Zhao trudged further uphill with a grunt. The sun was already setting, but he pushed his charges forward relentlessly.

Every step drew them closer to the sect, and all were eager to shorten the trip as much as possible even if it meant immediate discomfort. While the first snowfall was only a couple fingers deep, getting caught by a storm outside the sect would add days to their journey.

For the proper disciples, the expedition had been especially long as the days passed with a stubborn slowness.

Far below them the villagers of Yellow Lily valley were languidly preparing for the night, spirits high. A gaggle of their children, young men, and young women had just been recruited to become cultivators earlier in the day and followed behind Zhao dutifully.

Under normal circumstances the Misty Cloud Sect would recruit perhaps a dozen children from the villagers under their control. Due to the unconventional nature of his orders, Zhao already counted closer to a hundred.

With so many recruits, the disciples had sacrificed their comfort of riding horseback to instead ensure the youngest amongst the recruits could keep up. The horses bred for speed had protested being hooked up to carts like common donkeys.

Zhao had domesticated them with relative ease using the familiarity granted by the Myriad Voices art.

Idly he patted the fawn colored beast that shadowed him with disturbing intensity. Ever since he had fed the mare that mediocre bribe she had refused to leave his side.

Aside from the strange behavior, there were no other signs that consuming the treasure had caused any abnormal effects. Not that Zhao had expected it to.

As he crested the final hurdle of the mountain they climbed, Zhao took a moment to appraise their group.

The most apt comparison he could make was probably that of a refugee convoy, although he supposed morale was too high for that to be accurate.

Nevertheless, there weren’t enough thick clothes and blankets to go around, so many shivered and huddled together to keep warm. Rations were growing scarce, and what they managed to hunt made for meager additions to their supply.

Zhao tried to practice gratitude; he had always been told that such reflection was key to an optimistic outlook.

Whatever progress he’d made towards feeling more positive was shattered when the Myriad Voices art sent a spike of dread through him.

Again.

Its intrusions were growing more frequent and more intense. With yet another long suffering sigh Zhao fetched the tents from the wagon and set up camp.

The effort in distracting himself failed Zhao miserably but succeeded in saving the mortals from having to bumble around after dark to set up themselves.

“Brother Zhao,” a whisper said alongside a hand on his shoulder, interrupting him before he could snatch another tent to set up.

“You should rest,” Che Fang suggested. After a pause he continued, “I can take the first watch tonight.”

Too exhausted to argue, Zhao nodded and headed to his rather magnificent tent. It was larger than the others, and therefore looked impressive, but was unadorned inside.

As he settled into his bedroll, frenzied emotion flooded from his cultivation base to war with his mental lassitude. Unable to sleep in such a state, Zhao chose to instead make halting progress meditating.

He soon discovered there was nothing as enervating as almost completing a cycle of Qi only for it to be dissipated by a stray thought lodged in his head by the vile art he had tied himself to.

Worse than the constant assault against his sanity was that Zhao fought a losing battle against the art.

While he had caught the art circulating Qi by itself early on and made an effort to clamp down on such occurrences, the Myriad Voices seemed to be adapting after he integrated his first spirit fragment.

Its Qi control was more subtle. The manner in which it directed the Qi through his brain became more intricate, the purpose of the changes inscrutable to Zhao. Its incursions became more frequent.

Even now, as he actively tangled with the Qi in his brain, Zhao failed to stop its advance completely. It refused to wane, wearing his resistance down mercilessly.

The urge to go forth and patrol the world outside festered like an itch waiting to be scratched, but Zhao managed to ignore it for hours until his concentration was broken by a distant scream.

Then another. The Myriad Voices art resonated with them disturbingly.

Rushing out of his tent, he identified the nearest disciple, Bai Chi, at the edge of the mountaintop and ran to him.

“What’s going on?!” Zhao questioned firmly, only to be struck dumb as he followed the older disciple’s gaze.

The valley below burned while arsonists raided.

Flames licked the rotting wood of ramshackle houses like starving wolves. Mad cackling echoed up to them from the scene of devastation as figures prowled through the inferno with violent intentions.

