The marsh's edge crackled with tension, the cherry blossoms' faint rustle a mocking backdrop to the standoff.
"Well, well, well." Donovan Valdez stood resolute, his scarred face a mask of calm, but his voice carried a razor's edge, his white cloak billowing like a war banner. "Since all my dear sect comrades seek the Alchemy Formula of Foundation Establishment Pill and the Crimson Whisker Vine, then let martial skill decide. Everything is possible. Just prove your worth and claim the prize through cultivation, battle prowess and the favor of the Great Dao."
With a curt nod, he turned, signaling his Dominator Squad to withdraw, his pearl locket glinting ominously.
"Senior Brother Valdez!" Shirley Quinn called out, her eyes flashed and her voice a silken blade, sharp yet alluring. "Please stay. Hear your junior sister out, just for a moment."
Her feather fan unfurled, veiling half her face, a coy smile playing beneath it. "Though the Alchemy Formula and the Vine are rare treasures, we are still sect comrades—akin to brothers and sisters. Especially now, away from the holy sect on an outer sect task, we should watch each other's backs, not turn blades upon one another. Should we let a mere Hanz Clan Estate task fracture our bonds, pitting us against each other like foes?"
Shirley stepped forward, her scant red gauze dress whispering against her alabaster skin, the venomous creatures adorning her—shimmering butterflies, writhing green snakes, a massive black spider, a coiled centipede, and crimson beetles—stirring faintly, their movements amplifying her lethal charm. Her fan flicked, sending a musky scent wafting through the air. "In this humble junior sister's opinion, neither the Alchemy Formula nor the cultivation insights are single-use treasures—they can be shared. The only prize worth a potential bloodshed is the Crimson Whisker Vine. So why don't we cooperate? Why don't we join forces? Even if most of us miss the rare Vine, no one need leave empty-handed. What say you, Mister First Dominator?"
Donovan Valdez's brow furrowed slightly, his reply forming, "Junior Sister Quinn—"
But before he could continue, Jorge Blue cut in, his scholarly demeanor belying his firm resolve, his calm smile unwavering. "I stand with Senior Sister Quinn. We came here seeking the chance to establish our Foundation Souls, to claim the Alchemy Formula for the key Pill and ascend—not to clash in bloodshed needlessly. Since the Crimson Whisker Vine cannot be divided, let fate and strength decide its owner. But the Alchemy Formula? The Cultivation Insights? It's just a matter of merely making a few copies. Why draw blades over what can be shared?"
He raised a hand, his tone solemn, his voice carried the weight of a vow, clear and unshakable "I, Jorge Blue, Captain of the dauntless Thirst Bull Squad, swear the Inner Demon Oath on my Dao Heart: If I obtain the Alchemy Formula of the Foundation Establishment Pill or any cultivation insights within the Hanz Clan Estate, I will share them willingly with all of you here."
Garrick Blackthorn's eyes narrowed, his voice steady but laced with resolve. "Junior Sister Quinn speaks wisely. I support her plan."
The three captains—Garrick Blackthorn, Shirley Quinn, and Jorge Blue—had spoken, their gazes now fixed on Donovan Valdez, the lone holdout. His scarred face darkened, sensing the subtle alliance forming against him. The air grew taut, their unity a quiet challenge to his dominance. After a tense heartbeat, Donovan's expression shifted, a warm smile breaking through, though his eyes remained guarded. "I was about to say the same, Shirley. Your plan mirrors my own thoughts perfectly."
Shirley Quinn's feather fan snapped shut with a sound like a lover's sigh cut short. Her smile glowed, radiant as a sunlit blossom—but there was something darker in it, something that made the warmth feel like a warning.
"Oh, Senior Brother Valdez," she cooed, "your dedication to our holy sect unity is so… inspiring. Truly, it reassures my fragile heart." A delicate hand fluttered to her busty chest—though nothing about her seemed fragile at all.
Then her gaze sharpened, honeyed voice turning to steel.
"But before we step into that delicious unknown… shall we assign our little search zones? Hmm?" She traced a painted nail along the imagined borders of the map, each stroke possessive. "Because if we start slaughtering each other before we've even found the treasury house…"
Her laugh was a silvery chime, edged with mockery.
"Well, wouldn't that be farcical? Imagine the whispers—'Oh, those fools gutted each other over empty halls!' We'd be the laughingstock of every sect comrades from here to the entire Inner Sect." She leaned in, lips parting in a smile that was all teeth. "And I refuse to be ridiculous… before I've had my share."
Donovan remained silent, but a white-robed male cultivator from his Dominator Squad stepped forward, grinning cheekily. "Ah, Senior Sister Quinn, Well played. So this was your aim all along? Let me guess—have you already divined the location of treasury house?"
