Etra’s finger twitches.

  Synthia’s sewing wasn’t exactly what one would call professional, courtesy of being a noblewoman, but Etra only needed the two ends attached. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t worried, she’d never suffered an amputation before, and conventional knowledge doesn’t really help when you’re lugging around your own arm.

  But lo and behold, she’s starting to feel sensation again, like a numb prickling. Kinda annoying, but she ain’t complaining, it’s a sign her efforts with regeneration have actually borne fruit.

  She’s pretty tapped out of Qi because of that, but it’s her fucking arm, she’s not taking any chances.

  That, unfortunately, makes her a fairly ineffectual protector. She could probably take on a few mortals, but boosting is the foundation of a cultivator's strength, so she’d have little to no chance against a proper pilgrim of the path.

  So, they don’t stay in the same place for long, looking for opportunities between frenzied brawls to slowly progress north, scavenging all the while. There are days where they don’t find food, or water, and Etra can see how it affects the boy’s mood, but there isn’t much Etra can really do.

  Luckily the mortals leave them alone, considering her robes, though a few have taken note of the stitches on her arm with…concerning appraisal. But she’ll just rock their shit if they decide to try anything, and hey, it’ll be a proper experience of violence for the boy.

  He’s plenty strong in spars, but he sorely needs some real world experience, so do Yorin and Kisrin honestly, barely leaving the mansion for proper duels like proper cultivators.

  Gonna need to teach those idiots when she sees them next, real world experience beats sparring tenfold.

  Though considering her injuries…nah, she pushed through because she was familiar with pain, not in spite of it. Her guts have been concerning her though, that broadsword cunt infusing his blade with some kind of fire that literally melted her flesh, liquifying a portion of her right abdomen and cutting a bit into her spine. Of the many wounds she’s suffered, that’s easily the worst, but she doesn’t have the Qi to spare to split her focus so she just hopes it wont get infected or some shit.

  It’s been eight days of nothing, she’ll be fine right?

  Right.

  The sun’s rays slowly fade from the windows, like a sloth returning to its slumber, and Etra sighs in relief as they’ve made it another day without incident. She gets up off the ground and stretches out the kinks caused by staying immobile for a long period of time, then she walks a few steps and nudges a sleeping Erick with her foot.

  “Mmm…” the boy groans, “just-” a yawn, “-just a minute demon lady.”

  “Ain’t got time for a minute, sun’s down, we need to get moving,” Etra says, and Erick grumbles his protests, “get your ass up before I get my staff.”

  “Fiiiiine,” Erick whines, “I’m telling Tantra you threatened to beat me though.”

  “Better beaten than dead,” Etra scoffs, “now come on, we’re almost at the slums, might even reach them today if you don’t act like such a bitch.”

  “You’re evil.”

  “Why thank you.”

  Erick groans but gets up off his cot with little protest, Etra waits for him by the door as he checks his bag and storage artifact. Got one for him from one of the dead cultivators, and the kid’s still getting used to it, convenient for keeping Tantra’s weapon hidden though. Not much else, it wasn’t exactly a premium piece of script, but she’ll take whatever help she can get.

  Besides, an artifact is better than no artifact.

  She really needs to get a combat artifact, maybe a new staff? She’ll think about it once they escape this hell, but it’s a nice little motivation beyond survival. Eventually, once Erick is satisfied, he walks up to Etra with a scowl.

  She manifests a strip of dried meat.

  “What’s this?” He eyes it warily.

  “Breakfast,” Etra says simply, “you’ll need proper energy if you want to survive in the slums.”

  “We’ve literally been walking through a warzone for the past two weeks.”

  “There’s that and then there’s this, we’re gonna be dealing with gangs kid, actual coordinated groups rather than the pathetic shit the sects are displaying right now. I’m injured, badly, and can’t protect you if some opportunistic idiots see us as a juicy prize. Take the meat and be grateful”

  Erick just raises a brow but grabs the offering anyway, quickly devouring it much to Etra’s amusement.

  “Alright,” Etra nods, “let’s go.”

