The night before the raid, the village was unusually quiet. The stars shimmered like cold embers across the velvet sky, and a wind carried the bitter scent of burned herbs and old blood. Inside the village hall, cultivators had gathered disciples from great sects, the wandering trio, and a handful of villagers who had recovered enough from the poisoning to stand. The tension was thick, every breath heavy with unspoken dread.
Zhang Wei sat near the end of the long table, his expression grave. Beside him, Pan Qiang fidgeted with the strap of his satchel, his fingers restless. Across from them, Han Yu, calm and composed as always, poured himself a cup of tea and studied the scrolls detailing the suspected movements of the bandits.
"They'll attack within the next two days," Han Yu said, breaking the silence. "Our scouts saw signs of movement near the Black Pine Forest."
The news hung in the air like a blade.
With the spies the bandits had planted now dead, the enemy had lost their eyes and ears within the village. Blinded and desperate, they would have to act swiftly. This was their best—perhaps only—chance. The village's defenses were stretched thin. Several of its strongest Qi Gathering Realm cultivators had been poisoned in the recent ambush and were now confined to their beds, their strength drained and their meridians fragile.
Though Zhang Wei's medicine had sparked a miraculous rate of recovery, those warriors remained unable to fight. Their Qi and blood had yet to stabilize, and attempting to circulate Qi in such a condition could prove fatal. A single blocked meridian during circulation could lead to severe internal backlash, agony, crippled cultivation, or even death. They could only lie in silence, forced to watch as their village braced for war.
The bandits knew this. And they would strike with everything they had, hoping to raze the village before its defenders could fully rise again.
In the corner, Yan Mo leaned against a wooden pillar, silent and still, his half-lidded eyes unreadable. He gave no opinion, no warning, just the quiet presence of a blade waiting to be drawn.
Wu Sheng clicked his tongue and cracked his knuckles. "Let them come. I've waited long enough to break a few bones."
Liu Qinyue of the Sword Sect shot him a sidelong glance, her voice cool. "Overconfidence breaks more than bones."
No one laughed.
Han Yu's gaze shifted to Zhang Wei and Pan Qiang. "You two should stay close to the villagers. Protect them if the front line falls."
Zhang Wei nodded. "Understood."
At dawn, the bandits came.
Dust rose on the eastern road like a funeral shroud as over forty armed marauders surged toward the village, shouting and laughing with cruel anticipation. They didn't charge blindly. Not yet. They lined up at the edge of the far field, watching, circling like wolves around a dying flame.
At their head sat a bald man with cold, predatory eyes and a jagged scar across his cheek. A massive blade rested on his back. His steed pawed at the ground, sensing the tension.
He was known as Iron Wolf Bao, a cultivator who had stepped into the early Foundation Establishment Realm, a boundary that separated common martial cultivators from true elites. His mere presence bent the air around him, and his aura weighed heavy like thunderclouds, pressing against the hearts of all who faced him.
Behind him stood Scar-Eyed Duan and Three-Arm Lei, both peak Qi Gathering Realm warriors. Their spiritual energy hissed and coiled in the morning air ,unstable, aggressive, like venomous snakes ready to strike.
From behind the village's makeshift wooden barricades, Zhang Wei and Pan Qiang stood shoulder to shoulder with villagers and junior sect disciples, tense and silent.
Zhang's mind raced, but another part of him—the healer, the apothecary—focused on what stood before them.
The Qi Gathering Realm was the stage where most martial cultivators spent their early years. It involved refining spiritual energy, purifying the body's channels, and accumulating Qi in one's dantian. At this level, a cultivator could amplify their physical strength, enhance perception, and use low-tier spiritual techniques. But ultimately, they were still limited by the mortal shell.
The Foundation Establishment Realm, however, was a different world.
A cultivator who broke through to Foundation Establishment was said to have laid down their spiritual "foundation"—a transformation of body, mind, and meridians. Their Qi became denser, more vibrant, capable of sustaining higher-tier techniques. Their spiritual awareness extended further, their bodies stronger than steel. A Foundation Establishment expert could flatten walls with a palm, leap rooftops in a breath, and suppress a dozen Qi Gathering opponents through sheer presence alone.
A gulf of power separated the two stages—so deep and wide that those on either side often could not even comprehend the difference. It wasn't just power. It was quality.
And now that gap stood before them, riding a horse with a blade as long as a man was tall.
