The storm descended upon them without warning, growing fiercer with each passing second.
Dark clouds rolled swiftly over the mountain pass, snuffing out the last gleam of dusk. The wind howled among the trees, bending branches and rattling the carriage as if it were a toy. Rain lashed at the earth, turning the road into a muddy trail and overfilling the nearby streams to roaring torrents. Thunder boomed in the distance, shaking the ground beneath the wheels of the carriage.
Mo Yanluo peered through the sudden downpour, his sharp eyes scanning the rocky cliffs above.
"We'll have to find shelter for tonight," he asserted, his voice calm but firm. "It'd be too dangerous to continue further in this weather."
His disciples huddled together inside the carriage, their faces pale with worry.
Ming Yue nodded at her master's suggestion. "There's a cave ahead, Master. I saw it from the ridge earlier."
Mo Yanluo turned to the driver. "Head to the cave. Quickly."
The carriage lurched forward, the horses battling against the raging wind and the grasp of mud.
They eventually reached the mouth of a cavern, its entrance concealed by overhanging rock and vegetation. The group dismounted, and hurried inside, escaping from the storm—their robes and bodies soaked.
The cave was vast and untouched by the elements, its walls rough and uneven. The air was cold and smelled of damp stone and ancient earth. Mo Yanluo led his disciples deeper inside, away from the rain and wind. He gathered wood from the carriage and, with a snap of his fingers, ignited a small fire. The flames crackled to life, casting flickering shadows on the cave walls.
The disciples gathered around the fire, their spirits lifting as warmth returned to their bodies. Qing Mei, ever playful, poked at the flames with a stick, her eyes reflecting the orange glow.
"At least we're out of the rain," she said, her voice carefree despite the storm outside.
Ming Yue carefully laid out their provisions—a basket of dried fruit, a loaf of bread, and a flask of rice wine. "We'll have to ration what little we have," she said, her tone reassuring.
Xue Lan sat silently, her misty eyes watching the entrance. "Do you think it's safe here, Master?" she asked worriedly.
Mo Yanluo gazed at the mouth of the cave, his senses alert. "For now, yes. But we must remain vigilant. And if things get bad, I'll be here to protect you, so don't worry."
Ying Tao, the youngest, huddled closer to the fire, her pink hair damp and tangled. "I hope nothing bad happens," she murmured.
Ming Yue, ever the responsible and reliable senior sister, had hung the soaked clothes to dry near the fire. Her silver hair aglow in the firelight as she passed out the meager rations.
Xue Lan, plagued by fatigue, had curled up beside her, wrapped in a spare cloak. Yan Ling, her fiery spirit dampened by the storm, had lain down with a sigh, as she quietly dozed off. Qing Mei, despite her usual mischief, had succumbed to sleep rather quickly and Ying Tao, the youngest, had drifted off almost immediately after eating.
Mo Yanluo sat apart from his disciples, his back against the cold stone, and his senses heightened and adjusted to every sound and movement beyond the cave. The fire crackled softly, filling the cavern with its warm light, but he felt no comfort from it.
His mind was elsewhere—on the road ahead, on the dangers that lurked in the darkness. The memories of the future he had seen and experienced still weighed heavy on his mind.
He watched his sleeping disciples, their faces illuminated by the fire's glow, slighting calming the unease he felt inside.
The rain drummed against the earth, the wind bashed against the trees, and the thunder rumbled like the growl of some hungry beast. He listened to the rhythm of the storm, to the occasional snap of a branch or the distant cry of an animal.
The night continued on. The storm showed no sign of easing. Mo Yanluo's body was still, but his mind was alert, his senses reaching beyond the cave, into the darkness.
Then he felt it—a presence, a ripple in the emptiness of the night.
At first, it was just a whisper—a faint rustling, the murmurs of scuffling footsteps.
Mo Yanluo's eyes peered deeper into the darkness. He remained motionless, his breathing slow and steady, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
The sound came again, closer this time. Not the wind, not the rain—something else. Something living.
Mo Yanluo's senses sharpened. He listened, his mind reaching out, trying to locate the source of the disturbance.
