I Become Sect master In Another World-Chapter 176 — When Peace Learned to Lie
The gravitational chamber did not shake anymore.
That was the first sign.
Eighty times gravity pressed down upon the stone floor—an invisible mountain meant to crush bone into powder, tear muscle from tendon, and grind will into nothing.
Yet—
The chamber was silent.
No tremor ran through the formation lines etched into the floor.
No cracks crept across the stone.
No scream echoed against the walls.
Lin Shu floated.
Not because she resisted.
Not because she struggled.
She hovered a hand's breadth above the ground, body upright, legs crossed, spine straight as a drawn blade. Her hair drifted slowly around her head, strands suspended as if underwater, unmoved by the crushing force bearing down from every direction.
Eighty times gravity.
And it no longer mattered.
Her skin glowed faintly—subtle, restrained—layers of immortal physique awakening not in explosive surges, but in relentless cycles. Flesh reinforced bone. Bone tempered marrow. Meridians thickened, smoothed, expanded, then compressed again.
Every heartbeat pushed her existence inward.
Every breath refined her further.
Pain still existed.
She felt it.
But it no longer decided anything.
Before her, shattered spirit stones rotated in a slow spiral—ten thousand at a time. They did not burst apart dramatically. They eroded, dissolved into streams of raw spiritual energy that poured toward her like a tide meant to drown anyone weaker.
Her body absorbed it.
Not greedily.
Not desperately.
Methodically.
Her spiritual core no longer expanded outward like a flame seeking space.
It condensed.
Layer after layer folded inward, pressure stacking upon pressure, density increasing until even her aura felt heavy—anchored, disciplined, unyielding.
Inside her, a Nirvana Pill dissolved completely.
Not erupting.
Not exploding.
Refined.
Its fire flowed through her meridians like molten gold, sealing fractures so small they had never been noticed before, tempering her flesh until even the idea of collapse felt distant—irrelevant.
Her breathing was steady.
Her mind—
Focused.
And yet—
Fear remained.
Not fear of death.
Not fear of failure.
But something quieter.
Heavier.
Distance.
The image came without warning.
Shaurya's back.
Broad.
Unyielding.
Always ahead of her.
She saw him standing alone on shattered ground, dust and blood swirling around him as reality itself bent under the weight of his presence. Enemies circled—terrifying, overwhelming—and he stood there anyway, hands loose, posture relaxed.
She remembered screaming his name.
Not once.
Many times.
And him turning back—
Smiling.
Always smiling.
Another memory surfaced, sharper.
Shaurya kneeling on one knee, blood running down his arm, soaking into the cracked earth beneath him. His breathing was ragged. His body should not have been standing at all.
Yet he laughed.
A short, careless laugh.
"That's it," he had said, wiping blood from his mouth, "that tickles."
Her chest tightened.
Another image followed.
Shaurya walking forward with wounds that should have ended him—shoulders slashed, ribs cracked, aura flickering—still smiling like the pain was nothing more than an inconvenience.
Always moving forward.
Always alone.
And her—
Behind him.
Safe.
Protected.
Useless.
Her jaw clenched.
I will not watch anymore.
The thought did not scream.
It settled.
Another wave of spirit stones shattered, their energy slamming into her like a tidal surge.
Her aura flared—
Not outward.
Inward.
Compressing. Stabilizing. Rooting itself deeper into her core.
Her immortal physique responded instantly, bones humming under pressure that would have pulverized mountains. Muscles tightened, adapted, accepted.
Her breathing did not break.
I will not be left behind.
Her consciousness sharpened.
The chamber might as well not have existed anymore.
Gravity screamed.
She did not.
Pain roared.
She did not flinch.
Her body floated higher, posture unbroken, aura spiraling inward like a star collapsing into itself.
Lin Shu did not open her eyes.
She did not speak.
She did not beg.
She endured.
And in that endurance—
Something inside her began to change.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
But permanently.
Meanwhile—outside.
