Chương 49: Chapter 48

As the change kept washing over the city of the crater, new arrivals were making their way to it. From the south-east, three ships soared over the plateau, their flags and sails fluttering in the night breeze. They alighted over the city's greatest plaza, and set down amidst a ruckus of activity. The hold doors came down, and thousands of people staggered out, blinking into the cool air. They made for a pitiful sight.

Starved, emaciated by generations of abuse, many were crippled or showed some kind of mutation caused by the demonic Qi of their homeland. Fear and shock hung around them like a bad smell as they clutched their tatters and shielded their loved ones with their bodies. It was in their eyes, an animal panic that had become a way of life. Adults like weather-beaten roots, fear, distrust and calculation mingling in guarded expressions.

Children like critters, encrusted with dirt and peeking from behind their parents' tatters with glimmering eyes. Some were past saving, eyes empty of any expression, flinching every time someone got close, doing what they were told no matter who did the ordering or what was asked. They were welcomed by a sight that had them gasp. Twelve spikes, long and thin, were arranged in a semi-circle around the plaza, tall enough to be visible in any corner of it.

Shreds of banners slumped from each, the colors of the Fallen Twelve stitched alongside half-molten artifacts, broken weapons and shards of materialized Qi. If someone among the refugees held any illusion about the fate of their masters, that settled it. Many stopped, too stunned to do anything but watch. Others just fell to their knees, tears streaming down their cheeks, expressions flashing with turmoil. After the refugees, hundreds of demonic cultivators were led out.

These were blood-encrusted, tattered children and young men, all of them sporting some kind of strange mutation, from fingers bending unnaturally, to eyes whose colors blended like watered paint, to voices that echoed strangely, to hair that flickered like flames, to another of the ten thousand shapes demonic Qi could take on the human body. They were chained in long rows and filled the air with the sound of rattling as they advanced, heads bowed under the keen eyes of Hand enforcers.

No demonic Elder or talented one had been allowed into the journey, only those whose path had yet to lead them to perdition. Even still, the signs were there. They bared teeth and snapped like dogs, and tried to claw the eyes out of any guard who wandered too close. Some watched without blinking, mumbled and chuckled to themselves, or picked and scratched at badly scarred wounds as though chasing insects scrabbling under skin.

They would have been considered fuel in the demonic sects, too weak to walk the demonic path without losing their sanity. Only marginally better set than their mortal counterparts, they too were shocked by the sight of the spikes, but it was tempered: they knew that their being there could only mean that outcome. Some were still defiant, but most had that beaten out of them. They were defeated, and they knew it. In their world, once you reached that step, you were grateful for every new breath of air.

The few Core Formation experts allowed on the ships walked out without chains: they were rogue cultivators who had gravitated to the demonic sects out of necessity. In the dangerous realm of the Borderlands, you either joined or died. That had created small agglomerates of rogues who served the demonic ones without partaking of their poisoned gifts.

These were veterans who had made survival into their craft, long-standing slaves whose grudges and thirst for freedom had seen them jump at the chance of joining the Sect. They made for an exotic sight, with their self-taught paths and pathwork weapons and tattoos and bone fetishes, but there was no mistaking the steely, calculating glint in their eyes as they took in the great city around them, or the concern with which they looked for certain mortals or lesser cultivators.

These experts and their retinues were welcomed better than the rest. Elders of the Godless Night ushered them in, offering explanations and accommodations. A rogue cultivator of that level would have to work twice and thrice harder than a peer of the Night, and would likely never acquire the same prestige unless he decided to convert his qi, but that didn't mean there weren't advantages to be found in service.

In their world, cultivation opened doors, and a fully formed Core opened many doors, especially under the Mother of Night, who valued talent rather than pedigree. But they were only a small part of the whole. Mortals and demonic cultivators were welcomed by officials of the Main Branch.

Each of the smiling, well-dressed figures, backed by contingents of Hand soldiers and flanked by two Owls as still as marble columns, welcomed the stunned refugees, explained what happened and what would happen, the great chance they were given and what was expected from them. The spiel was always the same: Your demonic Masters challenged the Night and have been vanquished. Their bones now nourish the land you walk. Their souls wanders in Diyu for their transgressions.

You could have been left, alone and without protection, to die in the Borderlands under the Wasteland's inevitable encroachment. The Night could have come to your home, rip the ransom for your masters' arrogance from your lives and leave you to die. As per the right of conquest and the law of recompense, either would have been rightful. The Divine of Night rejects such a notion. The Lady of the Crater sees the pain of the weak, and doesn't pour the guilt of the demonic one upon its victim.

