Severing Ties: The Sect Regrets My Departure

Chapter 266: Green Mountain Misty Rain, Red-Robed Ancestor

Green Mountain City sat anchored a thousand miles from the borders of the Azure Mystic Sacred Land.

Nestled into the southwestern flank of the Heaven-Leveling Mountains, the city was a sanctuary of clear waters and vibrant peaks. Its breathtaking vistas and legendary, heavy-bodied wines had drawn wandering poets and calligraphers for centuries. The cobblestones of this city still held the lingering imprints of ancient sages and supreme powerhouses.

Furthermore, it was a rare anomaly in this brutal world: a sprawling metropolis where mortals and cultivators bled and breathed in the same crowded streets.

Today, a heavy, suffocating stillness hung outside the towering entrance of the Misty Rain Tower.

A solitary figure draped in heavy, blood-red robes stood anchored before the threshold. He did not enter immediately. Instead, he studied the weathered stone steles lining the entryway, his gaze tracing the ancient rubbings carved into the rock.

From the shadows of the doorway, the shopkeeper observed the eccentric guest with a racing heart.

The man in red possessed the delicate, porcelain features of a sheltered scholar. Yet, a sickly frailty clung to his bones. He kept a white silk handkerchief pressed to his lips. Merely climbing the front steps had drawn a sheen of cold sweat across his pale forehead.

He was forced to halt and rest his agonizingly frail body at every single landing.

For the bustling, high-stakes commerce of the Misty Rain Tower, this crawling pace was an intolerable nuisance. Yet, the shopkeeper did not dare breathe a single word of complaint.

Partly, it was because the frail youth bled wealth. Upon his arrival in Green Mountain City, he had casually thrown down enough gold to secure the entire ninth floor of the region’s most prestigious establishment.

But primarily, the shopkeeper’s terror stemmed from the two monolithic figures trailing the red-robed youth.

They flanked him like twin iron towers. Clad in coarse cloth and wide bamboo rain hats, their faces were entirely obscured. Yet, the latent, crushing aura radiating from their bodies was enough to make a mortal’s soul threaten to splinter.

“Immortal…” the shopkeeper whispered, bowing deeply as they finally reached the heavy wooden doors of the ninth floor. “The distinguished guests you summoned have already gathered within. This lowly one will retreat now. If you require blood or wine, merely give the command.”

“My thanks.” A gentle, almost skeletal smile fractured the pale mask of the red-robed youth. He casually tossed a heavy pouch over.

“Immortal, this is…”

“If my memory serves, the absolute pinnacle of your cellar is a brew named ‘Distant Mountain.’ Correct?”

“It is, Immortal.”

“Bring it up. The guests bleeding their time in this room are of supreme importance. Do not make them wait.”

“At once! At once!”

The shopkeeper fled as if chased by ghosts, returning moments later with jars of Distant Mountain that bled a thick, intoxicating aroma into the corridor. Only then did the red-robed youth smile truly. He elegantly flicked an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve and pushed the heavy doors inward.

The instant the wood groaned open, a physical wave of hostility crashed over him.

Dozens of eyes locked onto his frail frame. These gazes were sharp enough to carve stone, laden with suspicion, scrutiny, and a torrential, boiling killing intent.

The Red-Robed Ancestor ignored the suffocating pressure. He strolled into the lion’s den with a serene smile, his gaze sweeping over the assembled titans of the region.

“I have forced you all to wait in the dark. The Distant Mountain wine before you is the lifeblood of this city. I implore you, savor its weight.”

The room answered with the silence of a graveyard. A dropped needle would have sounded like a thunderclap.

Unbothered, the Red-Robed Ancestor gestured for his iron-tower guards to pour a cup for every Sect Leader present. He took his own chalice and drifted toward the sprawling balcony.

He gazed out over the sprawling, ink-wash landscape of rain-drenched peaks and misty valleys.

“I once read that an ancient sage left a verse upon these very walls,” he mused, his voice carrying the rhythmic cadence of a forgotten era. “The shimmering water is beautiful on a sunny day; the misty mountains are wonderful in the rain.”

He inhaled the crisp, rain-soaked air. “Truly, a realm of unparalleled mountains, pristine waters, and immortal verse.”

The poetic indulgence caused several prominent brows to knot in violent irritation.

“Red-Robed Ancestor!” a voice barked, shattering the fragile quiet. “Cease this hollow posturing! You know exactly why we crawled out of our sects to gather here. We came to execute our grand design, not to humor your aesthetic delusions!”

“Ah, Sect Leader Jin Bingquan of the Golden Blade Sect,” the Ancestor replied smoothly, raising his cup toward the man. “Renowned for a blade as heavy as a mountain and a tongue just as blunt. A true, unfettered warlord. The rumors do not do you justice.”