  -

  There are plenty of stories about war and its warriors.

  Mortal or cultivator, it does not matter, tales of valour spread like wildfire and devoured like sweet rolls. Even as a merchant’s daughter it’s hard to escape the pervasive obsession with valiant combat and honour, all nonsense really. Tantra was a smart child you see, and knew that fighting involved a lot of getting hurt, and how could such an act be pleasurable?

  So she wasn’t fooled by the pageantry of what is so clearly a bad thing, but still, she didn’t expect this.

  When the immortals came down and laid ruin to the city, Tantra was not surprised, the apathy of the transcendent to mortal suffering is well documented and well known. Of course they couldn’t just take their battle outside the city, why do something so arduous as find some place safe for their rampage?

  But she expected better of cultivators and mortals, there in their hearts empathy still resides, so even if they fight and add to the chaos, surely they wouldn’t revel in it. Surely humanity would still exist in their souls.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The swinging cultivators seem to disagree with that assessment.

  About a dozen naked and moaning bodies hang from entrails tied to the roof of some kind of establishment. She can’t tell if they are cultivators or not, her Qi senses not being good enough to identify saturated flesh so easily, but no mortal intestines could be capable of holding their limbless bodies.

  Their cries aren’t guttural, or even really all that loud, almost like they refuse to show weakness even in this moment of pain. There’s a small pile of limbs gathered together at the center that she presumes belongs to them.

  To die in combat is an honor in the cultivators world, so what is this?

  Synthia is busy vomiting, been doing a lot of that, they’ve been here for a while after all. Tantra’s been staring at the sight for altogether too long, trying to put some logical sense to the scene in front of her, and failing spectacularly.

  They’re not the only ones, a small group of mortals, and a few cultivators, stand in equal horror. Brought together in possibly the most morbid fashion Tantra can imagine. Who would anyone do this?

  What kind of broken mind does it take to bring about this kind of suffering? Not even the greatest evils Tantra can think of could measure to this, and she’s seen a whole village burned to the ground. Should she help them? Put them out of their misery and send them back to the cycle?

  But…they could still heal, cultivators are resilient like that, if only Tantra knew their affiliation, but their robes and tokens were stolen as though to prevent that exact outcome. No sect would take them without proof of their discipleship, especially not now while they war against each other.

  So…killing them is the only mercy she can give, unless she’s willing to care for them, reattach their limbs and wait for their recovery. It’s a silly thought, she doesn’t even know how deep their roots are, they could just as well die under her ministrations. But most importantly she doesn’t have the time.

  She needs to get to the slums, she can’t waste the weeks to months it might take caring for these poor souls while a godsdamned war is raging. Her friends are still missing and Synthia still has a bounty on her head, she can’t afford to help.

  Would she even if she could?

  She doesn’t know, but she knows it’s unlikely they’ll find a willing benefactor in this hell. So, leave them to die slowly or end their suffering?

  It’s not really a choice is it? It shouldn’t be a choice, the answer is so obvious. But Tantra can’t stop her hand from shaking as she picks up a discarded jian off the floor, the crowd watching as she slowly walks towards the first body, heart beating so fast without any conscious input.

  Her hands are clammy against the wooden handle as she brings the blade up to their throat, and her grip on their head is strong but shaky, failing to keep them stable.

  She looks into the man’s eyes.

  He’s crying and choking out sounds that might carry the intention of words, but instead comes out as sobs. He doesn’t want to die, she can see that in his eyes, he wants her to put the blade down and leave so that he may have a chance, no matter how small.

  Tantra keeps staring into his eyes as she slits his throat.

  -

  Yorin is…tired.

  His guandao intercepts a mace, knocking it aside as he runs the cultivator through, freeing entrails by tearing the blade out her side. A jian goes for his throat, but all he needs to do is step back, letting it pass by just a few inches. At one point there were five cultivators, now there’s just two. Yorin’s lucky they were weak, that hasn’t always been the case, the wounds he’s suffered are a testament to the hardships of the passing days.

