Return of the Mount Hua Sect [EN]: Chapter 1002

A shout ripped through the tense air. “Elder Songhwa!” A young disciple burst into the command tent, his face pale with terror. Songhwa, the Taoist elder, felt his own blood run cold.

“What is happening?” he managed to ask, his voice barely a whisper.

“They are breaking through! We can’t hold them back!”

Why now? Why *here*? Songhwa thought desperately. He could feel it, a wave of pure malice rolling over the mountain towards them. It was like a thousand icy fingers pricking at his skin, and the air itself seemed to thicken, heavy with a foul, suffocating presence.

“Elder! A plan!” The desperate cry of his disciple made Songhwa’s hand holding his sword tremble. *A plan?* He was the Elder, the leader. It was his duty to have a plan. But his mind was blank, filled only with dread. What plan could possibly work against *this*?

Songhwa knew they had committed every available fighter. Thirty of Wudang’s finest disciples, summoned from the main sect for just such a crisis, were already engaged. Each was a master of the Supreme Wisdom Sword style, capable of unleashing the legendary Twofold Sword Formation, Wudang’s most revered technique.

Yet, reports came back of them being swept aside like leaves in a storm. Their swords, usually so sharp and sure, were useless against this onslaught. What more could he possibly do?

“Elder! If we lose this position, the entire army will be trapped! Cut off!” the disciple yelled, his voice cracking.

“I *know*!” Songhwa barked back, his voice tight with fear. He understood the terrible truth. They were the last line of defense. If they broke, the warriors deep in Daesan would have no escape. It would be a massacre. They had to hold, even if it meant… even if it meant certain death. But his mind screamed in protest. *What can I do?*

Sweat streamed down his face, blurring his vision. This was not just some enemy soldier. This was… something else.

“How can we stop a *Bishop*?” Songhwa whispered, his voice rising to a panicked shout as he tightened his grip on his sword, knuckles white.

Then, the world seemed to explode. *KRA-BOOOOOOM!* A wave of raw power slammed into the mountainside, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. A torrent of black energy erupted over the ridge, a swirling, nightmarish cloud that blotted out the sky. Songhwa stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat. He wasn’t alone. Every disciple around him recoiled, faces etched with pure terror.

“Ugh…” This was it. Disaster. Bishops. Servants of the dreaded Heavenly Demon, beings of unimaginable power.

“How can there be… *one* of them here?” someone whispered, voice trembling. If the Heavenly Demon was beyond human comprehension, then a Bishop was a living nightmare, ready to tear them apart. The demonic energy surged forward like a living darkness, a razor-sharp wind that seemed to cut through bone. Songhwa gasped, a strangled sound escaping his lips.

“Support! We need support!” Songhwa screamed, his voice hoarse. “Send word *now*! A Bishop is here! We can’t last! We’ll be slaughtered!”

“Support requested, Elder! But…” The disciple’s voice trailed off, and Songhwa already knew. There was no help coming. No one would have forces strong enough to spare against a Bishop when they were already on the offensive.

*AARGH!* A scream tore through the air, followed by a sickening *rip*. Songhwa’s eyes snapped to the sound. He saw it then, a Wudang disciple caught in the black vortex. It wasn’t just an attack; it was… disintegration. The disciple was ripped apart, limb from limb, flesh and bone turning to dust in the demonic energy, scattering like ash across the dark mountainside.

“Ah…” Songhwa’s breath hitched. His jaw trembled uncontrollably. He couldn’t watch. He couldn’t bear it. What could a mortal man do against something so utterly… *inhuman*?

“Retreat…” The word escaped Songhwa’s lips before he could stop it. “Yes?” He clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified. Retreat? Unthinkable. He knew the consequences. If they broke here, the entire offensive would collapse. Every drop of blood spared now would be paid for in a flood of blood later. He knew it. He *knew* it! But… A wave of nausea washed over him, cold and sickening. If they stayed, they would all die. Not a glorious death, fighting to the last, but a meaningless slaughter. A waste. If their deaths could buy time, could change anything, he would order them to stand and fight. But they couldn’t. Their lives, his life, meant nothing against *that*. It was a pointless sacrifice.

“AAAAARGH!” Another scream, cut short. *KRA-BOOOOOOM!* The demonic vortex surged closer, an inexorable tide of darkness. Death was coming, slow and certain. Terror choked Songhwa.

Songhwa felt utterly insignificant. He was just an Elder. Against a Bishop, he was less than nothing. Perhaps the demon wouldn’t even notice the difference between him and the dying disciples.

“Ugh…” His sword hand trembled so violently he could barely feel the hilt. He tried to draw the Songmungo Sword, but it felt heavy, stuck fast in its scabbard, as if refusing to face the coming darkness.

“…Retreat,” he whispered again, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.

“Yes?” Songhwa bit down hard on his lip, tasting blood. “Re… retreat…” Just then, a shout of pure joy erupted behind him.

“Elder! Elder!” He spun around, hope flickering in his chest despite himself. A disciple was sprinting towards them, face alight with relief.

“What is it?!” Songhwa demanded, heart pounding.

“He’s here! He’s here!”

“He’s?!” The name didn’t need to be spoken. Songhwa knew. Everyone knew. There was only one person in all of Jianghu who could stand against a Bishop, who could bring light to this encroaching darkness.

“Whew,” a voice drawled, calm amidst the chaos. “That’s a nasty sight, even for me.”