She recognizes the good seed, and would rather see it sprout and blossom in fertile land rather than be lost in the burning ground. For that, you've been chosen. You've been taken from certain doom and given a new chance to start anew under a protector who shall not fail you. Live, work, be of service, and rest assured that you shall be taken care of, far better than under your oppressors. Some took it as a liberation, falling to their knees and clasping their hands in thanks. Most… were more prudent.

They didn't protest – what would the point be? – but neither did they cheer. They did what they always had: they accepted their fate with the grim stoicism of the survivors, hiding their feelings behind masks of careful complacency. To them, the Dark Ones were the enemy of legend, ghosts that came howling from the sky to steal their brethren and destroy their homes. But they were also the equals and now the destroyers of their demonic masters, absolute existences you didn't fight but only learned to survive.

They couldn't trust them, but neither would they resist. The idea was ludicrous. And that was good enough. In time, they would learn. The ships disgorged thousands of mortals, tense, half-panicked herds of stinking humanity pushed along by Hand soldiers. Hundreds of cultivators came after, rows of chained prisoners with bowed heads and dragging feet parading between keen-eyed enforcers. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

After the first welcome, they were directed to pre-arranged barracks, where the Sect's personnel started administering first aid. As the clean-cut nurses and healers made the rounds, the message was always the same, this time arriving alongside a bowl of soup, or a bandage, or a touch of healing Qi. You've been saved. Your new life welcomes you. The Mother of Night welcomes you. It worked better when it came alongside clean blankets and less pain. The Nightborn knew their duty.

They welcomed the new additions with courtesy, avoiding undue bullying or rudeness, and watched them file on their streets with little in the way of jeers. The healers and the maids kept it professional, smiling at their patients and never refusing a kind word or a reassurance. The soldiers of the Hand reined themselves in, keeping the newcomers in line with stern looks, firm pushes and nothing else. But that was all.

It would take a long time before they would learn to trust those who came from the Borderlands, no matter that they were technically victims just the same. Thirty years of Siege wouldn't be erased with a single stroke, the orders of the Founder notwithstanding.

As for the newcomers, as they filed out of the cargo holds and through the great, tiled streets, as they trudged into the barracks and were given new uniforms and assigned bunks, they couldn't help but think the same stunned marvel, reflected in one thousand different variations. The city of the Plateau loomed taller than anything they could have dreamed of. Compared to it, the volcano strongholds and secret realms of their demonic masters were beggars' lounges, chicken coops filled with noise and flame and dirt.

Everything was grand here, orderly and elegant, dark and gleaming at the same time. The people were the same, as though sprouted from the place like fruits from a tree. A city of cultivator s, many thought in marvel, overwhelmed by the palaces, the smooth elegance of their inhabitants, the colors. I couldn't have imagined the world to be so large as to hold something like this. And the Night, oh, the Night.

There was power in that word, like there was power in that land, in the painted stone, the lacquered wood, the gently shining paper lanterns. A silent, cold power that embraced and never rejected. Understated, still, never noisy yet unbelievably vast. A sea, offering itself to parched throats. A deep mystery that unveiled itself forever. Wonder, the unknown, and the fear and eager delight of it. Of course, everything had been set to provoke the greatest effects on the newcomers. In that, the success was impressive.

Except for one episode, even if that turned to the Sect's advantage too. Wei Jin had come with the resolve to die. He had everything once: talent, wealth, the favor of his betters and all the concubines he could ask for. As the youngest ever about to enter Core Formation in the Twisted Flame, he only needed to snap his fingers for servants to bring him a hunk of Lava-Stag, raw and bloody. The fiercest fire maidens had begged for his bed.

No Fire-eater of his age dared to meet his eyes, or could refuse to give him the best spot by the ritual flame. He had been happy, satisfied with his present, with a bright future ahead of him. Then, the final assault of the Siege had come. Wei Jin hadn't participated. Not out of cowardice! Someone had to remain to hold the fort, and when the Howling Brothers drew straws, it fell to him. Nothing had changed. The cursed Dark Ones had come and he had lost everything. His past, his present, his future. Everything! …

except vengeance. Wei Jin held his head down as he passed before one of those cursed shadow warriors. His chest pulsed with loathing. They were like firehawks, striking with barely a moment's notice. But it wouldn't help them. When it was clear that the Ice Matriarch couldn't be stopped, Wei Jin had made a beeline for the treasury. The Sect Master had entrusted him with a key, and he had managed to find and activate one of the Sect's Treasures before they took him.