When Jin Bingquan merely glared back, refusing the toast, the Ancestor did not flush with anger. He brought the rim to his own lips and drained the fiery liquid.

“A razor-sharp bite upon the tongue, followed by a heavy, sweeping sweetness that anchors the soul. It leaves one feeling suspended above a sea of clouds. It is truly worthy of the title ‘Number One.'”

The Ancestor’s agonizingly slow theatrics ground the patience of the room to dust.

“We are indebted to Senior’s hospitality,” another voice cut in, cold and hollow. “The wine is a masterpiece. But for a man whose heart has been hollowed out, the finest vintage tastes only of ash.”

The Red-Robed Ancestor turned, his eyes softening with calculated empathy. “My deepest apologies. I had forgotten that Sect Leader Chi is still fresh in his mourning. The weight of losing one’s master is a mountain that cannot be easily moved. Offering you wine was a failure of my foresight.”

The speaker was Chi Mingfei, the newly ascended Sect Leader of the Bai Qi Sect. His predecessor had drawn his last breath merely two days prior. Hearing the Ancestor’s hollow condolences, Chi Mingfei’s eyes darkened into voids. He shook his head, sealing his lips.

“Red-Robed Ancestor,” another figure interjected, her voice sharp as cracking ice. “We have chained our fates to your machinations for years, bleeding ourselves dry for the promised arrival of Cold Dew Day. You summoned us here. You know exactly what words we are starving to hear.”

It was Leng Mingshu, the Deputy Sect Leader of the Bi Bo Sect. Seated rigidly beside her was Leng Mingyu, the Sect Leader, whose shattered divine soul had only recently been stitched back together.

Her words acted as a spark in a powder keg. The room erupted.

“The Demon Sect Leader is currently locked in a death match with a supreme adversary! Why are we rotting in this tower instead of carving a path through their defenseless gates? We are letting a divine opportunity bleed out onto the floor!”

“Exactly! This is a rupture in fate that occurs once in an eon! Who possesses the luxury to drink poetry while our enemies’ throats are exposed?”

“Those Azure Mystic dogs just severed another ten thousand acres of my spirit fields! If we do not march today, my sect will be wiped from the annals of history!”

These men and women formed the spine of the Red-Robed Alliance. They represented a massive coalition of Sects bordering the Heaven-Leveling Mountains. For years, they had been secretly forging weapons and hoarding resources for a unified, apocalyptic strike on the Azure Mystic Sacred Land.

They had answered the Ancestor’s summons instantly, expecting a declaration of war.

Instead, the Red-Robed Ancestor released a long, heavy sigh that cut through the clamor. “I summoned you here to force a bitter pill down your throats: patience. Do not let the illusion of a fractured gate blind you to the guillotine waiting behind it.”

The room bristled. Brows furrowed in unified confusion and rage.

“Strip away your pride and look at yourselves,” the Ancestor demanded, his voice dropping its poetic lilt, turning heavy and oppressive. “Measure the aggregate strength of every soul in this room. Now, weigh it against the Azure Mystic Demon Sect. What are we?”

A suffocating silence strangled the room.

Individually, they were warlords. Together, they formed an army capable of leveling mountains. But against the apocalyptic might of a Sacred Land? They were nothing but fragile clay chickens and crumbling pottery dogs waiting to be smashed.

“But the Demon Sect Leader is tethered by the Demon Emperor!” a Sect Leader protested defensively. “The window is open! Our strength may be a fraction of theirs, but we can still draw blood! If we strike now, we can tear a massive chunk of flesh from their bones!”

“Tear a chunk of flesh?” The Ancestor shook his head in slow, patronizing pity. “What does that look like in your mind? Reclaiming the mud and weeds they stole from you?”

The room remained dead silent.

“Or perhaps slaughtering a few thousand insignificant outer disciples?”

The silence deepened.

“Or perhaps, if the heavens favor you, butchering a Peak Master or two?”

One Sect Leader subconsciously twitched, ready to nod, but the Ancestor’s voice crashed down like a hammer.

“How many seasons have passed since Azure Mystic clawed its way to the rank of a Sacred Land? Count their years. Measure their accumulated heritage. It is pitifully thin.”

“Yet, despite this hollow foundation, they sit upon the throne of this region, untouched and unbothered. Have none of you fools ever stopped to ask why?”

The Sect Leaders scowled, their minds grinding against the uncomfortable truth.

“A Sacred Land devoid of ancient heritage relies on a singular, absolute pillar,” the Ancestor stated, his words cold and final. “The Supreme. Where the Supreme breathes, the Demon Sect stands.”

“As for their Peak Masters? Their legions of disciples?”