There—beyond the cave, hidden by the storm and the darkness, a group moved with intent. Their steps were light, their movements precise. They were trained, and well co-ordinated. They were undoubtedly Assassins.
Mo Yanluo's heart palpitated faster, but his face remained calm. He glanced at his sleeping disciples and back at the cave's entrance. They were slumbering peaceful, unaware of the danger that approached. He would not disturb them. Not yet.
He stood up slowly, his movements silent, his body tense with anticipation. He stepped toward the cave's entrance, his senses on guard, his mind focused.
He could see them now—several silhouettes in the rain, figures clad in black, their faces hidden behind masks, each with intricate designs. They were all at least at the middle-stage of the Soul Formation Realm, some even being at the early-stage of the Transcendent Realm.
They moved like ghosts, their blades shining in the occasional flash of lightning.
Mo Yanluo stepped outside, into the storm and incoming danger.
The rain lashed at his face, the wind pulled at his robes, but Mo Yanluo paid it no mind. He moved away from the cave, his steps careful, his body low. He wanted to draw them away, to keep them away from his disciples.
With his Demonic Void Steps, he quickly distanced himself away from the cave and found a clearing, a small space between the trees, and stopped.
He turned around, his blade drawn, his eyes scanning the darkness.
The assassins followed closely behind him, their movements swift and silent.
They spread out upon reaching the clearing, surrounding him, their weapons raised, their intent clear.
Mo Yanluo stood his ground, his body relaxed, his mind sharp. He was ready.
Their leader stepped forward, his voice a barely audible in the rain. "Mo Yanluo. We've been waiting for you."
Mo Yanluo did not answer. He simply waited for their attack.
The assassin laughed. "You should've stayed in your little cave. Now you're going to die alone. But don't fret, your disciples will be joining you once we're finished with you."
Mo Yanluo's eyes narrowed, a silent rage building within him at the mention of his disciples. He would not let them near his disciples. He would protect them, no matter the cost.
Suddenly, the assassins attacked, launching deadly attacks from every direction and angle.
The first strike from the left, a flash of steel in the darkness. Mo Yanluo twisted, his own blade meeting it with a sharp metallic clang. He parried, his movements fluid, his body a blur in the rain.
Another assassin lunged from the right, his dagger aimed at Mo Yanluo's flank. Mo Yanluo sidestepped, his hand lashing out, striking the assassin's wrist with a loud crack. The dagger fell, clattering to the ground.
The assassins advanced their assault, their attacks relentless. Mo Yanluo moved among their ranks, his blade flashing, his body a whirlwind of motion. His Formless Heavenly Demonic Art was like a flowing, graceful dance amidst the onslaught of fatal attacks.
He was outnumbered, but he was not outmatched. After all, quality outweighed quantity. The assassins were nothing more than bugs that could be squashed at a flick of a finger.
He coated his sword in his Demonic Qi, painting the weapon pitch black, as he cut down one assassin, then another—his movements calculated, his intent clear. He would not let them touch even a single strand of hair on his disciples.
The assassins fought with skill and determination, but Mo Yanluo was a monster, he had faced countless foes stronger than these pathetic weaklings.
His blade danced in the rain, his movements swift and deadly.
The fight raged on, the storm raging with it. Lightning flashed, thunder roared, and the rain poured down, washing the blood from the ground.
Mo Yanluo fought on, his mind focused, his body alive with power. A smile appeared on his lips as he continued his bloody rampage, growing accustomed to the rush of killing that he thought he'd forgotten.
The battle was not over yet. The assassins were skilled, their numbers still great. But he would not stop until he had eliminated them all. Because he was Mo Yanluo, founder and leader of the Heavenly Demon Sect, and the master of his disciples—Ming Yue, Xue Lan, Yan Ling, Qing Mei, and Ying Tao.
He would not let them win.
The assassins attacked again, their blades flashing in the darkness. Mo Yanluo welcomed them, his own blade a streak of black that seemed to absorb all light.
The fight continued, the night stretching on, the storm unrelenting. Mo Yanluo fought with all his strength, his mind and body in harmony.
He would protect his disciples, and would not let them down.