Around him budding cultivators awoke only to react to the sight with anguish. Some collapsed onto their knees wordlessly while others made to scream but failed to find their voices.

The sight was shocking for all, but especially poignant for their newest additions.

One such child tried to rush forward to save the village, and Zhao forced himself to dash forward to restrain the young man that struggled ferociously against him in a vain attempt to act.

The first snow of winter smothered the ambient sounds of the mountain, allowing faint echoes of babies roasting alive to echo across the mountainside. Bile rose in his throat at the cursed noise.

With the minor benefits offered by Qi Condensation cultivation, Zhao’s vision was acute enough to watch as Yellow Autumn disciples dragged the village Elder’s wife out of a burning house kicking and screaming, her hands coated in the lifeblood of her husband.

Though he ordered the children in his care to avert their eyes, Zhao forced himself to watch the brutalization that ensued.

He couldn't pull his gaze away. Some distant part of him observed that Zhao was in shock.

A feeling of disembodiment took hold of him, as if the world wasn’t real, but underneath it the kindling of hatred caught fire under the intense disgust Zhao forced himself to endure.

He was revolted at himself for being so weak that all he could do was watch; though both Che Fang and Gu Hong advanced by multiple stages with regularity Zhao himself had been stuck at the 9th stage for months.

It occurred to Zhao that in his previous life he had been sheltered and lazy.

Perhaps not as much as others, but living in a wealthy nation had dulled life’s harshest aspects. The closest he had ever come to witnessing true barbarism was seeing it through a screen or hearing it spoken of third hand.

It had always been in the abstract.

Even when Zhao had helped children through horrible situations, there had always been the scaffolding of society around them to lean against for support.

What he was watching was anarchy.

Grown men pulling girls from their homes with lustful eyes.

A man laughing as he taunted a villager crawling away from him with crippled legs.

A crazed woman dancing in the chaos as if it amused her.

With the blaze reflecting in his eyes, a vow emerged from Zhao’s lips unbidden, “I swear on the heavens you will pay. The Yellow Autumn Sect cannot exist under the same sky as me!”

Around him, first the other Misty Cradle disciples and then the recruits each repeated the oath. Zhao realized he had inadvertently spurred a revenge plot in the story of his life.

Whatever shred of regret manifested from his self reflection was swiftly strangled. He would not allow what he witnessed to go unpunished, oath or no.

The dreadful feeling of the heavens’ attention descended on them, noticing their fury with the indifference of nature. Under the pressure, Zhao’s mind was spurred into action.

“We must go,” he hissed urgently, spinning back to the campsite.

“Pack what we can, leave the rest,” Zhao commanded as the destruction unfolded behind him.

Cultivation bases surged down below, a sea of Qi Condensation disciples led by one in Foundation Establishment. That equated to near certain death if they were caught.

In the back of his mind, Zhao questioned whether their sect was to be destroyed by this assault.

Within the time it takes an incense stick to burn the caravan was moving again, Gu Hong leading the pack while the other disciples congregated together near the rear.

“I’ll stay behind,” Bai Chi stated resolutely. “In case of pursuers.”

Zhao’s mouth went dry. He nodded mutely.

Knuckles cracked as Tai Yang clenched his fists. The giant’s grimace hardened. “I will join you.”

Che Fang met Zhao’s eyes, directing him towards the other two disciples.

Nan Xi was chomping at her nails with wide eyes. Ming Fe stared into the distance hollowly.

“Okay,” Zhao stated simply. Turning his gaze back to the volunteers he wished them safety. “Don't die.”

The two men broke off to assume more tactical positions overlooking the far side of the mountain. Che Fang helped usher the young women to join the caravan, Zhao falling into step behind them.

They marched endlessly through the night until the sun touched the horizon. For the duration of their escape Zhao found himself trapped in his mind, replaying the destruction of the Yellow Lily valley.

Survivor’s guilt already plagued him. Questions of what he could have done differently nipping at his conscious ferociously.

Zhao had no answers to them.