Songhwa whirled around. A man was crouched beside him, casually surveying the battlefield. Hair tied back in a loose knot, dark martial robes, and over them, a deep green robe embroidered with white. But it wasn’t the clothes. It was the sheer *presence* of the man, a weight in the air that made it hard to draw breath.

“Dark Lord…” Songhwa breathed, awestruck. Dark Lord Tang Bo. The Reaper of the Tang Family – a name whispered with fear even among allies, a legend of deadly skill and ruthless efficiency. He watched the demonic onslaught with a cold, almost amused smile.

“You in charge?” Tang Bo asked, not even glancing at Songhwa. Songhwa flinched, but nodded quickly, eagerly.

“Y-yes, Dark Lord!”

“Get these… *trainees* out of here,” Tang Bo said dismissively.

“Yes?” Songhwa blinked, confused. Tang Bo sighed. “Never mind. Some people are too dense to save.”

“…What do you mean?” *Thud.* A new sound, heavy footsteps approaching. Songhwa’s heart leaped into his throat. Tang Bo was powerful, yes, a legend. They said he was the very embodiment of a Tang Family weapon, the deadliest master in a century. But even the Dark Lord… against a Bishop? No. The disciple’s joy, the sheer relief… it couldn’t be just Tang Bo. Trembling, Songhwa turned. And froze. Standing there, radiating a quiet intensity, was another figure. Black martial robes, but these were different. Embroidered on the chest, a stark, crimson plum blossom. His hair was pulled back, but strands had fallen loose, framing a face both weary and sharp. But it was his eyes. Cold, piercing, even from beneath the tangled hair. Songhwa whispered, the name catching in his throat.

“Plum… Blossom Sword Saint…” Yes. *Him*. Only Chung Myung, the Plum Blossom Sword Saint, could bring true hope against such darkness. *Thud. Thud.* Chung Myung stopped before him, his gaze sweeping over the scene.

“Situation?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

Chung Myung’s cold voice snapped Songhwa back to reality. He stammered, “W-we are trying to slow the Bishop down, but we are not strong enough. Plum Blossom Sword Saint!”

Tang Bo let out a low whistle of disbelief. “Delaying action? What kind of fool’s game is that?”

“…Yes?” Before Songhwa could react, Chung Myung’s hand shot out, grabbing the front of his robes and hauling him close. Songhwa froze, fear paralyzing him.

“You,” Chung Myung’s voice was dangerously quiet. “Are you an Elder of Wudang?” Songhwa nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

“Y-yes…”

“Then what in hell are you doing *here*?”

“…What?” Chung Myung’s eyes blazed with a terrifying cold fury. “Your disciples are out there dying! And you’re hiding in the back, watching? You cowardly son of a bitch!” Songhwa couldn’t breathe. It felt like a predator had him pinned, teeth bared at his throat. He dared not move.

“If you have no plan, you should be fighting beside them! Are your lives so precious that you use your own students as shields while you cower here?”

“I… I…”

“You pathetic excuse for a leader!” *SMACK!* Chung Myung’s open hand cracked against Songhwa’s jaw. Songhwa crumpled to the ground with a whimper, unable to even lift his head. Chung Myung glanced down at him with contempt, then turned and strode forward.

Tang Bo clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Consider yourself lucky those kids are in trouble. Otherwise, that would have been much worse.”

“…” Tang Bo smirked at Songhwa, then hurried after Chung Myung.

“Hey, Brother! Wait up! What’s the rush!”

The Plum Blossom Sword Saint and the Dark Lord. Together, they moved towards the storm of demonic energy, unwavering. As if sensing their approach, the black vortex pulsed, growing even more violent. But Chung Myung and Tang Bo didn’t even pause. A grim smile touched Chung Myung’s lips, mirrored by a predatory grin on Tang Bo’s face.

“Is it just him?” Tang Bo asked, voice casual.

“Looks like he brought about twenty lesser demons with him.”

Chung Myung snorted. “Then he’s alone.”

“…Suppose so.” *Shing.* With a slow, deliberate motion, Chung Myung drew the Plum Blossom Sword. A visible tension coiled in his body, a tremor running through him despite his outward calm. Even *he* could feel the raw power of the Bishop.

“…A Soul Devourer, maybe?” Tang Bo mused, tilting his head.

“Or a Rage Demon?” Chung Myung shrugged, lowering his sword slightly. “Doesn’t matter. He’s dead either way.” He glanced at Tang Bo.

“Last time you fought one of these, didn’t you sleep for a week afterwards?”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Tang Bo scoffed. “It was only three days!”

“Same difference. Don’t get in my way this time. Stay back.”

“Hey! Remind me who patched you up when your arm was hanging by a thread last month? Maybe *you’ll* lose your head this time.”

Chung Myung smirked, a flash of white teeth in the gloom. As they closed the distance, his grip tightened on the Plum Blossom Sword.

“Then we have no choice,” he growled, a dangerous edge entering his voice. “Let’s carve this monster’s heart out first, and *then* we can argue.”

Tang Bo grinned, flicking a wickedly sharp dagger from his sleeve. “Agreed.”

They exploded forward, two blurs of motion – Chung Myung a flash of icy blue, Tang Bo a shadow of deepest black – plunging directly into the heart of the demonic storm. That day, at the gateway to Daesan, another Bishop of the Heavenly Demon met its doom, and the world held its breath.