Love Burning Amidst the Ashes. - chapter 10 - The Forked Path

Thick fog, rent by the night wind into ragged tatters, allowed pallid moonlight to seep through. It faintly outlined the huddled figures of the refugees on the desolate slope beneath Blackstone Hollow. The wind shredded their palpable fear and anxiety, only to grind the fragments deeper, more stubbornly, into the very marrow of their bones.

Xu Qing Xuan leaned against a cold, jagged rock. The remnant Yin Sha energy within him and the searing pain in his meridians clung like maggots to bone. Every breath tugged at the charred, black wound on his back. The Yin-Yang Jade Disc cradled against his chest emitted a faint but tenacious coolness, combing through the chaos of his sea of consciousness, fighting the agony. The cold compass pressed tight to his skin was now transmitting a series of sharp, needle-like tremors, growing stronger and faster by the moment.

He kept his eyes closed, feigning meditative rest, yet a silent tempest raged in the depths of his mind. While the vast river of information granted by the jade remained sealed, its near-instinctive power of deduction now served as an invisible mirror, reflecting the approaching crisis. Chen Lao Jiu’s serpent-like, greedy gaze, the slowing pace of the refugee column, that persistent, cold, and clinging sense of being tracked from the dense woods behind them… Countless fragments collided and whirled in his thoughts, pointing towards one chilling conclusion: the Blood Wolf Gang’s tail hadn’t been shaken off. The scarred bandit leader’s avarice and suspicion far outweighed his fear of the ‘Celestial Mechanism Pavilion.’ They were like jackals, waiting for their prey to weaken before lunging in for the kill.

“Brother…” A stifled groan came from beside him. Xu Qing Feng leaned against a rock, the deep purple medicinal poultice on his chest wound stained anew with dark red streaks of blood mixed with filth. Worse, beneath the exposed skin of his neck and arms, faint, uncontrolled blue-purple arcs of electricity flickered. Each sporadic flash caused his muscles to tense, his jaw to clench, and veins to throb at his temples—a clear sign of backlash and loss of control after forcibly channeling lightning power had severely scorched his meridians.

Xu Qing Xuan slowly opened his eyes. His gaze swept over his brother’s pain-twisted face before finally settling on the restless lightning dancing beneath his skin. A sliver of icy worry passed deep within his pupils. He moved a mud-stained finger with the barest hint of motion, pointing towards his own cracked lips.

Xu Qing Feng understood instantly. Gritting through the pain, he picked up a nearby cracked earthenware bowl—it held relatively clean rainwater Old Man Zhang had just brought. Carefully, he helped his brother drink a few sips. The cool liquid soothed his throat, and Xu Qing Xuan’s spirit seemed to gather a fraction of focus. His eyes shifted to the vicious gash on his brother’s chest, then flicked to the flickering arcs beneath his skin. His voice was hoarse, yet each word fell with the crisp clarity of ice beads: “The wound… how is it?”

“Not dead yet!” Xu Qing Feng grunted, attempting to straighten his posture but only aggravating his injury. A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth, and a froth of blood tinged with faint purple sparks escaped. He wiped it away irritably, his eyes blazing with a feral, rebellious defiance. “Brother, are those scum still trailing us? Let me go finish them!” He clenched his fist, knuckles whitening. The erratic arcs beneath his skin flared brighter, and a faint, acrid scent of something scorched tinged the air.

“Sit down!” Xu Qing Xuan’s voice turned cold and sharp, brooking no argument. His clear eyes, now like the frozen depths of a mountain lake, instantly quelled the seething violence in Xu Qing Feng. “Finish them? In your current state? With that wildfire in your veins ready to consume you?” His gaze was a scalpel, dissecting the most active arc dancing on Xu Qing Feng’s arm. “Look at yourself, Qing Feng! Your meridians are scorched; the backlash is seeping into your bones. Force it again, and you’ll be the next pile of ash!”

Xu Qing Feng stiffened as if doused in ice water. His brother’s stare was a sobering deluge, smothering the boiling urge for slaughter. He looked down at his own arm, where a faint, charred line seemed to writhe beneath the skin with each flicker of lightning, bringing a deeper, more insidious burn. A chill of realization momentarily overpowered his rage. His mouth opened, but no rebuttal came. His brother was right. He was a leaking barrel, crammed with volatile powder and a sputtering fuse.

Xu Qing Xuan no longer regarded him. With a mud-streaked finger, he began tracing swift lines in the relatively dry earth before him. The weak moonlight barely illuminated the strange, twisting patterns he drew—not a simple map, but lines that carried an esoteric, almost ominous rhythm.