Iron Wolf Bao raised a hand, and the bandits halted. The wind whistled between the gaps in the barricade. Tension crackled.
Then he laughed.
"Well, well," Bao called out, voice cutting through the morning mist. "What do we have here? A few muddy disciples, a couple of bratty sect girls, and villagers hiding behind sticks."
His lieutenants chuckled darkly.
"I expected more from the Divine Cauldron Sect. Didn't know they recruited farmers and street orphans these days."
Pan Qiang clenched his fists. Beside him, Zhang Wei's grip tightened around his staff.
Iron Wolf Bao leaned forward on his saddle. "I'm offering you a chance, little cubs. Drop your weapons, open your gates, and kneel. I'll consider letting you live. The women can serve my men. The boys can carry our supplies. Better than being corpses rotting in the sun."
Liu Qinyue stepped forward, her Sword Sect robes fluttering slightly in the breeze. She raised her blade, voice like steel. "Your filth will never touch this village. You can walk away. Or die."
The bandits jeered.
Scar-Eyed Duan spat. "Who gave you that backbone, girl? Want me to cut it out and wear it?"
Han Yu stepped beside her, expression hard. "This land is under the protection of the Divine Cauldron Sect and the righteous path. You test us at your peril."
Bao's sneer deepened. "Righteous path? Don't make me laugh. I've crushed sects disciples bigger than yours and those sects of the righteous path can't do anything to us. You think honor matters in a world like this? Strength is the only truth. And we have more of it."
He stood tall, blade drawn now, resting on his shoulder.
"You think a few Qi Gathering brats can stand before me? Before the Foundation realm?"
The weight of that word—Foundation—hung in the air like a death sentence.
Zhang Wei stepped forward. His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. "Strength without purpose is nothing but cruelty."
Bao's gaze sharpened.
"You hurt the weak because you're terrified of what you are when no one fears you. You call that strength? I call it desperation."
A heavy silence descended over the battlefield, stretching like a taut bowstring. In that moment, the world held its breath. The bandits, their savage grins fading into taut anticipation, exchanged glances that spoke volumes. Across the makeshift barricades, the defenders—villagers, disciples, and cultivators alike—prepared themselves for the inevitable. The air itself felt thick with the scent of impending violence. It was as if the universe had paused, giving both sides one last chance to reconsider their choices.
But there was no turning back now.
Then, breaking the silence like a crack of thunder, Three-Arm Lei let out a guttural roar, his voice carrying across the field with the force of a beast's growl. "Let me gut him!" he bellowed, eyes wild with bloodlust, his multiple iron flails swaying ominously at his sides. The power of his words was like the final push over the edge of a cliff—there was no more room for hesitation.
And yet, Iron Wolf Bao, their leader, remained calm, almost unnervingly so. His gaze, cold and calculating, swept across the group of defenders. With an almost imperceptible shift in his stance, the rest of the bandits tensed, poised to strike.
Bao's smile disappeared in an instant. There was no need for mockery or taunting now. His eyes narrowed with deadly intent as he raised his massive saber high, the weapon glinting dangerously in the rising sun. The blade seemed to catch the light just enough to reflect the coldness in his heart.
"No more words," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. The command was simple, but it carried the weight of finality. No more posturing. No more insults. It was time for action.
He turned to face his men, the wind picking up around him, the tension of the moment thickening. His voice rang out once more, a chilling declaration that sent a wave of dread through the defenders' hearts.
"Kill them all."
With that one phrase, the signal was given. The bandits surged forward as if released from a cage, their savage roars and battle cries filling the air. The sound was like a wave crashing against a cliff, unstoppable and relentless. Steel rang out as weapons were drawn, and the scent of blood and death lingered in the air. The calm of the morning shattered.
In that moment, Zhang Wei's heart pounded in his chest. His breath quickened, his body tense with the knowledge that there would be no more retreat. This was the moment he had feared, the moment that would define not just the village's fate, but his own.
Pan Qiang stood beside him, the same fear reflected in his eyes, but also something else—resolve. Despite the fear, despite the horror of what was to come, there was no hesitation now. The battle was here, and there would be no turning back.
With a final glance to his comrades, Zhang Wei steeled himself. He could hear the bandits charging, the earth trembling beneath their footsteps. The clash of steel was almost upon them, and there would be no time for second thoughts.
As the first bandit lunged forward, a primal roar filling the air, the battle began in earnest.
And with it, the future of the village—of all of them—was sealed.