Ash and Honey [BL]

Wan Yu flinched, his grip faltering at a sound of shattering stone.

Fu Ran was alert. He gripped his sword, and used it to steady his steps. Those were the sounds of battle. The more information he could obtain, the better the odds of dealing with this should it occur in the proper timeline. He wasn't dead yet. 

Wan Yu was adamant to stop him before, but as soon as he realized that Fu Ran had no intentions of turning around, he procured his sword and charged along with his hobbling shizun. 

The lands were looking more ajar from when he was last here, the location was close to where they entered. Rubble that was once solid, looked as though it had been busted up. Dust that lay steadied before, was now whirring around wildly around this almost desolate land. A clash of blades took place in the sky, a roaring battle of a demon and two cultivators.

Shesui Lang's wild robes, a storm of blues and pinks, whipped through the air as he drew his blade. Torrents of rushing water followed his charge. Behind every strike was Zhi Lao, following his movements like a shadow, whips of light illuminating the battlefield. 

When his martial brother's fought only one thing came to mind: Elegantly lit lantern boats being carried by the current of a rushing river. Their duo was the pride of the sect, both equally dazzling in every right.

And the demon they were fighting was just as Wan Yu said. It was unmistakably a Fall Corpse.

Any lingering supplies had been thrown around the camp by a man with limbs as red as maple. His body was that of a cultivator whose life had long since come to an end. A Fall Corpse was a classification of demonic entity that referred to a cultivator who had lost his life to corruption in the demon realm.

Based on the previous life of a Fall Corpse, they could become insanely strong enemies. Shesui Lang and Zhi Lao were struggling with just one, and that alone spoke for its ability.

"It's just a dream," Fu Ran tried to remind himself. 

His breath hitched as Shesui Lang and Zhi Lao reeled under the Fall Corpse's relentless strikes. When the streamers of red blood soared through the sky, he couldn't tell whose it was. 

Zhi Shixiong, Shesui Shixiong… his brow knitted together.

Fu Ran gripped Shi Wei Ji until his knuckles were white, until the blade shuttered under his touch. Now with every breath, a lingering taste of rot sat on his tongue. 

So drawn into the worry, Fu Ran narrowly missed a sharp glint of something aimed at him—a rogue blade.

And yet, even with his injury, his reaction speed was pretty good. A sling of his arm deflected the projectile and sent it inches into the ground with a resounding clang.

"Another one?" Wan Yu raised his blade in a hurry and widened his stance. That was not the reaction of an untrained child. His eyes were keenly locked on what followed the stray attack.

Behind the blade, coming in like a flash, a body: It was an identical creature to the one his martial brothers fought. A second Fall Corpse. Fu Ran thought, a tightening gripping his jaw. This is troublesome.

With a harsh thud, the demon man landed, long black strings of hair hung over him like a curtain. When he lifted his head, his expression was that of agony and rage.

The man, probably in his 20's, stunk of rot and decay, and yet... He was preserved well enough that if Fu Ran knew him, he could have identified him based on his face. His features looked no different than an average cultivator of moderate looks, and his body was toned enough to show his time and loyalty to his training.

However, both his body, and tattered robes, were marked with familiar symbols of Ling Huo Peak: a pure white lotus bathed in flame. Fu Ran swallowed, his eyes stretched wide with realization.

There was no doubt about it: this man belonged to the nation's second major cultivation sect that had been long forgotten in flames. 

Not a single body was ever found from that incident. But one stood right in front of him?

"Why…?" He rasped.

The corpse's dead muscles twisted with sickening cracks and pops before it lunged. Those bony, blood-red hands stretched and wrapped around the blade stuck in dirt. The man didn't slow for an instant, and continued the arc of his attack with frightening ease.

Shi Wei Ji caught the attack, but the white sword reverberated on impact. 

Fu Ran grit his teeth, sweat and blood pooling on every bend of his body. Beyond a monster, he thought. They don't get tired and they don't feel pain. They don't even have to think because they move purely based on instinct and muscle memory.

It wasn't to say that a Peak Master with higher levels of a cultivator couldn't handle Fall Corpses, but they came with too much variation. This was their most damning feature. They could come with the trained skills of a legend, or the instinctual cleverness of a war general. 

A tireless breath slipped through Fu Ran's lips, and his muscles seized under the attacking strength.

Shi Wei Ji sparked, and his stance suffered. The pressure was too much and a wince forced his eyes shut.

"Hm… Hm!" Soft excited humming filled his head, strangely reverberating against the sounds of battle. "Oh, Your Highness, what will you do?" A teasing, or condescending, male voice echoed. These words were distinctively different from his own thoughts, and the tone was one he didn't recognize. 

"What?" Fu Ran mouth opened in gaping confusion, and his head snapped to the side. Nothing.

"Black Blade's kept pet—He's come. Are you going to rescue him?" The man spoke again, this time in unbridled amusement. 

From the lack of reactions, it seemed that Fu Ran was the only one to hear it, and regardless of where he looked, there were no answers of who it belonged to. A single moment of distraction was his failure. 

Fu Ran felt another line of pain from his abdomen to his shoulder. The Fall Corpse had landed a strike.

He threw out wild curses of all types. But that one attack opened the way for a torrent. Once his footing was lost, he just couldn't seem to reclaim it. A slash to his chest, a stab to every limb. Before long, all he could feel was… bleeding. 

His life drained from him with every second, his blood soaking into the earth. The nauseating sickness called upon a blackness to fill his vision.

Fu Ran felt numb against the vocal terror of a small boy.

The Sleepy Master of Calamity had been slain.