Sunlight poured freely over the Sanatan Flame Sect, spilling down the mountainside in long, warm sheets. The stone paths held the heat of morning. Crimson banners stirred lazily in the breeze. Somewhere far above, clouds drifted, unbothered.
The mountain breathed.
Below the inner courtyards, the new disciples sat cross-legged in uneven rows. Their backs were straight—but not all of them steady. Some trembled faintly, brows knotted in concentration as qi threatened to scatter the moment their focus wavered.
Others had already found a rhythm, chests rising and falling in slow, measured cycles, breaths syncing with the pulse of the land itself.
They were trying.
That mattered.
Moving among them—
Or rather, hovering—
Was Elder Wan.
His feet barely brushed the stone, drifting a finger's width above the ground as if gravity itself was too tired to fully claim him. His robe hung loose on his frame, fabric swaying with every shallow breath. His face was pale—unnaturally so. Dark shadows clung beneath his eyes, cheeks sunken, lips faintly colorless.
This was not the look of cultivation.
It was the look of someone who had emptied himself dry.
In his hands rested a tray.
The last tray.
Nirvana Pills.
One by one, he knelt—slowly, carefully—and placed a pill before each disciple, movements precise despite the tremor in his fingers.
"Careful…" he murmured, voice hoarse, almost scraped raw.
"Refine slowly… don't force it…"
A shallow breath.
"If it burns too sharply—stop."
A young disciple accepted the pill with both hands, hesitating as he glanced up.
"E-Elder Wan…" the boy asked softly. "Are… are you alright?"
Elder Wan paused.
For just a heartbeat.
Then he smiled.
It was thin. Crooked. Exhausted.
"…Three days," he said faintly. "Straight. No sleep."
He took another step—
And his knees buckled.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Enough that the tray tilted.
Enough that his balance vanished.
A hand caught his arm instantly.
"Enough."
Elder Liya stood beside him, fingers gripping his sleeve firmly, irritation sharp—but threaded tightly with worry.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?" she snapped.
"I'm fine," Elder Wan muttered automatically.
She shot him a flat look.
"You're floating," she said. "That's not fine."
She turned him around without ceremony and nudged him toward the elders' quarters, her palm pressing squarely between his shoulders.
"Go," she ordered.
"Rest."
"And if you refine even one more pill, I'll knock you unconscious myself."
Elder Wan didn't argue.
He didn't even protest.
He just nodded weakly and drifted away, feet barely touching the ground, posture slumped like a spirit that had forgotten where its body ended.
As he passed—
Elder An Ning paused.
Watched him.
Then inclined his head slightly.
"…Rest well," he said quietly.
Elder Wan lifted one hand in a vague wave, already fading from the moment, and slipped into his quarters.
The door closed.
Silence settled back into the courtyard—not heavy, not tense.
Working.
Time passed.
Training resumed.
And then—
Footsteps.
Lazy.
Unhurried.
Shaurya emerged from the main hall, stretching both arms overhead until his spine cracked audibly. He yawned, blinking against the sunlight like someone who had just woken from a good nap instead of overseeing a sect.
He stopped in front of the elders.
"Hey," he said casually. "I'm heading to the capital."
Several heads lifted.
"King Tian Long called," Shaurya added, hands slipping back into his pockets. "Wants to talk about something."
No urgency.
No concern.
Just information.
Elder An Ning stepped forward.
This time, he didn't hesitate.
He bowed deeply—lower than courtesy required, posture precise, deliberate.
"Master," he said calmly, voice steady.
"I wish to enter seclusion."
Shaurya blinked.
Once.
An Ning continued before the silence could stretch.
"I have neglected my cultivation," he admitted. "For some time now."
No excuses.
No justification.
Just truth.
Shaurya studied him for a moment.
Then smiled.
Not teasing.
Not dismissive.
Understanding.
"Oh?" he said lightly. "Yeah. Makes sense."
No interrogation.
No questions.
He waved one hand casually.
"Cultivate properly," he added. "Don't rush it."
