Blossoming Path-Chapter 189: The Envoy

The battlefield stilled.

The weight of the Envoy's presence crushed the air itself, heavier than the iron scent of blood or the lingering heat of battle. Even the wind dared not move, as though held in reverence or fear. His hair was long, falling past his shoulders.

He wasn’t draped in rippling muscle, nor did he have the hulking presence of a brute who had trained his body to the limits. But somehow, he was more terrifying.

Where the other cultists were frail and gaunt, their skin stretched thin over malnourished frames, he was whole. Not heavy, not bulky, but balanced. Alive in a way the rest of them weren’t. He moved with an unsettling grace, his body humming with vitality.

However, his face was scarred. Deep, deliberate scars.

Twin lines ran from his brow, down his hollowed cheeks, tracing the path where tears should have fallen. Like his very sorrow had been carved into his flesh, etched in a cruel mimicry of weeping.

Another wound—jagged and uneven—cut from his lower lip, across his right cheek, disappearing into the shadow of his hood. It had healed poorly, as if he had never been given the time or the care to let it mend properly.

Yet, despite the disfigurement, there was no pain in his expression. No bitterness or anger.

The cultists stood frozen, not in panic, but in anticipation—their gazes locked onto him, waiting for his decree. They simply… waited.

We should've taken advantage; they were utterly vulnerable, injured, and surrounded. But we couldn't move with that monster holding our attention. It was like trying to focus on a cornered rabbit as a tiger loomed overhead. My feet dug into the unstable earth, and I gritted my teeth as my body tried to run.

And then—

"You’ve failed," the Envoy said.

His voice was unhurried. Not a reprimand. Not a rage-filled bellow. A simple, factual statement.

A ripple passed through the demonic cultivators, their hands trembling where they kowtowed.

He took a step forward. Unhurried. Calm. His fingers idly brushed against the cavern wall as he surveyed the battlefield. The bald man, his face half-burned and his breathing labored, prostrated himself, ignoring his missing finger. The second cultist, despite the number of wounds marring his body, raised his head without hesitation.

"We apologize, Envoy. We have sinned!"

The Envoy tilted his head, eyes flicking over the clearing. He inhaled deeply, as if savoring the chaos, before letting out a sigh.

"It is understandable."

A pause.

"But unacceptable."

The two kneeling cultists flinched. Their bodies shuddered like starving dogs awaiting a beating.

"You were given a simple task," he continued, still unhurried. "To kill the intruders before my prayer is complete. Has the cult truly fallen this far? Unable to deal with rabble?"

A strangled whimper escaped the bald man’s lips.

"Use the converts," the Envoy said, with all the interest of a noble selecting which teacup to drink from.

From the cavern, seven figures stumbled forth.

Their bodies were gaunt. Their eyes sunken, skin stretched thin over brittle bones. Their clothes were patchwork—ripped tunics, tattered robes, exposed flesh marred with dark bruises. Some were barefoot, their feet crusted with dirt, yet their lips moved ceaselessly in a droning whisper. Despite the softness at which they spoke, I strained my ears to hear.

"Praise the Heavenly Demon."

They swayed, their hands trembling, their breath ragged. Some were younger than I expected. Some were far too old. Their fingers twitched with the telltale glow of demonic qi, but their gazes…

Madness.

Not like the zeal the cultists displayed; it was more scattered than that. They were closer to beasts wearing human skin.

The Envoy lifted a single hand and flicked his wrist. A lazy, dismissive gesture.

"Kill them."

The seven moved. And at the same time, Jian Feng threw down his vial, creating a plume of smoke.

Movement rustled behind us. The signal for all of them to join the fight.

Twenty versus ten.

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The converts were fast, but not like the cultists.

They lurched forward, untrained, their motions jerky and stiff. But their hands glowed with sickly, writhing qi, the same color as the corruption spreading beneath our feet. One of them, a young man—maybe my age—charged at me.

His strike was wild. Untrained. It left his chest open, his weight poorly balanced, but if it hit—

I dodged. His hand barely missed my ribs, passing close enough that my skin tingled from the sheer presence of the demonic qi.

