Everyone was confused. Not just shocked, not merely disturbed—truly confused about what had just happened in the cave. But no one said anything. An unspoken agreement settled among those present: they would not speak of this.

  Lan Ji gently lifted Han Ye’s unconscious body and id him down on the straw mattress at the far end of the cave. The others—Elder Ji, Elder Xian, and Xun Lian—silently exited, all their minds still reeling.

  By the time the two elders reached the inner hall of the Sect’s administrative building, night had already fallen. They immediately reported everything they had witnessed.

  “So, according to the information you’ve just given me,” Vice Master Xi said while massaging his temples, “our market—in our own territory—has become a site of worship? And those people… are now cultists?”

  His voice trembled with exhaustion. The accumuted stress of unresolved problems had begun to crack through his composed demeanor.

  Elder Ji, understanding that things would only get worse, quickly pulled something from his spatial ring. “Vice Master, here. Premium-grade tea powder—gifted by the cultists themselves. They gave it to me because… well, I was standing next to Han Ye.”

  He pced a sealed vial on the table. Before Vice Master Xi could respond, Elder Ji added, “Also, this—pure Liquid Qi.”

  From the same ring, he drew out the rge bottle filled with Han Ye’s impossibly refined Qi, the same one he had been gifted in the cave. The shimmering liquid inside gave off an aura that subtly distorted the space around it.

  Vice Master Xi stared at the bottle. Something didn’t feel right. Then, his eyes moved—first to the wrist of Elder Ji, then to Elder Xian, and he saw bracelets. No—weapon seals in the form of archer’s bangles.

  “I feel like you’re leaving something out,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes. “And those things on your wrists—what are they?”

  Elder Ji tried to answer formally, but Elder Xian cut in with an unbothered tone, “New weapons. Xi—we were given new bows by Han Ye. The materials came free of charge from a wandering merchant. What’s the harm?”

  Vice Master Xi didn’t blink. “Right. So you needed new weapons. That’s fine.”

  Then his expression changed. From fatigued leader to boiling administrator.

  “EXCEPT OUR ENTIRE SECT FUNDING HAS VANISHED INTO THE VOID!”

  His voice roared across the chamber like a thundercp. “I’m sorry if I can’t cover your private luxury weapons, Elder Xian. And you,” he turned to Elder Ji, pointing, “why do you even need a new bow? Your old one wasn’t even damaged!”

  The three of them—Elder Ji, Elder Xian, and Xun Lian—knew exactly where all the funds had gone.

  They knew the Sect Master had run away, possibly with every st gold coin in the treasury.

  But none of them dared to say it out loud.

  Because Vice Master Xi, already mentally fraying from the chaos piling up each day, looked like he was one poorly chosen word away from drawing his bow and shooting them both through the heart.

  So they simply nodded, endured the shouting, and prayed he wouldn’t ask too many more questions.

  While the two elders and the vice master were occupied elsewhere, Han Ye stirred.

  His eyes fluttered open, met first by the dim glow of the cave ceiling. Slowly, he raised his hand to examine it. The root-like mark was still there, etched deep into his skin like a curse. His mental crity flickered—95% sanity, the number hovered in his thoughts like a system prompt, though he didn’t believe it for a second.

  The walls and floor were still covered in symbols drawn with his own blood. Strange, incomprehensible runes that pulsed faintly even now, as if echoing a nguage that didn’t belong to this world. As he sat up, his gaze fell upon the pile of “free” materials beside him—gifts from his so-called followers. He noticed some were already missing, having been used to forge the weapons for Elder Ji and Elder Xian.

  “My cultists...” The word tasted foreign on his tongue.

  It was the first time he had ever thought of something like that.

  “Why... do they see me as a god?” he whispered, staring up at the cold, jagged ceiling of the cave. “And why did I faint? Why don’t I feel... anything? What’s happening to me? What—”

  He questioned himself again and again. Each iteration of the question was slightly different, but they always circled back to the same haunting refrain:

  Why?What?

  His mind was stuck in a relentless repy loop—thoughts spinning out of control, answers never arriving.

  Finally, he stood.

  A bde of pure Qi formed in his hand.

  Without hesitation, he stabbed it into his palm, and then—his chest. The bde sank directly into his heart.

  Blood gushed out, absurdly fast—far more than his body should’ve held. It sprayed across the blood-slick floor, soaking the ancient symbols. Yet he stood still, his expression empty.

  Then—he smiled.

  A slow, almost serene grin.

  “Yes. I am Han Ye,” he whispered, watching the blood pool around him.