That was all.
Elder An Ning's shoulders eased almost imperceptibly.
He nodded once, deeply.
"Yes."
Then he rose into the air, robes trailing behind him as he departed toward the elders' quarters, posture straight, intent settled.
Shaurya watched him go.
Hands still in his pockets.
Expression calm.
Shaurya lifted one hand.
The motion was unhurried. Almost lazy.
"Take care of yourselves," he said, gaze drifting across the courtyard—new disciples, elders, banners fluttering in the breeze.
"And take care of the sect."
A brief pause.
"I'll be back soon."
No promises wrapped in ceremony.
Just certainty.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then—
Every elder inclined their head.
Disciples bowed deeply, instinctively, backs straight and breaths held. Even the newest among them felt it—not pressure, not command, but the quiet gravity of someone whose absence mattered.
Shaurya stepped forward.
And the ground let him go.
He rose into the air without effort, crimson robes lifting gently as if the sky itself had reached up to meet him. Higher. Steadier. The mountain fell away beneath his feet, courtyards shrinking into geometry and motion.
Wind tugged at his hair.
Sunlight caught along the edge of his silhouette.
He stopped.
Midair.
Perfectly still.
The sect watched, eyes following the lone figure suspended against open sky.
Shaurya rolled his shoulders once.
Then tilted his head to the side.
Crack.
The sound carried—sharp, casual, absurdly human.
He exhaled.
And vanished.
The air detonated.
A sonic boom ripped outward from the space he had occupied, the shockwave tearing through the sky like a ruptured drum. Dust leapt from stone paths. Banners snapped violently. Loose leaves spiraled upward in a sudden, chaotic storm.
The clouds above split for an instant—
Then snapped shut.
Shaurya was gone.
Only silence remained.
The elders stared at the empty sky for a moment longer than necessary.
Elder Wu clicked his tongue.
"…Show-off."
Then he turned away.
"We should continue," he said flatly.
Elder Yaochen folded his hands within his sleeves, expression serene.
"Yes," he agreed. "Master will be fine."
Elder Liya smiled, a soft breath of laughter escaping her.
"That was never in doubt."
The courtyard stirred.
Disciples straightened. Training formations reformed. Qi circulated once more. Voices rose—not loud, not chaotic—but alive.
Stone met foot.
Breath met breath.
Life resumed its rhythm.
Above them, the sky was clear.
And far away—
Something else was already moving.
Far below the mountain—
Blue Stone City existed.
Or at least, it pretended to.
From afar, the city looked whole.
Ancient blue-veined walls stood unbroken. Towers rose proud against the sky. Banners snapped lazily in the afternoon wind, their sigils unmarred, their colors bright.
Nothing looked wrong.
Nothing sounded wrong.
Only the air above the city shimmered faintly—
like heat rising from stone after rain.
A formation.
Perfectly woven.
A mirage.
And beneath it—
The city was dying.
Inside the formation—
The city burned.
Not all at once.
In pieces.
Smoke rolled through the streets in heavy, choking waves, thick enough to turn daylight into a dim, ashen dusk. Dust billowed from collapsed walls, mixing with soot until the air itself felt solid—something to push through, something that scraped the lungs raw with every breath.
Fire erupted from alleyways and rooftops, licking along wooden beams, racing across awnings, climbing walls as if the city itself were feeding it.
Explosions struck without warning.
Not rhythmic.
Not strategic.
Just sudden violence—stone bursting outward, shockwaves flattening anything too slow to fall.
People ran.
Some screamed.
Some didn't make a sound at all.
Blood coated the road—not splashed, not sprayed—layered. It filled the grooves between stones, smeared across shattered doors, streaked along walls where bodies had slid down and stopped.
The street was full of the dead.
Civilians tangled together where they had fallen. Guards lay twisted among them, armor cracked open, weapons useless beside unmoving hands. Some bodies were whole.
Others were not.
A body dropped from above.
A guard.
He hit the stone hard.
