Mystique Soul: A Cultivator's Flame
Chapter 128: The dust settles amidst the storm

Chapter 128: The dust settles amidst the storm

Unbeknownst to Mo Tianze and Feng Jiao Xue. While they where dealing with the flower below, chaos bloomed in Yin City like a poisoned flower.

It hadn’t even been a full day since the City Lord’s death before the streets were filled with blood.

At first, it started with whispers, sharp, hungry ones. The City Lord was dead. That means the seat is open once again. The most coveted position in the city was now nothing more than a glittering throne made of blood and opportunity.

May the strongest rule!

It didn’t take long for greed to ignite action.

By nightfall, factions had already formed. Mercenary bands and cultivator clans carved out corners of the city like wolves circling a wounded beast. Temporary alliances were struck in the shadows, promises of power made with smiles sharp as knives. Friends from yesterday turned to rivals by morning.

It was every man for himself.

In the slums, small-time gang leaders raised flags of rebellion. In the merchant quarters, wealthy families bribed mercenaries to fight on their behalf. Even the city’s hidden sects, the ones who once thrived under the City Lord’s secret patronage, now emerged from their hovels, dragging old grudges into the open.

Battles erupted without warning. In the narrow alleys. In the sprawling markets. Even atop the ancient bridges that crisscrossed the city canals.

Steel clashed against steel. Cultivation flared wild and unchecked. Fire tore through homes, and bodies piled up along the gutters like discarded dolls.

No one was safe.

Tavern owners hired private guards just to keep their doors standing. Street vendors disappeared overnight. Even the innocent, those with no stake in power, were swept into the tides, forced to pick sides or perish beneath someone else’s ambition.

The once orderly, grim dignity of Yin City collapsed into an ugly, snarling thing. A city ruled by nothing but force.

And amid it all, the rumors spread.

A cloaked figure had been seen leaving the City Lord’s manor the night of the collapse. A cultivator with hair black as ink and eyes colder than frost. Beside them, a young man with strange golden eyes, walking like a newly freed beast.

Of course, spies where sent to the manor by various factions to ascertain the truth and once the empty manor revealed what happened... all hell broke lose.

The number one rule of the city has been those that the law of the jungle prevails, whoever is the strongest, is king.

No names were spoken aloud but whispers in the dark spoke of a storm in human skin.

No one knew where they had gone. And for now, no one dared chase them.

Too busy fighting for the crumbling throne.

In the heart of it, the former City Lord’s mansion sat abandoned.

The grand iron gates had been torn open. The ornate gardens trampled and ruined. Blood dried on the stone pathways like black scars, and the smell of decay curled heavy in the air. The walls that once gleamed with wealth and fear now stood as nothing but hollow, broken sentinels.

A symbol of the city’s shattered order.

And still, the battle raged.

Cultivators fought high above the roofs, their qi crackling like thunderstorms. Some wielded fire, some ice, some pure devastating force. Others relied on assassination techniques, slipping blades between ribs under cover of smoke.

Old scores were settled. New betrayals were born.

It wasn’t a battle for justice. Nor for order. It was survival. Dominion. The right to say I won over the bodies of the fallen.

Yin City didn’t mourn its old lord.

It forgot him.

Just another corpse beneath the mountains of ambition.

Screams and the clash of stee and magicl echoed through the streets. Buildings burned, sending pillars of smoke clawing at the darkening sky. Qi attacks streaked through the air in bursts of violent light, tearing through rooftops and crumbling stone.

In the madness, no one noticed the coordinated retreat happening in the city’s shadows.

Chen Rong led the way, his crimson robes dirtied with soot and blood, his sword sheathed but ready to be drawn in an instant. Beside him, Lin Feng moved like a wraith, his twin daggers tucked close to his sides, sharp eyes scanning every rooftop and alley.

Wei Jian, his broad shoulders tense beneath his armor, carried a barely conscious cultivator on his back, while Xie Lian followed closely, murmuring low incantations to shield them from prying eyes.

And they were not alone.

Members of the Adventurer’s Guild moved with them, silent, grim-faced, sleeves rolled up, weapons at the ready. Some carried the wounded; others secured escape routes, dismantling traps, scattering false trails. Their usual flashy uniforms were gone, replaced with dark, muted gear meant for one purpose only, survival.

