I Become Sect master In Another World-Chapter 178 — When the City Died Quietly
The Sanatan Flame Sect was alive.
Not in any loud or dramatic way—no banners snapping in urgency, no bells ringing warnings. Just… alive, the way a place becomes when people feel safe enough to exist without thinking about it.
Late afternoon sunlight slanted across the mountain terraces, warm and forgiving. It painted long shadows along the stone paths, soaking into the pale rock until it radiated heat back into bare feet and worn leather soles alike. The training grounds echoed with dull impacts—fists meeting padded posts, wooden staves clacking together—punctuated by breathy laughter and the occasional groan of someone pushed just past their comfort.
Somewhere near the lower courtyard, a kettle whistled sharply.
"For the love of—who left it again?" a voice complained, followed by hurried footsteps and a sheepish laugh.
Life continued.
Xu Ran sat on the steps near the sect courtyard, one knee raised, the other leg stretched out comfortably. Her blade rested across her thigh, angled just enough to catch the light. She drew a cloth slowly along its edge, not sharpening—just cleaning, polishing, maintaining a familiar rhythm.
Her hands moved from memory.
Her shoulders were relaxed.
She wasn't thinking about enemies. Or missions. Or danger.
Just… being.
"I should go back soon," she said suddenly.
The words slipped out casually, like she had only just noticed the thought drifting past and decided to catch it.
Cheng Fang, sprawled beside her with his arms folded behind his head, blinked. He turned his face toward her, squinting slightly against the sun.
"Back where?" he asked.
"Home," Xu Ran replied.
She didn't look at him as she said it. Her gaze stayed on the blade, on the thin line of reflected light sliding along the steel.
"Blue Stone City."
A faint smile touched her lips—small, unguarded, the kind that came from memory rather than intent.
"My mother's been worrying," she continued, her tone light but honest. "She always does. If I stay away too long, she starts imagining injuries that don't exist."
She paused, then added softly, almost as an afterthought—
"And my father told me to come back soon. Said I should at least visit her properly this time."
The cloth slowed in her hand.
Cheng Fang rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His expression shifted—not serious, not teasing yet—just attentive.
"Perfect timing," he said after a beat.
Xu Ran finally glanced at him. "Why?"
"To impress your family," he replied without hesitation, a grin already spreading across his face. "Obviously."
She stared at him.
Then snorted, shaking her head as she resumed wiping the blade. "You're impossible."
He smiled wider. "Effective."
She didn't argue that.
Nearby, Sheng Lu was sitting cross-legged on the stone, boots kicked off and tossed aside carelessly. He held a packet of dried fruit between his knees, splitting it evenly—mostly evenly—between Lu Fang and Jun Hua.
"I swear," Sheng Lu said, popping a piece into his mouth, "that old uncle selling rice buns near the east gate? Nicest man alive."
Lu Fang accepted his share, chewing thoughtfully. "Always gives extra filling."
"And pretends he doesn't," Sheng Lu added, laughing. "Acts like you didn't notice."
Lu Fang nodded, gaze drifting as if picturing it. "It's been over a week since I last went."
Jun Hua, sitting with her legs tucked neatly to one side, brightened immediately. "The embroidery shop nearby?" she asked. "The aunty there?"
Lu Fang looked at her. "Yeah."
"She makes the best stitch patterns," Jun Hua said eagerly. "I wanted to buy more thread from her. The kind that doesn't fray when you channel qi through it."
Sheng Lu leaned back on his hands, glancing between them. "We should go together next rest day."
Lu Fang grinned. "Can't go far anyway. Training schedule won't allow it."
Jun Hua nodded quickly. "Deal."
Their laughter rose easily after that—unforced, comfortable. It drifted upward through the courtyard, mingling with the sounds of training and the whisper of wind through banners overhead.
Xu Ran listened to it.
The voices. The warmth. The ease.
She finished polishing her blade and slid it back into its sheath with a soft, familiar click. For a moment, she simply sat there, letting the mountain air brush against her face, letting the sound of the sect settle around her like a living thing.
This place felt… steady.
Safe.
Above them, the banners stirred lazily. Below, footsteps crossed stone in familiar patterns. Somewhere, someone laughed too loudly and was immediately shushed.
The mountain breathed.
And for that moment—
Everyone breathed with it.
Unaware.
Blue Stone City did not breathe anymore.
Smoke clung to the streets like a second skin—thick, bitter, unmoving. It pressed into lungs, scraped throats raw, and turned every breath into an effort. What had once smelled of spices, fresh grain, and warm oil now reeked of ash, iron, and something far worse.
Burned flesh.
The sky above was no longer blue.
It was bruised—gray layered over gray, sunlight reduced to a sickly glow that struggled through drifting ash. Shadows looked wrong beneath it, stretched and distorted, as if even light had learned fear.
A shop burned.
Or rather—what remained of one.
Its signboard had fallen, split clean down the middle, characters blackened and unrecognizable. Charred beams leaned inward like broken ribs, groaning softly as fire gnawed through what little strength they had left. Sparks lifted lazily into the air, dying before they could rise far.
