The rogue cultivator alliance appeared as a unified front, but beneath that thin veneer, dangerous undercurrents were surging. Within the party of twenty, two distinct factions had crystallized: the “Combatants,” led by Han Shan and Mo Hanchuan, and the “Opportunists,” represented by the shrewd Zhang Mingyu.

The discovery of the [Sword Intent Spirit Spring] was the catalyst that finally shattered their delicate equilibrium.

Zhang Mingyu fanned himself with a rhythmic, leisurely grace, though his eyes burned with calculation. His decision to provoke a confrontation now was a surgical strike. He knew that if Han Shan continued to dictate the terms of distribution, the “Combatants” would hold all the chips by the time they reached the Sword Asking Pavilion. This spring was a mere appetizer, but it was the perfect testing ground to see how far he could push.

Furthermore, Zhang Mingyu had noted the glazed eyes and ragged breathing of the weaker cultivators. Under a merit-based system, these “fodder” would receive nothing. By speaking for them, he wasn’t just chasing spirit water; he was buying loyalty.

“Senior Han,” Zhang Mingyu said, his voice carrying clearly across the red sands. “Many of our brothers here possess shallower cultivation, yet they fought with every ounce of their Essence. To distribute solely by kill-count… well, wouldn’t that chill the hearts of those who bled beside you? Wouldn’t you agree?”

The air grew heavy. Several early-stage Golden Core cultivators exchanged meaningful looks, subtly shifting their weight toward Zhang Mingyu. Even Bai Zhi, the alchemist, paused her needlework to frown; she had seen the toll the battle had taken on the rank-and-file.

Han Shan’s expression didn’t flicker, but a shadow passed through his eyes. He saw the trap. If he refused, he was a tyrant; if he agreed, he weakened his own loyalists.

“Fellow Daoist Zhang speaks with great compassion,” the old fox finally chuckled, his voice smooth as aged wine. “However, those who stood at the front lines did so to shield us all. It is only right their bravery is recognized.”

He paused, letting the tension simmer before offering the out. “Let us split the spring into three: one portion for the vanguards, one for the wounded to facilitate their recovery, and the final portion divided equally among the rest. A fair compromise for a unified march, wouldn’t you say?”

It was a masterstroke. Han Shan had preserved the hierarchy while silencing the dissenters, all while keeping the power of the “scale” firmly in his own grip. Zhang Mingyu snapped his fan shut, recognizing he had reached the limit of what he could extract. He offered a shallow bow of feigned agreement.

Shen Xian watched the entire exchange from the periphery, his expression a mask of indifference. To him, the squabble was pathetic. Since becoming the heir to the Shen family, the resources at his command were such that a small pool of spirit water was beneath his notice. He could have a lake of the stuff delivered to his courtyard if he cared to ask.

“Internal strife before we’ve even reached the door,” Shen Xian mused silently. “I wonder how many of you will actually live to see the pavilion.”

As the group moved deeper into the Sword Intent Wasteland, the black mist thickened into a physical weight. Han Shan led the way, his [Bronze Ancient Mirror] hovering before his chest. The mirror’s azure light pulsed, acting as a compass against the demonic signatures of the God Burial Valley.

“Careful! A surge is coming!” Han Shan cried out.

The earth buckled. Geysers of black filth erupted, coalescing into eight formidable demon souls. Mo Hanchuan roared, his sword light arcing like a rainbow to meet a Three-Headed Demon General. Zhang Mingyu unleashed a flurry of purple blades from his fan, entangling a [Thousand-Legged Demon General].

Shen Xian stood like a rock in a storm. He flicked a finger, and a ripple of invisible force—his Soul Formation stage Divine Sense disguised as a simple barrier—deflected a lunging shadow. While the others fought, he activated the [Taixu Mirror of Divine Reflection], casting his consciousness over the battlefield like a net.

He saw it instantly.

Han Shan was fighting, yes, but he was subtly drifting toward Zhang Mingyu. The azure light from the old man’s mirror appeared to be shielding his ally, but Shen Xian saw the truth: the light was vibrating at a specific resonance, acting as a lure for the demon souls.

He’s guiding them, Shen Xian thought, a cold smile touching his lips. The old fox is tired of the competition.

Zhang Mingyu was occupied with the centipede-demon when a sudden chill raced down his spine. He spun, deploying a purple light screen just as a second demon soul lunged from the gloom.

“Fellow Daoist Zhang, hold on! I’m coming!” Han Shan shouted, his face a mask of frantic concern.

The [Bronze Ancient Mirror] flared with a blinding azure brilliance. To the others, it looked like a rescue. To Shen Xian’s Divine Sense, it was a death sentence. The mirror light deliberately struck the ground at Zhang Mingyu’s feet, kicking up a cloud of spiritually-charged gravel that blinded his spiritual perception.

In that split second of confusion, Han Shan flicked his wrist. A Mind-Muddling Talisman, dark and discreet, streaked into the chaos. Zhang Mingyu sensed the threat and shattered the paper with a desperate burst of Qi, but the distraction was all the [Thousand-Legged Demon General] needed.

A serrated forelimb, dripping with black rot, punched through Zhang Mingyu’s back.

“Argh!” The purple-robed cultivator coughed a spray of blood.

Han Shan “panicked,” firing a second beam of light that—quite by accident—drove the remaining demon souls directly into Zhang Mingyu’s path. The man was engulfed.

“Han Shan! You—!” Zhang Mingyu’s scream was cut short as the demons tore into his protective aura, their black filth invading his meridians.

“Hold on! I’m trying to reach you!” Han Shan wailed, his voice dripping with false agony. He made sure to fire his mirror beams just slightly off-target, effectively boxing Zhang Mingyu in.

To the rest of the alliance, it looked like two heroes struggling against overwhelming odds. To Shen Xian, it was a meticulous assassination.

With one final, desperate gurgle, Zhang Mingyu was ripped apart.

“Alas! My incompetence has cost us a brother!” Han Shan cried out, beating his chest and stamping his feet in a display of performative grief. He then “furiously” charged forward, obliterating the weakened demon souls to hide the evidence of his sabotage.

The group stood in stunned silence as the mist cleared. No one could find the words to accuse the grieving old man.

Only Shen Xian looked on with cold, ancient eyes, having witnessed every choreographed heartbeat of the murder.