  He withdrew the bde, letting it dissolve into the air like mist.

  And then his body—began to regenerate. Bone, flesh, muscle—it all stitched back together like a reversed butchering. Skin sealed. The pain vanished. It was unnatural, even by cultivation standards.

  Again, he whispered, as if reminding himself.

  “Yes... I am Han Ye.”

  Suddenly, Han Ye received unexpected visitors—the elders and the vice master, drawn by the scent of blood, so thick and metallic it pierced the air even from a great distance. The moment they realized it was coming from Han Ye’s cave, they hesitated.

  But when a stream of fresh blood began flowing out from within, pooling down the rocky slope like a crimson river, hesitation turned to urgency.

  They rushed in.

  What they saw made their hearts skip several beats.

  Han Ye stood smiling, drenched from chest to toe in blood, the thickest concentration staining around his heart. He repeated the same phrase again and again, like a broken mantra:

  “Yes. I am Han Ye... Yes. I am Han Ye...”

  His tone was gentle, almost reverent. But his body—soaked in gore—painted a far more horrifying scene.

  Without a single word, they bolted out of the cave, their feet barely touching the ground. Not a single scream or shout—just silent panic. The one hit hardest was Elder Meng, who had just taught Han Ye’s generation earlier that morning. His face had turned ghostly pale, and he clutched his chest as if suppressing a heart attack.

  Moments ter, Han Ye calmly walked out of his cave, still red, still serene.

  “Hello, Elders. Vice Master. How are you all today?” he asked cheerfully, as if he didn’t resemble a blood-soaked ghost.

  “Haah… huuuh… we’re fine. All good. Elder Meng is just… having trouble breathing,” answered Elder Jian with a voice that trembled with suppressed horror.

  Han Ye tilted his head slightly, concerned but calm. “Ah, yes. I remember from the orientation day—the Vice Master said the Sect’s funds were… stolen by the former Sect Master, yes?”

  Everyone froze.

  Then Han Ye continued with a smile too innocent to be real. “Well, some of my cultists left behind quite a bit of valuable material. It would be wasteful to hoard it, so I thought… why not share it with our Sect?”

  The mention of the missing Sect funds instantly dug into their guilt and shame.

  But just as they began to feel hope at the mention of free materials, Han Ye casually said it again—“my cultists.”

  Their joy evaporated in an instant.

  The word “cultist” was practically synonymous with demonic cultivation, heresy, and forbidden arts. Anyone who decred themselves a cultist—or had cultists—was usually a threat to the orthodoxy.

  But this time, the word had come from Han Ye. Their own disciple.

  The elders’ eyes slowly turned toward Elder Xian, who was known to have taken responsibility for Han Ye’s safety and guidance.

  Elder Xian raised both hands in a sharp motion, taking a step back. “Hey! This isn’t my fault!”

  Their stares made Elder Xian feel an unexpected pang of guilt, though he knew, deep down, that he didn’t do anything wrong—not exactly.

  Still, the weight of responsibility sat heavily on his shoulders.

  To break the tension, Elder Jian stepped forward, choosing his words carefully, his tone unusually soft—very unlike the man who usually screamed when losing at gambling.

  “Han Ye… what exactly do you mean by this… cult of yours?”

  Han Ye turned his head slowly, blood still dripping lightly from his fingers, and gave a serene smile, the kind that made flowers bloom in nightmares.

  “They… see me as their god. Or a saint. I am not. I am simply a cultivator, like them. But as…” —he extended his arms in a theatrical wave, blood trailing midair like ribbons— “my voice is but one among many. Theirs… is a chorus.”

  He moved with an unnatural grace, his hand gestures flowing like a dancer in an opera, elegant and mesmerizing—despite his chest being soaked in blood, and his face smiling far too brightly.

  A chill swept through the gathered elders and the vice master.

  They refused to meet his eyes.

  Because when they accidentally did, what stared back at them was a human—and yet not.

  There was a face, familiar in shape and skin, eyes that should’ve reflected a young cultivator’s spirit… yet something ancient, something wrong, watched from behind the gaze. It was as if a mask of humanity barely veiled something vast, something that should not dwell in a mortal body.

  There was something divine in those eyes—but the wrong kind of divine. Not holy. Not saintly. Something that mimicked sanctity, but whose essence was distorted, unknowable, and not born of this realm.

  ‘His behavior… it's getting stranger. And more terrifying.’

  They all shared the thought but kept it buried in silence, pretending their trembling hands were from the wind.