Cloud-Piercing Pass had not seen an assembly of arms of this size since the Great Demon Cleansing three hundred years ago.
The jagged, snow-dusted gap between the twin summits of the Heavenly Sword Range was choked with fluttering war banners of five distinct hues. Golden silk, vermilion brocade, azure gauze, ochre parchment, and saffron linen snapped wildly against the freezing alpine gale. The air itself buzzed with the collective spiritual pressure of thirty thousand fighters, their overlapping auric fields creating an eerie, pulsating hum that drove mountain eagles from their high aeries.
High above the pass, blotting out the midday sun like floating citadels, hovered twelve grand cloud-galleons. Each war vessel was three hundred paces from bow to stern. It was built from stone-hard hardwood and clad in linked sheets of hardened star-copper. From their boat sides protruded rows of air-powered spirit-stone giant crossbows, while golden sails emblazoned with the crossed-swords crest of Heavenly Sword Manor billowed with artificial wind.
On the highest deck of the lead dreadnought, the Sky-Cleaver, Grand Elder Xuan Ji stood at the prow. He was draped in a spotless cloak of white ermine over his golden daoist robes. His hair was bound with a jade lotus crown that hidden the graying roots near his temples. In his right hand, he gripped the handle of his old family crimson flying sword, Blood-Tide. At the same time, his left hand rested upon the carved dragon railing.
Beside him, representatives from the allied sects surveyed the assembling host with grim, hungry satisfaction.
“Five thousand ironclad students of the Crimson Flame Pavilion stand assembled on the southern flank, Grand Elder,” announced Elder Yan Lie, a burly, red-bearded martial artist whose bare arms were covered in blazing dragon tattoos. His eyes smoldered with personal hatred. “My son, Yan Zixuan, was humiliated by that azure fiend months ago, his flying sword devoured and his training shaken! This crusade is my pavilion’s blood payback. I have brought twenty core-fire siege giant crossbows. We’ll burn up that demonic forest until not a single weed remains!”
To Yan Lie’s left stood Elder Liu Chen of the Azure Cloud Sect, a slender man with narrow, calculating eyes, holding a scholar’s fan of white crane feathers. “Six thousand wind-blade vanguards have secured the aerial outer edge. Our scouts report the terrain within the forest defile is narrow. If we map point our gale formations with your fire giant crossbows, we can create a firestorm that will suffocate their defensive wards within half a shichen. However... The division of the fertile spirit rice terraces must be settled according to our prior agreement.”
“Naturally, Elder Liu,” Xuan Ji said smoothly, though a flicker of disdain crossed his ancient eyes. “The Heavenly Sword Manor claims only the springhead and the alchemy archives. All arable land, timber rights, and beast livestock shall be divided equitably among our noble allies.”
“And the beast cores,” cut inElder Mo Qian of the Mystic Magic charm Hall, his face hidden beneath a hood painted with yellow warding runes. “Five thousand magic charm masters have prepared three thousand earth-binding crushing weight pylons. We need ten thousand intact beast souls to replenish our sky warding matrices. That blue monster’s core, in particular, will serve as an extraordinary ink-refining medium for our sect’s grand seals.”
Only one figure among the coalition high command remained silent.
Standing at the far corner of the watching deck was Abbot Hui Lun of Pure Lotus Abbey, an austere Buddhist master clad in simple patched saffron robes, his weathered hands slowly rotating a rosary of hundred-year sandalwood prayer beads. Behind him, four thousand warrior monks stood in perfect, silent squares on the snowfields below, their iron prayer staves planted firmly in the frozen earth.
Hui Lun gazed down at the valley with heavy, sorrowful eyes. “Amitabha. Grand Elder Xuan Ji... Are you certain the accounts in the crusade manifest are checked beyond doubt? That the beastmaster of the Desolate Forest has slaughtered mortal merchant caravans and refined human souls into demonic wine?”
Xuan Ji’s expression instantly molded into one of solemn, righteous sorrow. He reached into his robes, producing an encrypted jade scroll stamped with the emergency seal of Heavenly Sword Manor.
“Abbot Hui Lun, would this old man mobilize thirty thousand righteous students over mere rumors?” Xuan Ji said, his voice trembling with made grief. “Look upon these testimonies, compiled by our bravest scouts! Over two hundred mortal merchants have vanished along the western trails over the past three moons! The monster brews intoxicating nectar to ensnare mortal souls, trapping them in its lair where they’re forced to labor until their marrow is dry! If we don’t cleanse this nest of corruption today, the entire Eastern Sector will fall into darkness!”
Hui Lun closed his eyes, exhaling a long, heavy breath that frosted in the freezing air. “If mortal souls are indeed trapped in demonic torment, it’s the sacred duty of the Sangha to deliver them from suffering. But this monk prays that if the beastmaster repents and surrenders, mercy may still be granted.”
