Severing Ties: The Sect Regrets My Departure

Chapter 196: Creation Immortal Soil, Splitting Firewood and Stoking Flames

“Listen well, all of you.”

“This Blood Field is a vital asset of the Azure Mystic Sacred Land. It is not something ordinary mortals can maintain. You must synchronize with the Sacred Artifacts. Later, you only need to infuse your Spiritual Qi into them, and the Artifacts will plow the land on their own.”

“But take heed. The Spirit Fruits and Herbs growing here are priceless treasures. When you turn the soil, you must be extremely careful. Do not harm a single blade of grass or leaf. If you damage anything… even your lives will not be enough to pay for it.”

In the center of the Blood Field, an old farmer with a hunched back and a face like crumpled parchment stood in a pavilion, barking instructions to the gathered disciples of Awakening Spirit Valley.

The disciples listened with bated breath, terrified of missing a single word.

Their obedience wasn’t just due to the old farmer’s unfathomable cultivation—he could slaughter them all with a wave of his hand—but because of who he was.

A Senior of the Azure Mystic Sacred Land.

In Awakening Spirit Valley, there was one golden rule: The will of the Azure Mystic Sacred Land was absolute. No defiance. No disobedience.

Violators faced punishments so severe they would beg for death, only to be denied the mercy of the grave.

“Alright, go. Find your corresponding Magical Artifacts in order,” the old farmer dismissed them with a wave.

As his hand moved, glowing numbers materialized in the air, drifting toward each disciple to assign their stations.

No one dared to delay. They bowed deeply, then turned and scurried toward the plows scattered across the crimson earth.

Watching their retreating backs, the old farmer’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“Such high-quality fertilizer,” he murmured. “Once we drain their Spiritual Qi and extract their blood and bones, the Spirit Fruits here will surely ascend to the next level.”

“When this batch ripens, we should finally be able to return to Azure Mystic, right?” a voice beside him asked. “It’s been a hundred years. The sect has become a Sacred Land. I’m itching to go back and see the changes.”

The speaker was a burly man dressed as a woodcutter, a sharp axe hanging at his waist.

Next to him stood a shepherd holding a long whip, nodding in agreement. “Indeed. A century trapped in this valley, never taking a single step outside. Back then, Azure Mystic was just a strong sect. Now… it rules the world. Truly something to look forward to.”

These three guardians—the Farmer, the Woodcutter, and the Shepherd—had unique appearances and terrifying strength. If any Azure Mystic disciple saw them, they would recognize them as the three Golden Core Grand Perfection experts who had supposedly entered “Life-or-Death Seclusion” a century ago.

In truth, they had been sent here. For one hundred years, they had tended this field of blood, refining the soil and cultivating the forbidden fruits, never leaving the valley.

Now, their harvest was ready. Their exile was ending.

“Look at them,” the Shepherd chuckled, pointing his whip. “The Valley disciples are hesitating.”

The other two looked.

Indeed, most of the disciples had reached their assigned artifacts but were standing frozen, staring at the tools with dread. No one dared to be the first to touch them.

“They aren’t stupid,” the Farmer smiled thinly. “The artifacts are linked to the Grand Formation. Once they start pouring in Qi, the array will lock onto them. Their cultivation, their Essence Blood, their very souls… all of it will be sucked dry to nourish the soil. By the time they realize it, it will be too late.”

“Not stupid?” The Woodcutter scoffed. “From the moment they walked into this field, they should have known they were dead men walking. If they lack even that awareness, they deserve a lesson.”

“Even a fish out of water will flop around before it dies,” the Farmer said, raising a hand to stop the Woodcutter from reaching for his axe. “Be patient. Let them struggle.”

He licked his lips. “The more a fish struggles, the more delicious the meat.”

The Woodcutter grunted, releasing his grip on the axe handle and sitting back down. “Flashy nonsense. Too much trouble.”

The Farmer merely smiled.

While the three guardians waited like vultures, the Awakening Spirit Valley disciples were drowning in cold sweat.

“The Sect sent us in… they wouldn’t really sacrifice us alive to fertilize the herbs, would they?” one disciple whispered, his voice trembling.

“Our strength isn’t much, but we’ve always been loyal! It shouldn’t come to that… right? Besides, they just sent a batch of mortals in a few days ago. They don’t need us!”

“Who knows? Why don’t you try the Artifact?”

“You try first!”

They pushed and shoved, passing the buck. No one dared to touch the plows. Everyone here knew the rumors about the Blood Field.

For a hundred years, this place had swallowed lives. Every year, every month, a new batch of sacrifices was sent in. Many of the disciples present had personally rounded up mortals and forced them into this very field.

Now, the tables had turned. The butchers were on the chopping block.

Although the Sect had promised they were only here for “maintenance,” no one trusted those words.

The silence stretched, agonizing and heavy. Finally, under the crushing pressure of the Farmer’s gaze, someone broke.

“I don’t believe the Sect would harm its own!”