The Silent Cicada Shell hid the cultivation realm of anyone who wore it. Useless to the Twisted Flame, whose explosive Qi had to swell and concentrate before being of use, but better it rotted in their dungeons rather than being used by their enemies. Its charm was powerful enough to fool a Nascent Soul, and Wei Jin had used it to pass as a talentless wretch. From there, hitching a ride on the Dark One's ships had been trivial. And now he was here, ready to fulfill his vengeance.

Wei Jin had to restrain one wave of emotion after the other. Triumph for being the only one to have reached this far in the cursed ones' grounds, despair, fevered rage. They streaked through him like thunderbolts. He decided to focus on the last one, a familiar heat that lent him strength. The Silent Cicada Shell fluttered in his cupped fist, not making a sound while it disguised his cultivation. Restraining himself from crushing it, he turned around, looking for a target. He knew he was dead.

He had been since the Siege failed. All he wanted now was to strike back. He wanted the Dark Ones to bleed, to steal from them as they had stolen from him. He didn't choose the woman out of any particular calculation. She sat surrounded by important-looking Dark Ones who stood and talked, her ample robes pooling around her like a dark lake. Wei Jin had no idea if the pathetic aura she emanated was real, nor did he care. She looked important, precious even.

Exactly what it looked like it would be missed and cried upon. The Silent Cicada Shell gave an unearthly shriek as he clenched his fist. The Treasure didn't break; it was too tough for that. It enveloped his fist with a swirling mass of Qi, a deadly touch even for a peak Core Formation. Against a Nascent Soul, it would wound badly, maybe to the death. It was the artifact's second use: to be a weapon after being your veil.

The shriek swept from him like a shockwave, whipping a ring of dust and sending guards and mortals alike to their knees, clutching their ears. Wei Jin was already moving. The Dark Ones around his victim floundered, their balance stricken by the Treasure's effect. Wei Jin relished their panicked expressions, the way they desperately tried to wobble in his path. Slow. Too slow, he thought with cruel relish. He was already before the woman, swinging. The world disappeared. Black. Black everywhere.

Instantly, he lost all direction. Was he falling? Was he standing? He couldn't tell. He couldn't tell what was up and what was down. He couldn't tell anything. Wei Jin gasped, but no sound emerged. Silence that was water that was darkness pressed against his mouth, boxed him in, stifled him. His heart beat like a caged butterfly. A primal terror filled him. His flame, once so mighty and burning, was nowhere to be found. He was a child lost in the woods, an ant stranded in the sea, a dead soul buried and forgotten.

He wanted to scream, to flail, but he wasn't sure where his limbs were either. He was lost, a disembodied voice screaming uselessly in the dark. Then he was not even that, the darkness snuffing him out entirely. His last image was of two eyes, mildly considering. With one stunned last thought, Wei Jin realized that he had been annihilated with one look. It was rare for the Ancestor to show herself.

As the people of the Plateau had long learned by now, the Founder preferred to keep to the shadows, ruling from her palace and making herself known only on particular occasions. That those occasions became particular only because she showed herself and did something memorable had become a bit of a running joke. That one wasn't any different. Once the demonic cultivator was apprehended, the easiest arrest of my life, said one of the guards.

He kept gazing into nothing and mouthing – the Founder decided that a larger feat of power was necessary to keep the newcomers "motivated in the right direction." Her likeness carved into the sky out of clouds and shadows, gazing down at the city like an inverted mountain, did the trick. The demonic ones – now rechristened as the Saved – scurried to their assigned homes while keeping a frightened eye on the sky and covering their heads just in case.

Families were allowed to remain together, but they were also dispersed along the city's inner ring, effectively severing any chance they had to form their own community. In time, each neighborhood sported houses where demonic ones dwelled, making their awkward attempts to adapt to their new home. Compared to the first batch, the arrival of the people from Qinghai was much more relaxed, almost a holiday.

The Sect's authorities made a vague attempt to keep the people from breaking out the decorations, but even iron-hard discipline could be maintained only for so long. When the balloon ships landed in the city, and the Nightborn of the lowlands stepped out, admiring the great city and its people, the Nightborn of the highlands welcomed their brethren with a flurry of fireworks and a rain of fluttering petals.

To the lowborn, tired, ragged, thrown back an age by unceasing conflict and chaos, it was everything they had imagined and more. The grandiose city was a heavenly land to them. The people who welcomed them were like demigods come down from barely remembered legends to pull them into the clouds. While their chiefs met with the Sect's Elders, many broke down in tears. The children sang and danced in the streets or pointed at the great face in the sky.

"It's the Founder!"

"She returned to protect us!"

"Gasp! She winked at me!"

"What? Where?!"

"You liar!"