He came again. Fast. Desperate. His feet scrambled for grip in the slush, his breathing sharp and erratic. With my arm injured and my stamina depleting, it was harder than I thought.

I sidestepped his next lunge, my heart hammering against my ribs. He was unskilled. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. The corruption surrounding his hands was enough to rot flesh, enough to cripple anyone who wasn’t careful. I dove forward, catching him in the solar plexus with a palm strike. I knew pain wouldn't do a damn thing against them, but as I delivered the follow-up strike—

I saw it.

Patchwork clothes. No shoes. A wooden bracelet around his wrist. A torn silk ribbon tied to his arm.

His body was frail. Too thin. Even more so than the cultists.

And his reaction to the blow. Caution, pain, fear.

A Verdant Lotus disciple intercepted another convert, his blade flashing—

A clean, practiced slash.

The convert collapsed instantly, a soft gasp leaving his lips.

But before he could die, before his body fully fell into the dirt:

"Thank you."

My stomach dropped.

My pulse thundered in my ears.

"STOP!" My voice tore through the battlefield, louder than the clash of swords, louder than the gasps of combat.

"They’re villagers! They’re victims! Don't kill them!"

The disciples faltered.

Their movements slowed. Their hands wavered. Their eyes darted toward me in confusion, but I could see it—the doubt. The guilt.

But the cultists—

They did not hesitate.

They pressed forward. Without fear. Without restraint. Without care for their own lives. It was as though their injuries minutes ago had been a lie.

One disciple hesitated—his sword-arm faltering for just a breath—

And a jagged claw raked across his chest, shattering his sword.

He cried out, his body slamming into the ground, blood splattering across the tainted snow.

Another disciple held his blade too loosely—his strike half-formed with hesitation—

And he nearly missed his next target.

The convert, despite his frailty, lunged with everything he had.

The disciple had no choice but to kill him.

His sword sliced through the man’s chest, and he staggered backward, eyes wide. His hands shook.

And then—Windy lunged forward, intercepting a second strike from the cultist with engravings on his palms.

The convert’s tainted hand grazed Windy’s tail.

Windy jerked back, a sharp hiss escaping his throat. I felt the moment the demonic qi latched on, spreading through his scales like ink bleeding into water.

"Fuck!"

It was my fault. My words caused a change in the battlefield.

We were hesitating. And hesitation in battle was death.

We were being pushed back.

Our footing unstable.

Tianyi and Windy, under my orders, disabled rather than killed.

Tianyi’s strikes were precise—breaking limbs, twisting joints out of place. Windy’s venom paralyzed the weaker ones. But even then—

It wasn’t enough.

Because while we were fighting with restraint—

The true threats were watching.

The demonic cultivators were waiting. But the biggest threat was him.

The Envoy moved.

I barely had time to register the shift before his words slithered through the battlefield, low and unhurried.

"I will deal with the most annoying one."

A chill rippled down my spine.

He reappeared several paces away, just as Tianyi struck a convert. Her strikes were precise; two pinpoint blows to the knees, rendering the man’s legs useless. But before he could even collapse, the Envoy’s robes flared open and I screamed.

"TIANYI!"

The moment she disabled the convert, something tore through his chest—and continued it's trajectory towards Tianyi's face.

It shot forward, slicing through the corpse like an afterthought, angling straight for her.

With my warning, she twisted mid-air with transcendent reflexes.

RIP!

The blade clipped her wing.

A deep wound punctured through her left wing’s membrane, and almost immediately, a pure black qi seeped through the wound, writhing like ink in water.

The Envoy retracted the chain ever so slightly, letting the convert's body hang limply. It was a sickle and chain—carved entirely from jagged, yellowed bones, each link etched with crude engravings.

I was already moving, feet pounding against the slush, but—

Windy was faster.

He lunged for the Envoy, his body a blur of white scales, fangs gleaming with venom.

I fumbled for my satchel, searching for the Essence Purifying elixir. "Tianyi, take this for your—"

She held up a hand, her gaze sharp with determination.