  But still he moves, still he fights.

  There are those behind that rely on him, remnants of the group from the pyre, just fifteen from what was once a little over forty. They haven’t had the time to give a proper memorial to the bodies, busy as they are scavenging for whatever resources they can find. Yorin’s been a kind of protector as they try and navigate the ever growing chaos of war.

  At first he was just a warning to keep the fighting away from the peasantry, a kind of scarecrow, and most cultivators were content to just kill each other instead of bothering their group. But as time passed he started having to fight the spill-over of random battles, as the groups fighting got larger and the heat of battle clouded sound judgement. Now there are groups that outright hunt them, for what purpose Yorin can scarcely fathom, but they are numerous.

  There are days where he doesn’t fight, rare moments where they can stay in one spot and rest, but those are becoming rarer and rarer as the streets get flooded with more and more cultivators. He knows the great sects carry a dizzying number, but to actually witness the bodies under their command is as astonishing as it is horrifying. The biggest group Yorin’s had to fight off was a collection of twelve, and even then he only survived because, ironically enough, The Dreaming Lotus intervened.

  That’s the only sect that’s been leaving him alone now that he thinks about it.

  He’d find that funny if he wasn’t so tired.

  But he has a duty, and that duty stands firmly behind him, a collection of people he refuses to lose.

  He flourishes his weapon, knocking aside the jian as he cuts a line across the mace wielder’s torso, the woman lets out a slight grunt but doesn’t relent in her pursuit. They never do, and that’s just strange, are they really so determined to see commoners dead? If it were for something purposeful then Yorin would understand, if it were for honor he would understand, even if it were fame he’d still understand.

  But for the sake of pointless murder?

  That just seems…stupid, like they’re a caricature of evil rather than people. Maybe there’s something else to fuel whatever this is, but Yorin hasn’t really gotten much of a chance to ask, what with the declarations of honor or some such nonsense and promptly acting to do just that.

  He doesn’t get it, can’t understand anything that’s been happening the past weeks, just trudging along from one slaughter to another like some sort of ghoul. Where are his friends? Are they safe? He hopes they’re safe…but he doesn’t know with all this violence. He just prays to whichever gods would be willing to listen, that heaven's mercy might shine down on this city, and hopes for the best.

  He can’t go looking for them, he has to protect these people.

  His guandao cuts off the mace man’s head, and arks into jian’s torso, cutting a lung in half as he severs the man’s spine. Both bodies, one still living, fall to the ground with a dull thump, and Yorin takes steadying breaths as he releases his boosting, leaning on his weapon for support.

  “Jubokko!” a woman says as she lands in front of Yorin, she wears brown robes with a trim of deep red, “what a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance, and what a delightful slaughter you’ve committed, have you been having fun murdering my juniors?”

  Yorin blinks at the woman, “Jubokko?”

  “That’s who you are yes,”

  “My name is Yorin,”

  “Then Yorin the Jubokko! Does it really matter? You’re not going to live long for the title to really carry beyond this city.”

  “Please,” Yorin sighs, “walk away, I’ve killed too many already, can’t you all just keep to your fighting and leave the rest of us alone?”

  “What?” The woman literally laughs, “you’ve been hunting so many and you say that we should mind our business?”

  “They’ve been hunting us,” Yorin says, confused.

  “Oh this is just precious, did you really get a title like that by accident? I almost want to believe you for the sheer hilarity.”

  “I’m so confused,” Yorin says.

  “So am I, so am I,” she chuckles, “but that’s fine, we could just forgo the context and get into a good duel, like cultivators should.”

  “Can I at least get a name?” Yorin sighs, “this is the longest conversation I’ve had with someone trying to kill me.”

  “Yu Mei,” she says as she manifests a macuahuitl, “ready?”

  “Ready,” Yorin says resignedly.

  Yu Mei smiles and gets ready to charge-

  Only to be interrupted by a war cry as a hoard cultivators in green robes descend upon the both of them.

  didn't do the proper research like a should have rather than just nabbing a name.