Taiyeng didn’t wait for Jiaolong to finish sputtering. He moved. The lead marauder, a hulking figure with a rusted cleaver, burst through a fresh breach in the wall, fixing his glare on the scattered cultivators. Taiyeng, still in his sweeping robes, stepped directly into its path. He intended to parry, a subtle deflection that would leave the raider disoriented. Instead, his right foot caught on a loose shard of tile. He stumbled forward, broom still in hand, his elbow flying up in a desperate attempt to regain balance. It connected with the raider's jaw with a crack like snapped pine. The raider’s head whipped sideways, rotating on a shattered spine before the corpse slumped onto the paving stones. Taiyeng stared at the headless corpse, then at his own elbow. “Oops,” he muttered, his brow twitching. “Just a little too much… momentum.” Ryunhia, who had been frozen by the chaos, snapped to attention. She gaped, tracking the arc between Taiyeng and the cleanly severed neck. Her mop was still clutched in her hand, forgotten. More soot-cloaked invaders streamed in, dark linen contrasting sharply against mountain silk. They moved with a predatory efficiency, ignoring the scattered lower-tier cultivators and making straight for the arena’s center where Ryunhia and the remaining Inner Court members stood. The Sect Leader had already begun to retreat, a flash of golden light propelling him toward the inner sanctum gates, abandoning his “prized” disciples. “Master!” Ryunhia cried out, seeing the incoming surge of attackers. Her mop lifted instinctively, Qi starting to bubble around its coarse strands. “Stay close,” Taiyeng commanded, his voice tight. He sidestepped another assailant, his broom a blur. He aimed for a precise tap to the knee, a disabling strike. The warrior, however, lunged forward with erratic speed, and Taiyeng, jerking aside to save his nose, twisted his broom. The heavy bamboo shaft spun with a low hum, its tip clipping the man's forearm. The man shrieked as his limb detonated into a fine, grey mist. “Accidental disintegration,” Taiyeng sighed, rubbing his temples. “This is going to be a long day.” Meanwhile, Oyun, the cloister scribe, had not fled. He stood near a group of shivering mortal servants, his mouth pinched tight. A swift hand plunged into his robes, not for a weapon, but for a roll of parchment. With a flick of his wrist, he unfurled a series of intricate talismans. He slapped one onto the stone pillar beside them, muttering a quick incantation. A shimmering, translucent barrier immediately pulsed into existence, shielding the frightened servants from a volley of poisoned darts. “Stay behind the wards!” Oyun’s voice, usually a gentle murmur, now carried a surprising command. He moved with a practiced grace, his movements economical, not like a scholar, but a seasoned skirmisher. Another intruder, wielding a barbed whip, tried to flank him. Oyun met it not with a sword, but a simple, elegant brushstroke in the air. A flash of azure light, a single character drawn from pure Qi, solidified into a spectral shackle that bound the fighter's limbs, dropping him flat. He didn’t stop there. He pulled out a small, obsidian-hilted dagger, almost an afterthought, and dispatched the struggling intruder with a clean thrust. He moved onto the next, his eyes burning with an unfamiliar intensity, a cold fire that Taiyeng had only seen in the eyes of veterans from forgotten skirmishes. Taiyeng, still busy accidentally dismembering attackers—one tripped over his heel and burst into cinders, another suffered an imploded ribcage from an awkward elbow—caught a glimpse of Oyun in action. The scribe was not just defending; he was fighting with a calculated fury, his movements honed by something far more violent than monastery drills. The talismans he used were not mountain sect issue; they bore the coiled sunburst of the Red River Uprising, a mortal revolt from decades past. Oyun was no mere scribe; he was a ghost from a buried war. A monstrous, four-legged siege-beast, all chitin and bladed tusks, roared its way through the outer wall, aiming for the core of the arena. It was easily twice the height of a man, its eyes glowing with malevolent intent. Taiyeng, trying to protect Ryunhia as she swatted away skirmishers with her mop, braced his stance. He would have to unleash a proper technique for this one. But just as he gathered his Qi, another piece of the crumbling spectator stands gave way. A large, ornate chunk of carved dragon stone plummeted directly towards him. He cursed, darting sideways to avoid it, losing his footing on the loose rubble. He tumbled, a clumsy, undignified fall, straight into the path of the charging siege-beast. His elbow, still primed with suppressed Qi, connected squarely with the beast’s jaw as he struck the flagstones. There was a sound like a wet sack of boulders being dropped from a great height, and the siege-beast stopped dead. Its legs buckled, its tusks scraped against the flagstones, and its massive body went limp. Its skull was caved in, leaving a crater of splintered bone where its snout had been. Taiyeng pushed himself up, dusting off his robes. “Are they building these things out of paper-mâché now?” he grumbled, looking at the utterly obliterated siege-beast. “No structural integrity whatsoever.” The remaining marauders, witnessing the sweeping monk's absurdly lethal clumsiness, hesitated. Their initial frenzy turned into a cautious retreat. Between Taiyeng’s baffling, devastating “accidents” and Oyun’s precise, deadly talismans, the arena courtyard was slowly being cleared. Ryunhia, finding her rhythm, spun her mop through wide sweeps, knocking skirmishers senseless or sending them airborne with bursts of raw Qi. Finally, the last of the initial wave of attackers lay still, or had fled back through the breaches in the wall. The arena, once a vibrant hub of competition, was now a debris-strewn battlefield, reeking of ash and ozone. The surviving elders huddled together against a pillar, casting nervous glances at Taiyeng and Oyun. The Sect Leader was nowhere to be seen, having locked himself behind the bronze gates of the inner sanctum. Taiyeng looked at Oyun, a silent question passing between them. Oyun merely gave a small, weary nod, then turned to reassure the petrified servants. Just as silence settled over the ruined courtyard, a resonant voice rolled down from the highest mountain crags. It was Chidao. His words, though amplified by powerful cultivation, carried an unsettling calm. “Lords of the mountain,” the voice boomed across the gorge, “your gluttony ends today. A Leyline Bomb has been planted within your spiritual core. You have precisely one hour until your stolen power returns to the starving earth.” A collective gasp ripped through the surviving disciples and elders. One hour. One hour until their sanctuary, their source of power, and potentially their lives, were ripped apart. Taiyeng scowled at the high crags. This wasn't just a raid. It was an execution timed to reduce Ryunhia and the entire mountain to drifting soot.

Accidental Decapitations