Too hard.
Armor split. Bone failed. Flesh tore.
The sound was wet and final.
Blood spread outward from where he landed, creeping across the street in slow, dark tendrils until it reached the feet of those still running.
A woman staggered into view.
She clutched a child against her chest, arms locked tight, fingers digging into cloth and skin alike. Her eyes were wide—too wide—white showing all around her pupils. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
She saw the bodies.
The fire.
The blood.
She turned to run.
Her foot lifted—barely an inch from the blood-slick stone.
That was all the distance she managed.
Her head detonated.
There was no blade, no impact she could comprehend—just a violent rupture, a sudden absence where her face had been. A burst of crimson erupted outward, expanding in a wet, choking cloud before gravity reclaimed it.
Blood rained down.
Thick drops splashed across the child in her arms—soaking tiny sleeves, streaking across soft skin, matting hair against a skull far too small to understand what warmth meant. Fragments struck the ground with dull taps, rolling across stone already dark with death.
Her body crumpled.
Knees folded first.
Then her torso collapsed forward, still clutching the child even as the strength left her arms. The corpse hit the road with a hollow thud and did not move again.
The baby cried.
Small lungs tearing at the air, sound breaking and reforming with every breath. Tiny hands twitched helplessly, slick with red, fingers curling around nothing as the wail cut through smoke and fire.
Then—
A shadow fell over him.
Not sudden.
Not violent.
Just there.
The crying hitched.
Blood burst outward.
Not sprayed with direction—just an eruption, splashing across the stone in thick, uneven arcs. Drops struck the road, bounced once, then spread slowly into dark pools that crept along the cracks between tiles.
The sound stopped.
No echo.
No whimper.
Only blood remained.
Warm.
Still spreading.
And the street swallowed the silence without protest.
Inside a half-collapsed house—
A mother crouched behind a shattered wall,
stone dust coating her hair and face. She pressed herself into the corner, arms wrapped around her son so tightly her fingers dug into his back.
Her body shook uncontrollably.
She couldn't stop it.
Her breath came in jagged fragments—too loud—so she forced her mouth shut, biting down until she tasted iron.
The boy trembled against her.
His hands fisted in her clothes.
"Mom…" he whispered, voice cracking, barely audible over the distant screams.
"…are we going to die?"
Her arms tightened.
Too tight.
"No," she whispered instantly, the word breaking as it left her throat. "No—no, don't say that."
Tears streamed down her face, dripping onto his hair.
"The City Lord will save us," she said desperately, as if saying it enough times might make it real.
"He will. He always does."
A thunderous impact shook the building.
Dust rained down.
Someone screamed outside.
Close.
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"And if he doesn't," she said, pressing her lips to her son's head, shaking violently,
"your mother will."
The boy buried his face into her chest.
She covered his ears with both hands.
Her palms trembled.
The screams grew louder.
Closer.
Firelight flickered through cracks in the wall.
The city burned.
Above it all—
The mirage formation shimmered softly, serene and flawless, reflecting blue sky and drifting clouds.
To the outside world—
Blue Stone City was peaceful.
And beneath that lie—
It was being erased.
Far away—
The Sanatan Flame Sect lived.
Steel rang against steel in training yards. Footsteps thudded in steady rhythm. Laughter rose, brief and unguarded, between sparring matches and shouted corrections. Breath flowed in measured cycles—inhale, exhale—qi settling, bodies growing stronger with each passing moment.
Life moved forward.
Unbroken.
Unquestioned.
Saffron banners stirred lazily in the mountain wind. Sunlight spilled across stone courtyards, warm and forgiving. Disciples trained. Elders instructed. The sect breathed as one—stable, grounded, alive.
And none of them knew.
None of them felt it.
That beyond the mountain— beyond the clouds— beyond the illusion of peace—
Something had already torn open.
While they refined strength, while they laughed, while they planned for tomorrow—
The world had begun to bleed.
Quietly.
Irreversibly.
To Be Continued…