"Not yet. No time."

With that, she dove back into the fight.

The chain snapped back. The convert's body whipped toward Windy. He dodged effortlessly, slipping past with a flick of his body.

But it was bait. The sickle surged forward, using the corpse as a distraction, inching ever closer to his neck.

Tianyi intercepted it, deflecting the trajectory with a sweeping strike of her arm. A harrowing crack echoed through the battlefield as the sheer force fractured the exoskeleton along her forearm.

The injury wasn’t fatal, but the demonic qi spread immediately, dark veins crawling from the wound. With a grunt, her antennae flared with light, slowing the corruption’s advance—but not stopping it. A temporary measure.

My breath came fast, ragged. My heart slammed against my ribs, my grip tightening around the vial in my hand.

We were losing control.

For the first time, I felt it deep in my bones—not just exhaustion, not just hesitation—fear.

We weren’t just fighting enemies.

We were being made to kill victims.

And the demonic cultivators?

They waited. Using our fear and uncertainty against us. And through that, they overcame the numerical disadvantage.

Like wolves circling a wounded herd.

I clenched my jaw. No. NO!

"Disciples!"

Jian Feng’s voice rang out, cutting through the chaos like a blade. Despite the dirt and blood marring his face, his eyes never lost their spirit.

"They are forcing you into panic. Victory takes priority! Disable the converts! Kill them if you must!"

I turned, his words hammering into me even as my instincts screamed against them. But I forced myself to focus—because he was right.

"Follow my movements!" he commanded.

His blade flashed. Clean, efficient, merciless.

A convert lunged. Jian Feng parried, his deflection so smooth it barely wasted movement, and his counter sliced through the man’s neck in a single breath.

The bald cultist rushed forward, his claws wreathed in dark qi. He used the opening left by the convert's sacrifice.

Jian Feng didn’t retreat.

He pressed forward.

A step in, his blade redirecting the momentum. A step out, positioning for the counter.

And that’s when I recognized it.

The Bamboo Reprisal Counter.

The rhythm. The flow. Power turned against its wielder.

And in a blur—his blade pierced the cultist’s heart.

The first demonic cultivator fell. No matter their inhuman tolerance for pain, nothing overcame a fatal strike to the heart.

But a breath of relief never came.

Because the bald man smiled.

His lips, split too wide, were stained with blood. My instincts screamed.

His hand shot forward, gripping Jian Feng’s blade, driving it deeper into his own chest. His whisper coiled around my ear, despite the distance.

"Praise the Heavenly Demon."

His body convulsed. Qi crackled across his skin. Expanding.

I tore the Explosive Elixir from my satchel and hurled it with everything I had—straight between them.

The detonation blasted them apart.

Jian Feng was flung backward, his sword ripped from his grip. His body hit the ground hard, his robes scorched, his skin burned from my intervention.

BOOM!

A second explosion followed—incinerating everything within an arm’s length. The cultist was gone, reduced to nothing but ash.

But Jian Feng was alive.

"Jian Feng!" I was already beside him, dragging him upright. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. His hands—charred, trembling.

I hurriedly uncorked a vial, pressing it against his lips. A numbing elixir. It wouldn't fully heal him, but it would keep him in the fight.

Before he could speak, I heaved him up, slinging his arm over my shoulder. Pain flared through my shoulder, but I gritted my teeth and carried him away from immediate danger.

But the converts didn't allow for me to get away so cleanly.

The disciples saw.

And something shifted.

"PROTECT BROTHER JIAN FENG!"

A Verdant Lotus disciple—the same one who had hesitated before—

His blade moved as he put himself between us and the converts.

Another disciple caught the rhythm. Pushed forward.

One by one, their movements steadied. The tide shifted.

Their hesitation fell away like brittle husks, replaced with something sharper. A thousand drills, a thousand mornings of repetition, suddenly clicking into place. Their formation tightened, as they drew closer to form a wall between the enemies and Jian Feng.

And they were pushing them back.

The Envoy sighed.

"Futile."