Shirley's laugh spilled into the air like poisoned honey—a charming, girlish giggle that made the venomous adornments coiled around her gown twitch in delight. She waved a dismissive hand, her "jewels" glinting like the eyes of lurking serpents.
"Oh, no, you naughty boy," she chided, her voice a velvet scold. "Don't pretend I'm holding out on you. I'm just as blind as the rest of you about the treasury's exact spot…" Her lips curled, slow and knowing. "But we all know the likely locations, don't we?"
She paced like a panther circling its prey, those beautiful, wide eyes glinting with a hunger that had nothing to do with mercy. The sway of her hips was deliberate, hypnotic—each step a silent promise of violence or pleasure, depending on how wisely her audience chose, the vicious creatures on her dress slithering to life with each sway of her busty peach. The playful lilt in her voice hardened, her luminous eyes—wide and arresting—sweeping over the group like a queen assessing unruly subjects.
"Here's my plan, fair, simple and transparent. The Foundation Establishment Pill Formula… those precious cultivation insights… the Crimson Whisker Vine…" Each word dripped with covetous hunger. "They're not just prizes. They're our lifeblood. And since we're all here, isn't it obvious? None of us fear death… only disappointment. We're willing to dance with death for a taste."
She stopped abruptly, the air around her crackling with intent.
"But spilling blood before we've even found the prize?" A flicker of disgust twisted her beautiful face. "That's a cheap end. A ridiculous end. And I, for one, have far too much pride to die like a fool. I bet none of you enjoy a nonsense bloodshed before the main course."
"So, darling fools," she purred, "why don't we holy sect disciples be civilized about this?" A slow, razor-edged smile. "We carve up the Hanz Estate territory like feasting on a cake—each battle squad gets their own little slice to play in. Scour your own region, keep your hands to yourselves… and we all save so much time." Her voice dropped to a velvet whisper. "And, more importantly… we avoid unnecessary clashes."
Garrick Blackthorn tapped his chin, then spoke, his tone calculating, "Six probable locations, but only five squads, counting Soren Langley's absent GhostClaw Squad. Who covers the sixth?"
"Simple," Shirley replied, her voice smooth as silk pulled taut—prepared, as if she'd tasted the question on their lips long before they'd spoken it.
Her fan flicked open with a whisper, stirring the scent of jasmine and something darker beneath. "If the treasury lies within our assigned regions, then spare locations are just… distractions." A dismissive wave, as if brushing away dead leaves. "But if it's tucked away in that delicious unclaimed void?"
Her tongue traced her upper lip, slow, savoring.
"The first squad to finish their little scavenger hunt gets to… claim it." She let the word linger, heavy with implication—of conquest, of teeth sinking into unprotected flesh. "Fair. Efficient. And most importantly…"
She leaned in, her breath a warm threat against each nearby ear.
"It gives you all a reason to move quickly."
Carl Murphy frowned, skepticism creasing his face. "What if a squad splits into two groups right after entering to seize multiple areas first?"
Shirley's gaze flicked to him, slow as a knife drawn across skin. Her smile was radiant—mocking, molten—a bloom of poison disguised as a rose.
"Oh, Junior Brother," she sighed, as if pitying his naivety, "we've already lost ten comrades just standing at the Hanz Estate's doorstep. And you still think this place is some… soft target?" A laugh, light and cruel. "Let the eager little squads divide if they dare. Let them scatter like frightened rabbits."
She stepped closer, the hem of her dress whispering against the stone like a serpent's belly.
"Splitting up only means they'll die faster against whatever's waiting for us. But isn't that better?" Her fingers brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his collar—a touch too lingering to be casual. "At least then, the weak are weeded out before we reach the stronghold's main hall. Less messy for the rest of us, no?"
Her eyes gleamed, bright with carnivorous amusement.
"Unless you'd prefer we start butchering each other right here? I assure you, I can arrange that too."
Silence fell, heavy with doubt, thick with calculation, as the squads weighed her words. Jorge Blue was the first to nod, his scholar's calm endorsing the plan. Garrick followed after a moment's thought, his agreement measured. Donovan Valdez, despite his unmatched Ninth Layer peak strength, had little choice but to concur, though a fleeting glint of reluctance flashed in his eyes, betraying his unspoken dissent with the alliance.
The allocation of the Hanz Clan Estate's regions sparked heated debate among the four squads. Shirley Quinn, her fan flicking with calculated grace, proposed a swift and fair solution: the captains would draw lots, and she offered to draw last to prove her impartiality. Donovan Valdez, his scarred face hardening, rejected this, demanding a test of strength instead—each squad sending a member to duel, with victors choosing their regions first.