“Look here,” Xu Qing Xuan’s voice was low and urgent, his finger tapping a specific intersection. “Our position now: Blackstone Hollow, on the edge of the Corpse-Burial Woods.” His finger moved westward, sketching a winding path. “Three days west lies Qing Mu City territory—crowded, chaotic, with major trade routes. The mountain gate of the Celestial Mechanism Pavilion is at the foot of Yun Miao Peak, southwest of the city.” His finger paused, pressing down firmly at the western path’s end.

Then, his finger abruptly veered southeast, tracing a shorter, steeper line. “To the southeast, skirting the outer reaches of Qing Mu City, there’s a treacherous path leading directly to ‘Thunder Rage Gorge.’ Deep within the gorge lies the entrance to the outer trial grounds of the ‘Thunder Prison Sect.'”

“Thunder Prison Sect?” Xu Qing Feng frowned, the name feeling both foreign and instinctively repellent.

“A sect known for tempering their flesh with thunder arts and breeding gladiator slaves,” Xu Qing Xuan’s words were rapid-fire, his gaze as sharp as a hawk’s, sweeping over the restless lightning arcs dancing beneath his brother’s skin. “They specialize in recruiting those who possess a Thunder Spiritual Root, or vicious daredevils willing to dive into thunder pools for tempering! This runaway lightning power of yours—others see it as a death warrant. But in their eyes, it might be the key to the gate!”

Xu Qing Feng’s pupils constricted. The agitated lightning within him seemed to sense something, flaring violently and sending a fresh wave of searing pain through his meridians, wrenching a muffled groan from his lips.

“The pursuers are less than five li behind us. The Blood Wolf Gang scouts, at least two, are at the early Qi Refining stage.” Xu Qing Xuan’s fingertip jabbed at a point on the dirt map behind their position, then swiftly sketched two moving arrows. “With this refugee column, we are too conspicuous, too slow—a beacon in the night! We won’t last until dawn!” He snapped his head up, his gaze piercing the thinning mist as if he could see the figures slinking through the dense woods. The black compass against his chest vibrated with increasing frenzy, a cold, bone-chilling drumbeat counting down their doom.

“Split up?” Xu Qing Feng grasped his brother’s intent instantly. He shot to his feet like a tiger with its tail on fire, ripping open his wound anew. Fresh blood instantly bloomed through the medicinal poultice on his chest and dripped down. “No!” he snarled, his voice ragged with pain and fury. “You’re hurt this badly! How can I leave you? If we die, we die together! If we live, we live together!” His eyes were bloodshot, his chest heaving. The lightning within him went haywire, uncontrolled arcs crackling across his skin, making the charred, web-like patterns starkly visible. A feral, violent aura radiated from him.

“Foolish words!” Xu Qing Xuan’s voice cracked like an ice spear through the air. He pushed himself upright against the rock, his body wavering with weakness, yet the glacial force of his resolve pressed down like a mountain. “Die together? Then who avenges our parents? Who settles the blood debt of the Xu family?” He took a staggering step forward, his mud-caked hand shooting out to grip Xu Qing Feng’s shoulder. His fingers dug in, biting into flesh, forcing his brother’s pain-glazed eyes to refocus on his face.

“Listen!” Xu Qing Xuan’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper, each word a hammer blow on Xu Qing Feng’s heart. “My wounds are from Yin Sha energy. The Celestial Mechanism Pavilion is renowned for its alchemy and formations—they might have a way to dispel it! They care more about lineage and background. This ‘disciple of the Celestial Mechanism Pavilion’ disguise of mine—it only has a chance of holding if I reach their gates. It’s my only path to survival!”

His finger stabbed toward the vicious wound on Xu Qing Feng’s chest and the flickering lightning beneath his skin. “And you? With these wounds, this out-of-control power… Going to the Celestial Mechanism Pavilion would be walking into a trap! They’d see through you in an instant! Would they execute you as a demonic cultivator? Or would they dissect your soul to study this aberrant lightning? The Thunder Prison Sect is different! They only recognize strength. They only care if you’re vicious enough, if you can withstand the thunder’s lash! These wounds, this lightning—in their eyes, it’s the perfect proof of your worth! That is your path to survival!”

