The Blasphemous Way

The pavilion was utter chaos.

Cultivators brawled like drunken children in a playground of chairs, tables, and wine bottles flying through the air.

One rogue elder "rode" a spinning chair like a flying mount, whooping as he swung his sword at a rival settled Insecurely atop a floating table.

"YOU CALL THAT A TECHNIQUE? THIS IS A TECHNIQUE!" he smashed a wine bottle in one hand as his chair flipped upside‑down in a ball of flame taking a illusion of dragon.

Another drunken saintess swung from the beams by her whip, kicking bystanders below and laughing, "Accident! DON'T CRY!"

Meanwhile a young playboy, thinking himself charming, leaned toward a lady at her seat and purred:

"My fair lotus... grant me the honor of a kiss—"

SLAP!

Her palm left a red mark on his cheek.

"Ah... she touched me..."

SLAP!

"...Twice. Such passion." he was more shameless

In a dark corner, a lanky disciple was admiring the passing beauties with a sigh of bliss—until his friend stepped square into his line of sight.

"Why is this dung beetle blocking my view of flowers?"

The friend smirked

"Because dung is smelly. I need to push it away from the flowers."

Laughter and shouting rang loud—until it didn't.

The air changed.

The riot froze in place, chairs clattering to the ground, wine bottles shattering unheeded.

The temperature plummeted as a crushing aura filled the pavilion like an invisible sea pressing down on every chest.

Cultivators stiffened as the sky above roared and darkened, streaks of lightning cutting through a rising swirl of clouds in the hurricane.

From the heavens themselves, a shape began to descend—bathed in moonlight that shimmered like flowing water.

Wei Yixuan landed without a sound, his white robes trimmed with gold glowing faintly, long silken hair floating like spun snow. Golden seals flared faintly over his folded hands.

The Gentle Wolf stood in silence, and yet his presence seemed to scour every falsehood from every soul in the room.

Then—

The doors wailed open.

Darkness pooled at the threshold.

And through it stepped a figure cloaked in black robes, his long black hair falling like a curtain, his demon‑mask carved with writhing, many‑eyed symbols. His fingers toyed idly with an invisible string, his uncovered eyes shining like cold moons.

Mo Yichen.

The spider lilly in the Garden.

They faced each other—one radiant, one Crimson—as the room held its breath.

Both unleashed their qi.

An avalanche and a hurricane like qi collided split the sky above.

One drunk cultivator crawled for cover, muttering in awe:

"...Children..."

And still Wei Yixuan and Mo Yichen stood, locked in a deadly stillness.

Wei Yixuan folded his hands in his sleeves and said

"Mo Yichen... even now, you hide behind a mask. Afraid to let the world see your true face?"

Mo Yichen tilted his head, brushing his mask lightly in a mocking gaze:

"Afraid? No. I wear this mask to spare the world the disappointment of seeing the devil look so... human."

Wei Yixuan's faint smile was colder than frost:

"If only your heart was as sharp as your tongue. Then perhaps you'd see how small your schemes are compared to the Dao above."

Mo Yichen's shadow stretched further his smile turning cold:

"The Dao above? Tell me, Gentle Wolf—do you truly believe your karma will save you from me?"

Wei Yixuan straightened:

"I don't need saving. Because when the time comes, it won't be heaven that stops you..."

"...It will be me."

Mo Yichen laughed:

"Then by all means, gentle wolf... sink your fangs into this vicious serpent."

And the entire pavilion, wine‑stained and wrecked, fell silent.

At the far wall, Han Tianci leaned against the shadows, the only one who did not flinch at the storm of qi and fury in the air.

Watching quietly

One by one they all fell silent.

Swords were lowered. Flames snuffed out. The chairs and tables settled back to their place. Those who had been laughing or cursing moments ago now scrambled back to their seats.

At the center of it all, Wei Yixuan. Hands folded in his sleeves, his warm eyes scanned the room as though reading every heart in it.

On the far side, Mo Yichen stepped through. His pitch‑black hair spilled over his shoulders, his black robes fluttering as his mask caught the faint light. The red Butterfly embroidery on his robes seemed to flutter as he moved, his shadow stretching across the room like ink in water.

Both stood still now, their gazes sweeping the chamber.

Then, slowly, almost lazily, they turned their eyes to a figure leaning against the wall at the corner of the hall.

A young man in a plain black robe, his head bowed slightly under a wide straw cone hat.

The two leaders spoke at the same time, their voices soft yet loud, carrying across the vast hush of the crowd.

" welcome. Han Tianci."

A ripple passed through the pavilion. Every gaze followed theirs. Every cultivator in that hall now stared at him.

Everyone knew that name.

Even the scoundrel who'd just been slapped froze, his eyes wide.

One voice finally broke the silence.

"Who?"

For a moment, the room pretended. Faces showed confusion, a few chuckles tried to ease the weight in the air, some even turned to excuses to their neighbors.