Unsurprisingly, his suggestion was met with immediate, unanimous rejection from the other three captains. The reason was twofold: Donovan's Dominator Squad was renowned for its ferocious fighters, giving them an edge in duels, and time was pressing against them.
"It's nearly three-quarters past noon," Jorge Blue said, his scholar's calm cutting through the tension. "The breach in the Gloomwater Phantom Lily Array is almost upon us. Drawing lots takes moments. But duels? If we fight to decide winners, we'll be stuck outside another day, waiting for the next breach."
Throughout the debate, Lordi Payne stood silent, a low-key shadow among the towering Eighth and Ninth Layer cultivators, his presence barely registering. His heart had leapt earlier when Jorge offered an out—"If anyone regrets joining, speak now. Life comes first—leave while you can." Lordi had nearly bolted then, his Seventh Layer cultivation screaming inadequacy for the estate's horrors. But the thin fear of shame and Thorn Captain's authority kept him rooted.
Now, to his shock, Garrick's voice rang out. "Junior Brother Payne, come here."
"Aye Captain!"
Bewildered, Lordi shuffled forward, his pulse quickening as he approached the Squad captains. Garrick's tone was firm, brooking no argument, his grip settled on Lordi's shoulder, firm as iron. "This is Junior Brother Payne, only at the Seventh Layer of Qi Refinement Stage. In our presence, he couldn't cheat even if he tried." He met the others' gazes. "Let him preside over the lot drawing."
Donovan Valdez, Shirley Quinn, and Jorge Blue glanced at Lordi, their eyes assessing but unconcerned. They nodded in unison, accepting without hesitation. Lordi stood frozen, thrust into the spotlight.
The cultivators moved with practiced efficiency, swiftly preparing the lots under Lordi Payne's trembling oversight. The four squad captains stepped forward to draw in the agreed order: Donovan Valdez's Dominator Squad first, followed by Jorge Blue's Thirst Bull Squad, Garrick Blackthorn's Thorn Squad, and finally Shirley Quinn's Suicide Squad.
The results were announced: Dominator Squad claimed the Hanz Clan chief's royal study library, Thirst Bull Squad took the Hanz Stronghold's Main Hall, Suicide Squad drew the Water Lily Lake, and Thorn Squad secured the Hanz Clan's Ancestral Shrine. The fifth and sixth region—the Martial Arts Arena and the Ancient Stone Well—remained unclaimed, as Soren Langley's GhostClaw Squad was absent.
The crowd dispersed into their respective squads, huddling to strategize. Within the Thorn Squad, Carl Murphy spoke up, his voice low but clear. "We're tasked with scouring the ancestral shrine region. That leaves the martial arts arena and ancient stone well unclaimed by any squad."
He frowned, turned to Garrick, his mustache twitching with concern. "Captain, once inside, do we stick together or split up to scout those unclaimed areas simultaneously?"
Garrick's eyes gleamed with steely resolve, his mind weighing the risks. After a moment, he spoke, his tone deliberate. "We Thorn Squad should move as one to the ancestral shrine—that's our public stance, clear to the other squads. But once inside the estate, with the others dispersed…" His voice dropped, "Junior Sister Newman, you'll deploy your Hundred Insect Nest immediately. Breed enough tracker worms—ones adept at stealth and exploration—to quietly probe the unclaimed regions: the martial arts arena and the stone well. Shirley Quinn's warning rings true—Cade Barret and Janiyah Sullivon vanished without a trace before we even crossed the first gatehouse of the Estate territory. This task is far deadlier than it seems. Splitting our squad now risks fruitless searches or weakens us against ambushes from rivals or whatever lurks within."
He clenched his fist. "Splitting our squad now risks too much. Listen Thorn Squad. We stay together—strength in unity."
Moments later, the four battle squads finalized their strategies, the air crackling with anticipation. The Gloomwater Phantom Lily Array shuddered, its hidden flaw splitting open like a wound. The world rippled, the marsh and cherry grove warping as if reflected in a disturbed pond. In an instant, Lordi Payne blinked and found the squads standing beneath a towering, ancient gatehouse, its weathered stone looming over them.
A weathered plaque hung above, its once-gilded characters now dull and peeling. Two words in Ancient Cloud Calligraphy remained, their strokes barely visible in the fading light.
Hanz Estate
Ebony flagpoles flanked the gatehouse, their tattered festival ribbons and frayed tassels fluttering limply, ravaged by years of wind and rain. From the eaves, two strange, balloon-like forms dangled, tied to the faded streamers. They swayed in the unnatural breeze, their shapes indistinct yet unnerving, tethered to the decaying streamers, as if watching the intruders with silent malice.