Xu Qing Xuan’s gaze was a surgeon’s scalpel, cutting through all pretense to the brutal, beating heart of the matter. “Splitting up isn’t about abandoning each other! It’s about both of us finding a way to survive! It’s about preserving a root for the Xu family! It’s about keeping alive a sliver of hope for vengeance!” He released his grip abruptly, swaying from the effort and his own weakness, yet he remained ramrod straight. In the depths of those clear eyes burned a cold, unyielding flame of finality.

Xu Qing Feng stood as if thunderstruck. Every one of his brother’s words seared into him like a red-hot brand. He looked at Xu Qing Xuan’s face, pale as parchment yet carved from granite. He felt the grim outline of the charred wound beneath his brother’s robes, then looked down at his own bleeding chest and the crackling power beneath his skin that promised both destruction and strength… A crushing wave of helplessness and a deeper, more profound resentment washed over him. He’s right… He always sees farther, thinks clearer. The cold logic was a deluge of snowmelt, extinguishing his impulsive fire, leaving only a heavy, sour dregs of despair and confusion.

“But… Brother…” His voice was parched, threaded with a tremor he didn’t even recognize. “You alone… can you make it?” He couldn’t fathom it—his grievously wounded brother, navigating the three-day journey alone, to face the enigmatic, perilous Celestial Mechanism Pavilion.

Xu Qing Xuan didn’t answer. With agonizing slowness, he withdrew from his tattered robes the small silver knife—its blade dulled by mud and long-dried blood. A gift from their father when he first began learning of herbs. In silence, he drew the last remaining leather pouch from his boot, scraping out the final, gritty dregs of medicinal paste. With meticulous care, he smeared the paste along the knife’s edge. The sharp, bitter scent of herbs cut through the cold air.

“Take it.” He extended the paste-coated knife toward Xu Qing Feng. “When your meridians burn and the lightning runs wild, drive this into the Lao Gong acupoint in your palm. The medicine might temporarily stem the backlash, protect your heart meridian, keep a shred of your mind clear.” His tone was grave, forged iron. “Remember. Do not call upon that lightning again unless death is upon you. Not unless it is the last, desperate line.”

Xu Qing Feng’s hand trembled as he accepted the cold blade. The hilt held the fading warmth of his brother’s grip and the lingering scent of herbs. He bowed his head sharply, teeth clenched, fighting the ragged sob that clawed at his throat.

Then he moved, an action that made even Xu Qing Xuan stiffen slightly. He yanked loose the thick leather belt from his own waist—the one stripped from a fallen, black-armored rider, stiff with dried mud and old blood, yet unnervingly tough. That same belt had lashed his dying brother to his back as he crawled them both out of the Corpse-Burial Woods’ gates of hell.

“Put it on!” Xu Qing Feng’s voice was a raw scrape, thick with a brute force that brooked no argument. He shoved the belt into Xu Qing Xuan’s hand, glaring at him with fierce, desperate eyes. “Tight! Don’t… don’t you dare die on the road! When I’ve planted my feet in that damned Thunder Prison Sect, I’ll find you!” He jerked his face away, his chest heaving. The telltale flicker of purple arcs beneath his skin betrayed the storm of emotion he was wrestling down.

Xu Qing Xuan’s fingers closed around the leather. It was still warm from his brother’s body, ingrained with the salt of sweat and the iron-tinge of blood. For a moment, his knuckles whitened. He said nothing. With swift, efficient motions, he threaded the belt through his outer robe, wound it tightly several times around his waist, and pulled it into a hard, unyielding knot. The tough leather bit into him, offering a strange, solid anchor. It felt like he was binding his brother’s ferocious worry and stubborn will directly to his bones.

At that precise moment, the black compass against his chest gave a violent jolt. It emitted a sound—minuscule, yet piercingly sharp. A high, thin whine. On its surface, the twisted silver runes flashed with a sudden, sickly crimson light. The needle, as if possessed, shuddered wildly side-to-side before snapping rigidly to point—North.

Xu Qing Xuan’s face froze. North? That was wrong. The pursuit was to the east, behind them. The compass… was it being interfered with? Or… His gaze, sharp as a drawn blade, sliced toward Chen Lao Jiu, who was pretending to doze not far away. The man’s eyelids twitched, watching. Chen Lao Jiu seemed startled by the faint whine, quickly bowing his head. But his fingers made an almost imperceptible movement, brushing against the ground—smearing something dark and glistening into the dirt. The faint, spark-tinged blood Xu Qing Feng had coughed up earlier.

A sliver of icy understanding crystallized in Xu Qing Xuan’s mind. Chen Lao Jiu. Of course. The lingering ‘tail.’ This compass anomaly was no accident. His decision was instantaneous.

