The Drunken Taoist pulled Zhou Chun to a stop behind a large oak tree, deep in the heart of the woods. The moon had risen, casting a faint silver glow over the trees, and the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. Zhou Chun collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, his arm throbbing from the wound.

  “Who… who are you?” Zhou Chun asked, his voice weak. He had seen the Drunken Taoist once before, at Mount Emei, but he had never spoken to him directly. The man was a mystery—his demeanor carefree, almost foolish, yet his movements betrayed incredible skill.

  The Drunken Taoist took a sip from his red gourd, grinning faintly. “Names are wind, boy. What matters is you live to fight another day.” He pulled a small healing pill from his pocket and tossed it to Zhou Chun. “Eat this. It will heal your wound. And next time, don't be so reckless—lying to Maotai is like poking a tiger with a stick.”

  Zhou Chun swallowed the pill, feeling a warm sensation spread through his arm, the pain fading. He looked up at the Drunken Taoist, his eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you. If it weren't for you, I would be dead.”

  “Save your thanks,” the Drunken Taoist said, turning to leave. “Maotai won't give up. He'll rally the Wutai Sect, and they'll come for you. Leave Chengdu for a few days—lay low. When the time is right, you'll know what to do.” Before Zhou Chun could ask another question, the Drunken Taoist vanished into the shadows, his footsteps fading into the night, leaving only the faint smell of wine in the air.

  Zhou Chun sat there for a long while, regaining his strength. He knew the Drunken Taoist was right—Maotai would not let this defeat stand. He needed to leave Chengdu, to find a safe place to hide and plan his next move. But first, he wanted to make sure the young woman he had saved was safe. He stood up, his sword in hand, and headed back toward the village.

  Meanwhile, back in the clearing, Maotai knelt down, picking up his flying sword, his face twisted with rage and humiliation. His two disciples had regained consciousness, stumbling to their feet, their faces pale with fear.

  “Master, we're sorry,” one disciple said, bowing deeply. “We failed you.”

  Maotai roared, kicking the disciple to the ground. “Failed me? You fools! You let a mortal outsmart you! Zhou Chun lied—he's not a disciple of Master Canxia. But that doesn't matter. He humiliated me today, and I will have my revenge.” He stood up, clutching his wrist, which still throbbed from the stone that had hit him.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  “This isn't over,” Maotai spat, his voice cold and venomous. “I'll rally the Wutai Sect. I'll find Abbot Zhitong, and we'll summon the Four Vajras—Iron Palm Monk and his brothers—and Master Duobao, and all our allies. Zhou Chun won't escape next time. I'll make him suffer—slowly, painfully. And I'll find that little disciple of his, Zhao Yan'er—Zhou Chun's orphaned ward and closed-door pupil—and kill him in front of Zhou Chun's eyes.”

  He turned to his disciples, his eyes blazing with hatred. “Come. We're going back to Ciyun Chan Temple. We have work to do. The time has come to show Zhou Chun—and the world—what the Wutai Sect is capable of.”

  The two disciples nodded, following Maotai as he strode through the woods, his steps heavy with anger. The moon cast long, dark shadows behind them, as if the night itself was joining their vow of revenge.

  Back at Ciyun Chan Temple, the grand gates stood open, torches flickering in the night, casting a warm glow over the courtyard. Maotai staggered through the gates, his face bloodied, his robe torn, drawing the attention of the monks who stood guard.

  Abbot Zhitong, a tall, imposing monk with a shaven head and a long beard, was standing in the center of the courtyard, speaking to two other monks. When he saw Maotai, his expression turned serious. “Maotai, what happened? You look like you've been in a fight.”

  Maotai fell to his knees, his voice trembling with rage. “Abbot, I found Zhou Chun. I had him cornered, but he tricked me—lied about being a disciple of Master Canxia. And then a mysterious Taoist intervened, saved him, and they escaped. I failed you. I failed the Wutai Sect.”

  Abbot Zhitong held up a hand, silencing him. He stood in silence for a moment, his eyes closed, as if deep in thought. When he opened them, his gaze was sharp and determined. “Do not blame yourself, Maotai. Zhou Chun is a clever man, and the Taoist you speak of—he must be the one the elders warned us about. The old monster who walks the earth, interfering in our plans.”

  He turned to the two monks beside him. “Summon the Four Vajras. Send a messenger to Master Duobao. Tell them we need their help. Zhou Chun is a threat to our cause, and the mysterious Taoist is even more dangerous. We must gather our allies—before it's too late. The time has come to strike, to show the world that the Wutai Sect cannot be defeated.”

  The two monks nodded, hurrying away to carry out his orders. Maotai stood up, his eyes filled with renewed determination. “Thank you, Abbot. I will not fail you again. Next time I see Zhou Chun, he will die.”

  Abbot Zhitong nodded, placing a hand on Maotai's shoulder. “I know you won't. But be careful. The old Taoist is powerful—we must not underestimate him. And Zhou Chun… he has a strength of heart that even dark magic cannot easily break. But together, with our allies, we will destroy them both. The Wutai Sect will prevail.”

  As the night wore on, Ciyun Chan Temple buzzed with activity. Monks hurried to and fro, sending messages, sharpening their blades, and preparing for war. The air was thick with tension, with the promise of bloodshed to come. And far away, in the woods, Zhou Chun walked toward the village, unaware of the storm that was gathering—unaware that his fight with Maotai was only just beginning.