They had made their decision.

The guild would not fight for a throne soaked in blood. They would protect their own. And any innocents caught in the storm.

The safe house lay beyond the crumbling west wall of the city, a forgotten monastery swallowed by vines and time, tucked into the foothills like a wound hidden from the world

It was an unspoken rule within the city whenever the battle of thrones appears. This area was forbidden from being pulled as a battle ground to give those that didn’t want to be involved a chance to survive.

By the time they reached it, dozens of cultivators who had gone missing, those kidnapped, drugged, and discarded like broken tools, had been gathered.

Some staggered forward on their own legs, refusing to be carried despite the pain. Others had to be lifted bodily, their faces pale, their breathing shallow.

There were no speeches. No orders barked.

Only quiet urgency. Only the shared understanding that if they didn’t move fast enough, the city’s madness would catch them too.

Inside the monastery, the survivors collapsed onto rough mats and into the corners of ancient rooms. Guild medics, those who had once healed adventurers injured in simple monster hunts, now tended to broken ribs, deep cuts, and the wounds that couldn’t be seen with mortal eyes.

Chen Rong oversaw the defenses, placing trusted guild guards along the perimeter and setting up defensive formations drawn hastily into the cracked stone floors. He moved without hesitation, issuing clipped commands.

Lin Feng swept the interior, his daggers at the ready, clearing old rubble that might hide threats. He cursed under his breath when he stumbled over a half-collapsed stairwell, but didn’t slow down.

Wei Jian helped with the heaviest loads—barricading the doors, lifting fallen beams to create choke points. His tunic was soaked with sweat, his hands blistered and bleeding, but he said nothing.

Xie Lian worked with the healers, her hands glowing faintly as she poured her spiritual energy into stabilizing the worst of the wounded. She moved from patient to patient with the steady calm of someone who knew there wasn’t time to falter.

Together, they built a sanctuary in the ruins.

Outside, Yin City burned.

The factions that had once ruled from the shadows now tore each other apart in the open. Cultivator clans battled atop the ancient bridges, sending shockwaves through the canals. Merchant families, desperate to protect their fortunes, hired mercenaries who slaughtered without hesitation.

Everywhere, the strong preyed on the weak.

But here, in the old monastery, something stubborn refused to die.

Hope.

When the worst of the wounded were stabilized, the guild leader, an older woman named Madam Yao, gathered the rescuers in the monastery’s cracked courtyard.

Her voice was low, grim.

"We’re not getting involved," she said, her gaze sweeping over them all. "We didn’t fight for the City Lord, and we won’t fight for a new one. We protect our own. Nothing more."

There were no objections.

They all knew what was happening outside. Knew the price of picking sides in a war like this.

Chen Rong nodded once, his face unreadable.

Lin Feng gave a sharp grin. "Wasn’t planning on dying for some idiot’s throne anyway."

Wei Jian cracked his knuckles and looked to the horizon. "Let the fools kill each other. We’ll still be standing when it’s done."

Xie Lian only bowed her head, silent but resolute.

Throughout the night, they worked to fortify the monastery.

Guild healers rotated in shifts, tending the wounded. Guards patrolled the crumbling walls, watching for signs of pursuit. The rescued cultivators, some barely more than children, others hardened veterans broken by captivity, slowly found their strength.

A few wept openly.

Others sat in numb silence, staring at their hands, at the walls, at nothing.

But they were alive.

And they were safe.

For now.

At dawn, the first real threat came.

A small mercenary band, blood-mad and desperate, stumbled upon the hidden refuge. Their leader, a scarred cultivator with rotting teeth, thought he had found easy prey.

He didn’t live to regret the mistake.

Chen Rong met him head-on, his sword flashing once in the pale morning light. The mercenary’s head hit the ground before his body realized it was dead.

The rest of the band scattered in terror.

No more came that day.

The rumor spread among the bloodthirsty scavengers still fighting over Yin City:

The west hills were cursed. Death waited there.

And so, the monastery was left in peace.

Xie Lian look in the distant with a fornw, hoping Feng Jiao Xue and Mo Tianze isn’t also swept in this storm.