But Han Tianci slowly raised his head, the brim of his hat casting a long shadow across his face, and his lips curled faintly in a thin, knowing smile.

His voice was soft. And it killed the room.

"Li Qiong."

The air stopped moving.

The silence that followed was eerie, oppressive, suffocating.

One by one, the confusion drained from their faces, replaced by Rage, Fear, Memory, Certainty.

They all remembered.

The silence became unbearable. A crushing pressure fell over the crowd. Some cultivators began to sweat. Others glanced away. They all knew what it meant.

The name alone was enough.

Wei Yixuan's fingers curled faintly within his sleeves, his gaze steady. Mo Yichen's masked face tilted slightly, though his pale eyes glinted with sharp glint behind it.

The leaders began to step forward, one by one, and their voices filled the suffocating quiet like stones dropped into deep water.

"The hunt for Li Qiong began as soon as the memories returned. Half the lower realms are already in Blood. Every clan bearing the surname Li Massacred. Every child named Li Qiong cut down before they could take root. Yet still no trace."

"The Endless Slaughter Marsh is painted red with the Li line. Their ancestral halls burned, their names wiped from tablets. And still... nothing."

"The upper realms have not been spared. In silence kids surnamed Li Qiong were adopted and killed in a most brutal way searched their memories . And still, no news."

"Tomorrow, the Jade Pavilion will place a bounty on any mortal, cultivator, or beast bearing the name Li Qiong. The Heavenly Emperor himself has begun his killing spree already. If we hesitate any longer, we will be caught cross fire."

Han Tianci finally straightened, his head tilting back slightly, and spoke again. 

"We've played this farce long enough. We all know what must be done."

The others gave faint nods, or smirks, or sighs, but no one spoke against him.

Han Tianci's voice sank into them all, quiet and cruel.

"Some of you here... you've done the same."

"You visit Li-named clans at night. Kill without witnesses."

"There's no more hiding. 

"If he has awakened his memories... a blood sea will flood the three realm. we strike him before he reach Soul Transformation. If he reaches it, none of us — not even the Heavens — will give us another chance again."

A cold wind swept through the walls as the clouds churned outside, and not one of them dared look away.

Then Han Tianci lifted his hat slightly, shadows covering most of his face except his lips.

The sky hung low and gray like stretched sinew, veiling the land beneath in a tense hush. One hundred teams had gathered, an army without banners, each squad made up of five—no more, no less. They stood not as individuals but as units born of one goal.

hunt down Li Qiong.

Each member within these fives had a role. The one who stood at the center was the mind—a strategist master in formation and runes, eyes ever-reading the land's ley-lines, marking silent ambush points and binding team by a flick of the hand.

 Beside him walked the soul—a healer not gentle but unflinching, her robes weighed with smell of herbs and ink talismans and jade vials with concoctions.

 The shield walked ahead—a giant of a man whose frame bore turtle-shell, a human fortress that met every first strike without flinching a Body cultivator.

 The fang walked in shadow—the attacker, be it spearman or blade dancer or assasin, ever poised to break open defenses and spill the enemy's core. And at the rear, never last in spirit, walked the spine—the leader whose presence held the five together, harmonizing their flow of qi, their footwork, their breath, until they moved like a single entity.

As orders were issued, the squads rose into the sky on their mounts that mirrored their identities. One rode upon a colossal flying sword, with violet formations that cut through clouds like silk.

 Another emerged from a swirling gourd, red talismans fluttering as it opened and spilled its riders into the mist.

 Han Tianci's own squad drifted upon a black- white maned lion beast statue, its paws silent as it ran across the air like it was solid ground. 

Others traveled aboard chariots crackling with lightning, or lotus platforms that blossomed mid-flight. There were floating turtle shells, silver carp ships, golden leaves that glided with wind techniques, and even clouds shaped like phantom skulls, drifting ominously toward the far reaches of the land.

Each of them wore a mask. Some bore the snarl of oni. Others the calm gaze of a crane or the coiling threat of a serpent. No face was left uncovered. In these masks were inscriptions that sealed their true cultivation level, hiding their signatures from Li Qiong's piercing spiritual sense. They were not meant to showoff—they were meant to corner.

They spread like a plague across the continent, descending through forests, tomb cities, ancient war fields, and the ever-roiling Mist Marshes where no light touched the ground. They called no sect home, no elder master. They were united by purpose alone. And the one name on every tongue, the nightmare they chasing, was Li Qiong.

Above the forests of Devils Ridge, one squad soared across the clouds, leaving trails of blue qi. Another plummeted through the mist with hooks and talismans on their robes, led by a leader whose sword sang like thunder. 

Every squad executed their roles as if they'd rehearsed it a thousand times—strategists carving rune-stones into cliff faces, healers setting spiritual barriers, defenders bracing at the frontlines while attackers burst forth like arrows loosed from bows. Their qi looped and coiled in rhythm, a technique echoing the ancient Five Elemental Harmonies. Each team a single organism, deadly and exact.