Promise and Betrayal: A Mo Dao Zu Shi (the Untamed) Story

Chapter 19

Our wait ends, when, as one, the puppets rush us. More stream from Scorching Sun Palace. Many are average, but others have been changed, their skin blue and bark-like, their eyes glowing with an unnatural red flame. Those, as I parry one's blow, have the energy of the Yin Iron. An energy, I realize mid-slash, that is strikingly similar to Wei Ying's new energy. I file the information away for later, too distracted to ponder the implications.

The puppets swarm us. We are surrounded, outnumbered, and every time we cut down one, another takes its place. This will not go on for much longer--we are utterly exhausted--unless we can find a way to overcome their sheer numbers. But we have no way to strategize; we are scattered and isolated, each cultivator an island in the midst of the sea of puppets. Many of us die. Countless others are injured.

During a lull in the fighting, I exhale heavily, rolling out my shoulders and slashing my swords experimentally in an attempt to dull the ache that has built up in both my shoulders. I have never been one for endurance fighting, I think sourly. Perhaps this battle will change that.

My swords find flesh as I return to the fray. Blood sprays, splashing the front of my tunic and spattering my face. I have no time to wipe it off as a sword hurtles toward my chest with frightening speed. I dash to the side, lashing out with Promise. I find purchase, and then I twist, bringing Betrayal in for another slash. The puppet falls, a great bloody X newly engraved on its chest.

I barely manage to dodge a slash from the left, a slash from one of the blue-skinned puppets. I grit my teeth. Better now than when I am more tired later. I lunge low, Betrayal sailing through the air in my left hand. I miss, cutting only air. The puppet retaliates with a great swing of its greatsword. It comes startlingly close to burying into my chest, butI slide sideways not a moment too soon. I lunge at its arms this time, a crossed burst of attacks from both my swords.

The blue bark-like skin proves to be harder to penetrate than I would like. By the time I land a scratch, the puppet is already bringing its greatsword for another pass, and I am forced to dash back to avoid the blow. I spin to its side, slashing in an arc at its midsection. It lands, and for good measure, I thrust with my other sword. The puppet falls to a knee, its navel a ghastly hole, innards dangling out. I slash the backs of its legs so it cannot rise again, already moving on to another puppet.

I do not fight many of the blue puppets; they are not as numerous as their allies. Yet I find that as our cultivators die, the energy that brought the puppets to life infuses our dead with the will to turn on our allies. It complicates the battle significantly, forcing men to kill their friends, brothers, and clanmates.

We are nearly finished. There appears to be no end to the massive arsenal of the Wen Clan; their forces continue to suffuse the courtyard. As our number dwindles, their number grows. We will not win this fight without a miracle.

If it is a miracle we wish for, it is a miracle we get. As soon as I kill my second blue puppet, ten minutes after my first one, I hear the faint sound of a flute drift down from above. However quiet, it is unmistakable. The sound swells the longer it sustains, and soon it is loud enough for all the courtyard to hear. The puppets cease moving. We do as well, glancing up to find the source of the music.

Someone points to a column near the top of the stairs to Scorching Sun Palace. On a parapet, his flute held to his mouth, stands Wei Ying. He looks quite calm, almost arrogant, for someone standing on an enemy castle over a raging battlefield. He stops as the collective gaze of the courtyard falls on him. He waves, and from his demeanor, I would bet he is smiling. Then he returns to the music.

This one holds a different sound. It is more commanding, rather like a somber mountain looming over a village than his previous piece of haunting stillness. The piece grows in intensity, and before long, ghostly tendrils of black smoke snake from him, twisting with barely contained fervor and bloodlust. They reach for the puppets, enveloping them and forcing whatever lays in their souls out, their now-inanimate bodies left in heaps on the ground. We are left dumbstruck at the sheer ease with which he dispatched an army we have no feasible chance against, at least not in our state.