The great blade-light passed, and the fog sealed shut again. But the glimpse was enough to freeze the blood.
What was this fog? Why did the dead walk at noon? Where had so many ghosts come from? Even if every soul in Little Grove Town had turned vengeful, there could not be this many. They filled the eye to the horizon.
Everyone understood the truth at once: Little Grove Town no longer held the living. One of the seven great towns of Maple City's domain had fallen.
It was Wei Feng's cold voice that cut the panic: "Fire cultivators — hold a perimeter fifty paces out and lay a line of fire. Everyone else: kill every ghost inside the line!"
Fire was the most basic of the five elements; fire cultivators were not rare. At his command, flames sprang up in a ring around the column. The deputy's seals knitted them into one unbroken circle.
The ghosts outside the ring fell back. Those trapped within went mad.
Li Yun sheathed his blazing sword mid-swing, brought his hands to his chin, and wove seals. Twin blades of fire bloomed in his fists. He plunged into the ghost pack like a pair of swimming dragons — one sword to scatter, two to destroy.
At the same moment, a single sword-light circled the field, and ghosts dissolved by the dozens. When the light faded, Jiang Chen stood there, blade low.
The first killing form of the Violet Dawn Sword Art.
The others stared. This man had not even formed his Dao vortex — yet he slew spirits by pure swordcraft, faster than any of them.
Jiang Chen moved, and Zhao Yan moved with him, his sword a blur that cut a path through the dead. He never seemed to study, yet he wielded the Violet Dawn nearly as well as Jiang Chen.
Only Du Hu and Ling Chuan traded helpless looks. Their mortal strength meant nothing against the supernatural. A burst of lifeblood might shatter a few ghosts — but against a tide like this, how long could their blood hold out?
Jiang Chen had never hoarded the sword art from them. Du Hu simply trusted his fists and scorned blades. Ling Chuan — perhaps a matter of talent. He had trained harder than anyone, never once falling behind, but the killing form would not come alive in his hands. Every ounce of his strength was sweat-bought.
The battle looked one-sided. Sharp eyes knew better. These were common ghosts. Whatever had drawn so many to Little Grove Town would keep its true horrors in reserve — fierce ghosts, dread ghosts, perhaps even a ghost general. This was beyond a squad's power to resolve. The wise move was to break contact and withdraw.
But in this fog, direction was lost. Ghosts ringed the fire line beyond counting. Breaking out would be a miracle.
Wei Feng stepped outside the ring, and the ghosts swarmed him, clawing and tearing. His scarred old armor shivered once — and the clinging dead simply dissolved.
No joy on his face. He stepped back inside the ring. "Who among you practices wind arts? Try to disperse this fog."
He was looking at Wang Hao as he spoke.
Wind was a rare element next to the five basics, but Wang Hao was a master of it. Without hesitation he traced a blade of air through the ghosts around him, clearing room. Then his hands moved like butterflies through a dozen seals. He pressed his palms to his lips, index and middle fingers together, the other three folded — a triangle between his fingers. He breathed into it.
The breath passed through the gap and caught fire. It spun, swelled, visible to the naked eye, and slammed into the fog like a raging dragon roaring through the white.
Wind art — Bone-Breath Whirlwind.
This was no common wind. It was the Eastern Wind of Bright Growth, one of the eight true winds — the wind that makes all things emerge. The art was timed perfectly for this place.
An art of this power, not every sixth-rank cultivator could command it. Wang Hao wielded it before even opening his Heaven and Earth Gate. He was no ordinary talent.
The art spent, Wang Hao's face went white. The strain was heavy. He steadied himself: "The rest is up to you."
The roaring vortex drove the fog before it. For the first time since entering Little Grove Town, the company saw clearly.
Candied hawthorn sticks leaning against a wall. A rice shop beside a soy-sauce maker. Tavern banners snapping in the wind.
Nothing had changed — except for the ghosts.
The spirits inside the fire ring had been swept clean, but outside it they still milled and crawled, afraid of the flames yet starving for the living.
"Damn it!" A shout sounded the alarm. The roaring whirlwind passed, and in its wake the distant fog closed in again. Even Bone-Breath Whirlwind could not clear this fog.
"Let's fall back while we can." Li Yun, twin fire blades still burning, gave his counsel.
In the gap the whirlwind had bought, the way back was plain. With no ghost general present, a fighting retreat stood a real chance of getting everyone out alive.
Wei Feng stood staring at the advancing fog, saber in hand, unreadable.
His deputy grew anxious. "Sir, this is beyond us. We need the army. And the townsfolk are dead — there's nothing left to save. Better to—"
Wei Feng cut him off: "Every ghost we've seen is a common one. Not one with a shred of sense. And there are this many. It's wrong."
Wang Hao frowned. "No one in Maple City's domain studies ghost-raising arts. The City Guard should handle this. Send in the army, and the sheer killing aura will scatter these spirits."
"The Clear River water clan is stirring. The City Guard has gone to hold them." Wei Feng let drop a weighty piece of news, reluctantly. "By the time they return... it may be too late."
Clear River was the great river that crossed the whole county; the Green Willow River outside Maple City was one of its tributaries. But the water clan had sworn a pact with the court of Zhuang long ago. Why would they stir now?
Jiang Chen turned it over in his mind. "Stirring," he noted — restrained, deliberate. Anything touching the river veins of the whole county demanded the state's full attention. Pulling the City Guard was only proper.
A Heart-Devouring Demon appearing. The Clear River water clan stirring. A hundred ghosts at noon in Little Grove Town. Unconnected on the surface — yet some unseen hand was stitching them together.
"Something is wrong." Wei Feng shook his head. He had made his decision. "Everyone follows me. We charge forward. I do not stop, no one stops. Whoever falls behind — their fate is their own."
Before anyone could object, he stepped through the fire line, saber first, straight into the heart of Little Grove Town.
Zhao Lang, his deputy, followed without a word. Then Li Yun, then Wang Hao. All veterans. They did not agree with Wei Feng's call, but they knew better than to split their strength.
The whole column re-formed and drove forward, Wei Feng at the point, boring into the depths of the town.