Inside—
Bolts of embroidered cloth lay scattered across the floor.
Once vibrant silks—crimson, jade, gold-threaded patterns meant for festivals and weddings—now torn apart, trampled, soaked until their colors bled into one another. Some had been ripped in half. Others were pinned beneath collapsed beams.
All of them were dark.
Wet.
Blood pooled between the folds, thick enough to cling, dark enough to swallow color whole.
A hand lay atop a broken table.
An old woman's hand.
It rested there gently, almost carefully placed, palm down, fingers slightly curled as if reaching for something that was no longer there. The skin was thin and wrinkled, veins standing out starkly beneath ash-smeared flesh.
Rings still circled the fingers.
Gold. Jade.
Wedding bands worn smooth by decades of work.
The wrist—
Ended.
Severed cleanly.
Blood spilled from the stump in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each drop heavy enough to be heard as it struck the floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
No one screamed inside that shop anymore.
Across the street, another storefront had been torn open.
The wooden doors lay shattered, hinges twisted, splinters embedded in the stone like shrapnel. Inside, sacks of rice had burst apart, their contents spilling outward in pale waves.
Grains covered the street.
Thousands of them.
Crushed beneath frantic footsteps, ground into paste by blood-soaked boots. The white had turned gray, then pink, then brown-red where bodies had fallen and been dragged away.
Steamed buns lay scattered among the rice.
Split open.
Flattened.
Fillings exposed—meat and vegetables mashed together with blood, steaming faintly as if still warm, as if mocking the hunger they would never satisfy.
At the gate of the shop—
An old man's upper body hung against the wall.
Nailed there.
Metal spikes pierced through shoulders and ribs, pinning him upright like a grotesque display. His lower half was gone—ripped away violently enough that bone jutted jagged from torn flesh.
His torso twisted unnaturally, spine bent in a way no living body should ever bend.
His head lolled to one side.
Eyes wide.
Unblinking.
Staring at nothing.
His mouth was open—not fully screaming, not fully silent.
Caught forever between.
The wall behind him cracked.
Stone gave way with a brittle crunch.
The nails tore free.
His body slid.
Slowly.
Leaving thick, dark streaks behind as gravity finally reclaimed what violence had left suspended.
He hit the ground with a wet, hollow sound.
Blood spread outward, creeping into the rice, soaking buns, seeping into cracks between stones that had once been scrubbed clean every morning.
And then—
The screaming surged.
Not one scream.
Hundreds.
High-pitched shrieks cut short. Ragged wails that broke into choking sobs. Voices screaming names that would never answer.
People ran.
Tripped.
Fell.
Some didn't get back up.
Footsteps pounded through smoke so thick figures appeared and vanished like ghosts. A man stumbled out of an alley clutching his side, fingers slick with blood, eyes wild. He made it three steps before something slammed into him from the smoke.
He disappeared.
The sound that followed was not a scream.
It was chewing.
Somewhere nearby, something roared—not an animal's roar, not human.
Something twisted.
Something wrong.
Firelight flickered across shattered windows, revealing shadows that moved too fast, bent at the wrong angles, ran with limbs that did not respect bone or pain.
The city screamed.
And the smoke swallowed the sound without mercy.
Blue Stone City was still standing.
Its walls still rose.
Its streets still existed.
But its breath—
Had stopped.
The woman stumbled through the smoke.
Not ran.
Stumbled.
Ash clung to her hair and lashes, turning tears into gray tracks down her cheeks. Her lungs burned with every breath, each inhale scraping raw against her throat, but she did not stop. She could not.
Her arms were locked tight around her son.
Ten years old—too light, too quiet, his face pressed against her chest as if he could disappear into her ribs. His fingers were tangled in her clothes, knuckles white, holding on with the strength of fear that did not yet know how to let go.
"Don't look," she whispered hoarsely, though she didn't know if he could hear her over the screaming, the crackling fires, the distant wet sounds that made her stomach twist. "Just… just hold on."
Her steps were uneven.
She slipped once—caught herself against a wall slick with soot and something darker. Her palm came away red. She didn't look at it.
Ahead—
A house.
Half-collapsed. One side caved in, roof sagging, doorway warped but still open.
Shelter.
Hope, thin and desperate.
She lurched toward it, legs trembling, vision swimming as smoke thickened around her. The air felt heavier here, like it didn't want to move anymore.
Then—
A sound rolled through the street.
Low.
Wet.
Wrong.
It wasn't loud.
That made it worse.
Her body reacted before her thoughts could form.
She stopped.
Turned.
Her eyes widened—not suddenly, but slowly, like her mind was refusing to accept what it sensed. Her heart slammed so hard it hurt.
She pulled her son up instinctively.
Pressed his small body between herself and the smoke.
A shield.
A useless one.
Her arms locked around him as she bent forward, spine curling, bracing for the moment that would end everything.
She waited.
For claws.