“The pursuit is being drawn north!” Xu Qing Xuan’s voice was low but crystal clear in Xu Qing Feng’s ear. His gaze simultaneously flicked toward Old Man Zhang and the refugees. “Now.” He hesitated no longer. With the barest nod in Old Man Zhang’s direction, he signaled: West. Move the column west.

Old Man Zhang, already tense from the silent drama unfolding, saw Xu Qing Xuan fasten the blood-stained belt. He saw the wordless farewell pass between the brothers. His rheumy eyes held a complex, weary light. He understood the nod. He felt the imminent danger pressing in like the cold itself. Leveraging himself up with his walking stick, he turned to the huddled, fearful mass of refugees and barked a low, urgent command. “Up! All of you! Gather your things! Move west, now! Move!”

A ripple of anxious movement went through the group. Exhaustion and terror made them clumsy, but the primal instinct to survive was stronger. They helped each other up, shouldered their meager bundles, clutched sleeping children, and began to shuffle forward—a silent, desperate stream flowing into the grey, mist-cloaked landscape to the west.

Chen Lao Jiu melted into the moving crowd, head bowed. His eyes darted, unreadable. His fingers, curled into tight fists at his sides, seemed to clutch something unseen.

Only the two brothers remained on the desolate slope.

The wind grew colder, whipping up dry leaves in frantic, mournful spirals.

“Take care.” Xu Qing Xuan looked at his brother, uttering just two words. His voice was flat, without a ripple, yet each syllable carried the weight of a mountain. He did not linger. With a finality that brooked no looking back, he turned. His steps were unsteady, weakened, yet they fell with an unnerving, resolute solidity. Step by step, he walked toward the west, toward the direction where the refugee column had vanished into the grey. His blue-grey robe, seen from behind in the thinning dawn mist, resembled a lone, austere pine on a wind-scoured peak—frail, yet unyieldingly straight, piercing into the unknown path ahead.

“Brother!” Xu Qing Feng watched that back, on the verge of being swallowed by the fog. From his throat erupted a roar, suppressed to its breaking point—the wounded howl of a lone wolf. He drove his fist, fueled by a tempest of grief and fury, into the cold rock beside him.

THUD!

Stone shards flew. Crimson droplets of blood, mingled with flecks of fine, crackling blue-purple lightning-fire, burst forth in the pallid dawn light like some macabre, despairing blossom. Agony lanced through his knuckles, but it was a pale ghost compared to the rending ache in his chest. He stared, unblinking, at the direction where his brother had disappeared, his teeth sinking deep into his lower lip until he tasted the thick, metallic tang of his own blood. The dawn light was meager, but to the east, without warning, vast swathes of leaden thunderclouds had gathered. A low, ominous rumble of thunder stirred deep within them, as if answering the violent, restless power churning in his own veins.

Slowly, he withdrew his bloody, mangled fist. He looked down at the purple lightning-fire still dancing between his fingers—now threaded with faint, inky tendrils of something sinister. In his eyes, the chaos—the confusion, the resentment, the rage—began to settle, to cool, hardening into the cold, merciless glint of a lone predator. He cast one last look toward the west, now empty and silent beneath the fog. Then, he pivoted sharply. Dragging his battered body, he strode forward without a backward glance, heading due south toward that treacherous, narrow path—the one that led to Thunder Rage Gorge, and to the gates of the Thunder Prison Sect.

The first stingy rays of dawn smeared themselves across the land, stretching the shadows of the two brothers as they walked away from each other—long, distorted silhouettes pulling in opposite directions. One melted into the chaotic human current of the western trade road; the other threw himself toward the jagged embrace of the southeastern mountains. A blood-stained leather belt was cinched tight around the elder brother’s slender waist. A medicine-smeared silver knife grew warm against the younger brother’s feverish palm.

The cold compass that had pointed so falsely lay silent now against Xu Qing Xuan’s chest. And in Chen Lao Jiu’s tightly clenched fist, a single drop of dark red blood, still sparkling with a dying purple ember, slowly seeped into the coarse lines of his palm.

On the barren slope, only the biting wind remained, and the stark, glaring stain upon the rock—a mingled testament of blood and the seared scar of lightning-fire—silently spoke of a cruel choice and a parting that weighed heavier than stone.

Beneath the churning thunderclouds, with every step Xu Qing Feng took, the charred, web-like patterns beneath his skin writhed like living things, hungrily drinking in the restless, thunder-charged air that now seemed to thicken around him.