A disciple stepped forward, grabbing the plow handles with shaking hands. He swallowed hard, then poured his Spiritual Qi into the device.

Whirrr—

The artifact glowed. It began to move, its blades churning the red soil with a steady, rhythmic thrum.

The disciple gasped and let go. The machine stopped. He checked his hands, checked his dantian.

“Hahaha! It’s fine! It’s just a normal tool!”

He laughed, the sound bordering on hysteria. “See? I told you! We are the foundation of the Sect! They wouldn’t discard us! Hahaha!”

A collective sigh of relief swept through the crowd.

“A false alarm. Thank the heavens.”

“I knew it! I just made a major contribution two days ago. Why would they sacrifice me? Hahaha, we were judging a gentleman’s belly with a petty mind.”

“Hurry up, everyone! Let’s get this done and get out of here. This red soil gives me the creeps.”

Relieved laughter broke out as disciples grabbed their plows and began to work. The tension evaporated, replaced by the mundane grunts of labor.

However, a few cautious souls remained on the sidelines, watching.

And in the middle of the crowd, one person was doing something completely different.

Gu Xiu ignored the artifacts. He ignored the spirit fruits. Instead, he squatted down, scooping up a handful of the crimson earth and rubbing it between his fingers.

His eyes narrowed.

“It devours everything. Absorbs everything. And then transforms it all into pure Life Force.”

Gu Xiu dusted off his hands, a look of realization dawning on his face. “Indeed. This is Creation Immortal Soil.”

“The most precious thing in this Blood Field isn’t the longevity herbs. It’s the dirt itself!”

He had sensed the formation earlier—how it siphoned essence and soul to feed the plants. But a simple transfer of energy couldn’t explain the unnatural growth of these immortal herbs. Life-extending plants were picky; they didn’t just grow on corpses. They needed a medium to purify and transform death into life.

The key was the soil.

Legend spoke of a divine earth in the Immortal Realm called “Creation Immortal Soil.” It didn’t exist in the mortal world. It could support any plant, even Immortal Herbs that the laws of this world rejected. As long as it was fed enough nutrients, it could accelerate growth to terrifying speeds.

The half-dead Earth Cloud Sprout Gu Xiu had used before couldn’t grow in normal soil. But here? It would thrive.

“I never expected Xu Wanqing to get her hands on something like this,” Gu Xiu mused.

But there was a twist. The legends described Creation Immortal Soil as pure white, like flawless jade. This soil was soaked red with blood. Xu Wanqing had modified it, corrupted it to accept human sacrifice as fuel.

A clever, if monstrous, innovation.

“Ah! No! No! I can’t stop!”

A shrill scream shattered Gu Xiu’s thoughts.

He looked up. The disciple who had first tested the plow was now screaming in terror, his hands glued to the handles.

“Help! I can’t let go! It’s sucking me dry!”

“Me too! No! No!”

“It’s taking my Essence Blood! My Origin!”

“I am a loyal servant of Awakening Spirit Valley! I’ve sent 10,000 people to die for you! You can’t kill me! I have merit! I have merit!”

“Save me! Help!”

Chaos erupted. The disciples who had started plowing were now trapped, their bodies convulsing as the artifacts locked onto their meridians. They weren’t just pouring Qi into the tools; the tools were drinking them.

They were rooted to the spot like trees, unable to move, unable to break free. But unlike trees that drew life from the earth, they were pumping their own life into the soil.

It was a live sacrifice.

The few disciples who had held back stared in horror, their legs cramping with fear.

“Run! Run! They’re killing us!”

“They’re silencing us! They never intended for us to leave!”

Panic took over. Several disciples turned and bolted for the exit.

Whoosh—

A massive axe spun through the air, a blur of cold steel.

The lead runner, a decent cultivator with good reflexes, tried to dodge. He summoned a shield, tried to twist away.

It was useless.

Shing.

The axe passed through him without a sound.

The disciple froze mid-step. For a second, nothing happened. Then, a thin red line appeared down the center of his body, from the crown of his head to his groin.

He split apart.

Neatly. Like a log of firewood.

But he didn’t die.

As the two halves of his body fell to the blood-soaked ground, flames erupted from his flesh. They didn’t burn his clothes or the grass; they burned him.

The fire started at his feet, crawling up his shins, his knees, his thighs, consuming him inch by agonizing inch.

His eyes, still wide and aware in his halved skull, rolled in terror. He tried to scream, but with his throat bisected, only a gurgling wheeze came out.

“This firewood is good quality,” a rough voice boomed. “It should burn for three days and three nights.”

The Woodcutter walked over, retrieving his axe from the ground. He looked at the trembling survivors with a cruel sneer.

“Anyone else want to try?”

The disciples froze, their faces the color of ash.

“Be good little fertilizer for the flowers, and you can die peacefully,” the Woodcutter said, wiping a speck of blood from his blade. “But if you prefer to be firewood… I won’t refuse.”

“Well?” He stepped forward. “Who’s next?”