“Of course, Abbot,” Xuan Ji lied without a blink. “Mercy is the foundation of the righteous path. If the demon yields, we shall merely seal its core beneath our sword pagoda for ten thousand years to purify its sins.”
Turning back toward the vast assembly below, Xuan Ji raised his old family sword high into the biting wind. A brilliant flare of crimson sword-qi erupted from the blade, piercing through the cloud deck and lighting up the snow-covered pass in blinding scarlet light.
War drums boomed.
Carved from the hollowed trunks of hundred-year thunder-oaks, fifty huge coalition drums thundered all at once, their rhythmic beats echoing through the stone bones of the mountain range like an approaching avalanche. Thirty thousand fighters drew their weapons at the same time, raising an ear-splitting roar of righteous zeal that echoed across forty li of wilderness:
“Purge the demonic nest! Slay the Azure Monster! Uphold the Heavenly Dao!”
With sails snapping and spirit engines thrumming with raw spiritual power, the twelve flying dreadnoughts crested the high pass and began their descent, leading the thirty-thousand-man armada westward into the Grand Desolate Forest.
---
Meanwhile, in the calm peach orchard of the Myriad Spirit Safe hall, the sovereign of the forest was struggling with a deep technical malfunction.
Lin Xiao had reverted to his comfortable sapphire slime form, having decided that resting as a floating blue sphere forty inches wide was three times more ergonomic than standing on two human legs. However, his current objective was proving surprisingly difficult to achieve.
He was attempting to balance in a newly installed woven hemp hammock strung between two ancient, flowering peach trees.
Every time he hopped up into the net, his elastic non-Newtonian body squished between the coarse mesh ropes, oozing through the gaps like warm dough through a wire sieve until his bottom touched the soft grass below with a faint splat.
“Old Man Tie made the mesh holes too wide,” Lin Xiao grumbled. His voice shook through his semi-clear outer membrane as he pulled his oozing fluid mass back together into a neat sphere. “I told him forty tiny fractions of an inch was the maximum sky-slit for jelly mid-air. A hammock is supposed to cradle you like a cloud, not turn you into noodles.”
“Host,” the Omniscient Dao Spirit chimed in his mindscape, her cool tone dripping with mild amusement. “Load-bearing math indicates that increasing your water’s skin by thirty-two percent will prevent gravity extrusion through the hemp weave.”
“Good call,” Lin Xiao said.
He focused his will, activating [Iron-Bone Viscoelasticity]. A subtle, diamond-hard tension rippled across his azure surface. That turned him from squishy gelatin into a remarkably firm, rubbery orb. With a light boing, he bounced back onto the hammock.
This time, the mesh held. The hammock swayed gently beneath his four-two-pound weight, rocking him back and forth under the dappled sunlight filtering through pink peach blossoms. A sweet, warm breeze drifted through the orchard, carrying the fragrance of ripe strawberries and blooming jasmine.
Lin Xiao let out a contented, shaking sigh, his two curved white eyes relaxing into peaceful crescents.
“Host,” Dao Spirit noted calmly. “While Host is calibrating nap ergonomics, high-sky surveillance indicates thirty thousand armed combatants and twelve armored aerial warships have breached the outer edge of the mountain pass.”
Lin Xiao didn’t open his eyes. He extended a small, see-through slime arm and tugged a soft wool blanket up over his round blue dome. He tucked the edges beneath his jelly.
“I felt the ground thumping earlier,” Lin Xiao murmured drowsily. “Sounded like a herd of wild cattle with bells tied to their tails. Why are thirty thousand people marching through the mountains with drums anyway? Don’t they have jobs? If they spent half that energy planting winter wheat or clearing irrigation ditches, the Eastern Sector wouldn’t have grain shortages every spring.”
“They’re arriving under the banner of the Traditional Crusade to exterminate Host, liberate mortal laborers, and seize the Ancient Genesis Springhead,” Dao Spirit replied factually.
“Well, they’re going to be terribly disappointed,” Lin Xiao chuckled softly, the blanket rising and falling with his slow, rhythmic breathing. “There aren’t any enslaved mortals here, the springhead is public property. Our peach wine takes at least six months of barrel aging before it’s fit to serve. If they march all the way down the defile in heavy armor, they’re just going to get sweaty and cranky.”
He pulled the blanket a little higher, yawning softly as the hammock swayed.
“Wake me when they reach the outer boundary markers,” Lin Xiao said. “Tie Shan still has those wooden signs we painted last month: ‘Please wipe your boots, don’t pick the wild orchids, and quiet hours begin at sundown.’ If they can read, maybe we won’t even need to boil tea.”
The blue slime curled into a snug ball beneath his blanket. It drifted off into a peaceful morning sleep, while seventy miles away, thirty thousand righteous swords marched onward to purge the terrifying demon sovereign of the deep pit.