The Ancestor’s eyes swept over the room, cold and utterly devoid of mercy. “We have buried enough spies in their dirt to know the truth. Do you still not comprehend the nature of the beast we are hunting?”

“To the Demon Sect Leader, every single soul beneath her is expendable flesh. Everyone can be sacrificed.”

The words drove a spike of ice into the heart of the room. The silence returned, this time carrying the stench of an open grave.

It was the terrifying, undeniable truth. They were plotting to encircle Azure Mystic, but the power dynamic was a sheer cliff. Guan Xuelan, the Azure Mystic Supreme, was a creature of absolute, glacial ruthlessness. She had casually abandoned the legendary Azure Mystic Sword Immortal to the void. Why would she shed a single tear if a coalition of ants slaughtered her disciples?

If they struck the serpent but failed to crush its head, the ensuing Mahayana retaliation would erase every Sect in this room from existence. It would be an absolute, apocalyptic eradication.

“You claim we are being blinded by a false opportunity,” Leng Mingshu said, her voice tight with barely suppressed dread. “Are you asserting that the war between the Supreme and the Demon Emperor is a fabricated rumor?”

“It is, and it isn’t.”

“Speak plainly!”

“The clash of titans is a physical reality,” the Ancestor clarified. “But the ‘opportunity’ you perceive is a fatal illusion.”

Chi Mingfei’s eyelids twitched violently. “Are you suggesting… that even the supreme Demon Emperor cannot slaughter that Mahayana demon?”

“It is highly improbable,” the Red-Robed Ancestor said flatly.

A collective chill paralyzed the room.

“Absurd!” a Sect Leader spat, his face pale. “The Daos of men and beasts differ in the roots, but converge at the summit! A sovereign Demon Emperor and a human Supreme are apex predators of the exact same caliber. Even if he cannot kill her, forcing a bloody stalemate is a certainty!”

“Guan Xuelan breached the Mahayana realm a mere blink of an eye ago!” another yelled, panic bleeding into his anger. “Azure Mystic possessed zero karmic accumulation to fuel her! She ascended without a single Supreme intervening to shatter her tribulation! How could a nascent Mahayana possess such world-ending power?”

“It’s impossible! She bears the title of Supreme, but she has no mountain of corpses to prove her might! She is hollow!”

The room descended into a chaotic, desperate denial. They shouted over each other, refusing to look into the abyss the Ancestor had just opened beneath their feet.

The Red-Robed Ancestor watched their panic with profound, clinical pity.

He understood their agony. They dreamed of watching Azure Mystic burn to ash. But their own weakness bound them, and Guan Xuelan had become the boogeyman haunting their nightmares.

If Guan Xuelan could engage a legendary Demon Emperor in single combat and walk away victorious… just how monstrously powerful was she?

If that was the case, their grand ‘alliance’ was nothing more than a swarm of moths hurling themselves into a stellar furnace.

“Fellow Daoists,” the Ancestor’s voice cut through the panic, calm and immovable. “We have bled our patience for years. A few more days will not rot our bones. I implore you: anchor yourselves. Wait.”

His placid tone did not extinguish the fire; it poured boiling oil upon it.

“Wait for what?!” a warlord roared, slamming his fist onto the mahogany table.

“The gate is cracked now! If we march today, the Demon Emperor is at least holding her blade at bay! We have a microscopic sliver of hope to gut Azure Mystic! If we wait and the Emperor falls, we are dead men walking!”

“Unless you are hoarding a world-shattering trump card beneath those robes, waiting is a slow suicide!”

They demanded salvation. They demanded the architect of their rebellion provide a weapon capable of killing a god.

The Red-Robed Ancestor offered them nothing but silence. He turned his back to the desperate warlords, his gaze returning to the misty, rain-swept horizon.

Thwack! A streak of blinding light tore through the mist, shattering the silence as a Spirit Arrow buried itself three inches deep into the wooden windowsill, mere inches from the Ancestor’s hand.

The Ancestor did not flinch. Instead, a slow, terrifying smile stretched across his pale face.

“You demand to know what I am waiting for?” he whispered, his voice suddenly carrying the weight of an avalanche. “I will tell you.”

“I am waiting to see…”

“…if the true storm steps out from the shadows.”

The Sect Leaders stared at him, paralyzed by confusion.

The true storm? Who in the heavens was he talking about? They did not have to wait long for the answer. A heartbeat later, the jade communication slips at the waists of several Sect Leaders vibrated violently.

The desperate, screaming intelligence report shattered the room’s remaining sanity:

The Ninth Prince of the Golden Feather Divine Dynasty has crossed the border! The vanguard of the Divine Dynasty’s army is currently laying absolute siege to Cloud Firmament City!