryo with a blazing chain technique. Ryo ducked low, rolled beneath the strike, and rose with a lightning-infused uppercut that sent the man flying ten meters, body crackling.
"I thought your sect trained assassins," Ryo laughed. "Was that a flying rope trick or a warm-up?"
Two Crimson Vail fighters regrouped and unleashed dual talismans—one fire, one wind. The gust amplified the flame into a dragon-shaped inferno hurtling at Flux.
Flux's eyes gleamed. He exhaled once.
Whirling Crescent.
His blade spun faster than the eye could follow, forming a swirling disc of silver energy that collided with the firestorm. It sliced through like a buzzsaw, scattering the dragon flame into harmless embers. Mist surged in its wake, snuffing the last sparks from the air.
The last Crimson Vail disciple backed away, panting, blood on his lips.
"You been watching us from the beginning?"
"Yup," Ryo said, landing beside him in a burst of lightning. "Big mistake."
One final bolt arced forward, striking the ground behind the last opponent with a deafening boom. The explosion sent the disciple tumbling—and as he groaned, barely conscious, Flux's blade tapped his throat.
A token slipped from the man's sleeve, pulsing once before he vanished in a flash of white.
Ryo stood panting, hair wild, sleeves torn, electricity still crackling from his shoulders.
"Hah… hah… HAHAHA!" he shouted. "Say hello to the waiting room for me, freak!"
Flux sheathed his sword and gave Ryo a long look.
"…How did I end up getting along with this guy so well?"
High above, veiled within a distant formation that bent light and sound, a Core Formation overseer floated silently. His robes fluttered in the windless sky, expression calm as his gaze followed the scene below.
He'd watched the ambush from beginning to end, spiritual sense tracking every movement.
When Ryo burst out laughing, practically cackling like a lunatic over the fallen Crimson Vail disciples, the overseer's brow twitched slightly.
Didn't you ambush them too? he thought, a flicker of amusement breaking his detached expression. Why are you laughing like you're the righteous one here?
Shaking his head, he turned his gaze elsewhere, vanishing from view.
---
In the Recovery Pavilion
White-robed healers moved between beds lined in neat rows beneath a jade-tiled ceiling. Bright light spilled through arched windows as spiritual medicine flowed through glowing lines beneath the floors.
The eliminated cultivators sat or lay in silence. Most wore exhausted or bitter expressions.
The two groups from earlier—the ones ambushed by Crimson Vail—sat on opposite sides of the hall, united in mutual gloom.
Then came five more flashes of light. The Crimson Vail disciples appeared—bruised, bleeding, and visibly furious.
One of them kicked the ground. "DAMMIT! How did those two nobodies beat us?!"
Another slumped into a chair, scowling. "That lightning freak… and that mist freak… I'll remember their faces."
"But the mist freak was wearing black clothes and a big hat that covered his face, so I can't see clearly."
The disciples from the two groups looked at each other, then at the furious newcomers.
Someone snorted.
Then another laughed.
And soon, the room erupted in chuckles.
"Guess karma's real," someone muttered.
The Crimson Vail disciples said nothing. Their heads lowered, faces burning.
In a quiet corner, a healer walked by shaking her head. "Honestly. It's always the arrogant ones who get the loudest exit."