For teeth.
For the impact that would tear through her back and leave nothing behind.
Seconds stretched.
One.
Two.
Her breath came out in a broken sob.
Nothing happened.
Then—
A voice.
Rough.
Human.
"Are you alright?"
She flinched so hard her knees nearly gave out.
Her head turned slowly, fear dragging her gaze sideways through the smoke.
A man stood there.
Tall.
Broad.
His armor was ruined—plates cracked, straps torn, pieces hanging loose or missing entirely. Blood drenched him from shoulder to waist, dark and sticky, dripping steadily from cuts that ran deep across his arms and torso.
One shoulder sat lower than the other.
Dislocated.
His breathing was heavy but controlled, each inhale measured through pain.
In his hand—
A child.
A small boy.
Limply held, head lolling back, face streaked with blood that wasn't his own. His eyes were closed. His chest still rose and fell, shallow but steady.
Alive.
[ It's the same child whose mother's head destroyed in previous Chapter.]
Her vision blurred.
"I only managed to save him," the man said. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw by smoke and shouting, but it did not shake. "I was too late for the rest."
He looked at her then—really looked.
At the way she held her son. At the terror in her eyes. At the way her body trembled even as she stood her ground.
"Can you take care of him?" he asked quietly. "Just for now."
For a heartbeat, she couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Her mind screamed that she couldn't take another life into her arms—that she was already barely standing, already breaking.
But her hands moved anyway.
She nodded.
Hard.
"Yes—yes—of course," she choked out. "I—I will."
She reached for the boy.
Her arms closed around him and her own child together, the weight nearly pulling her down. She gasped, adjusted her grip, pressed both children tight against her chest.
Warm.
Alive.
She didn't thank the man.
She didn't look back.
She turned and ran.
Bare feet slapped against stone as she fled into the house, vanishing into shadow, into whatever fragile hiding place remained.
The man watched her go.
Only once they disappeared did his shoulders sag—just a fraction.
Then he straightened.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The City Lord of Blue Stone City stood alone in the street.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of the giant sword.
Blood dripped from his wounds, splashing against stone already soaked red.
He inhaled.
Deep.
The air seemed to resist him.
Then—
Gray aura erupted.
It burst outward like a storm that had been caged too long—violent, dense, roaring as it wrapped around his body. Dust and ash were blown back, fires flickering violently as pressure crushed outward.
The ground beneath his feet cracked.
His eyes burned.
"You filthy creatures!" he roared, voice tearing through smoke and ruin. "Whatever you are—"
He lifted his sword.
Gray light wrapped around the blade.
"I will end you."
And somewhere in the smoke—
Something answered.
Dust exploded outward.
Not a cloud—
a blast.
Broken stone, ash, and splintered wood were hurled into the street as shapes pushed through the smoke.
One step.
Then another.
They emerged one by one.
Humans.
And not.
Their silhouettes were wrong before the details even settled.
Arms hung too long, fingertips brushing knees when they walked. Legs bent with an extra hitch in the joint, knees angling backward just enough to make the eye flinch. Spines curved unnaturally, shoulders rolling forward like predators that had forgotten how to stand straight.
Skin clung too tightly to muscle—pale, stretched, threaded with thick purple veins that pulsed faintly beneath the surface. Some had patches where the flesh had split and healed wrong, jagged seams running across ribs and necks.
Their mouths hung open.
Not slack.
Anticipating.
Eyes burned from within—
not empty.
not mindless.
Aware.
Hungry.
Thinking.
The City Lord moved.
Steel sang.
His blade carved a wide arc through the street, yellow spiritual energy tearing forward like a scythe made of light. The stone beneath it shattered, tiles exploding upward as the slash struck home.
Three of them were caught.
One arm spun away, fingers still curling reflexively as it hit the ground.
A leg tore free at the hip, tumbling end over end before slamming into a wall.
A torso split open down the center—ribs peeling apart, organs exposed in a wet, glistening mess.
They screamed.
High.
Raw.
Broken.
And they did not stop.
The City Lord surged forward, boots crushing debris as he closed the distance. His sword rose and fell with brutal efficiency—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
He cleaved straight through one creature's shoulder.
Bone snapped.
The blade bit deep, nearly splitting it in two.
The thing laughed.
Blood sprayed across the City Lord's face—hot, sticky—as claws raked across his side. Nails too long, too thick, too hard tore through armor and flesh alike, opening him from ribs to hip.
Pain flared white.
"They don't care…" he breathed through clenched teeth.
More poured in.
Not charging blindly.
Encircling.
Dozens of them moved with jerking coordination, feet scraping, bodies weaving around one another with animal instinct sharpened by thought.
One lunged.
The City Lord hacked downward, severing its hand clean off.
The creature didn't slow.
Its remaining arm swung immediately—
a jagged backhand slash.
The blow landed across the City Lord's chest, tearing flesh, snapping him sideways with the force of it.
Teeth flashed everywhere.
Too many.
Wide.
Thick.
Filed into points by something that had once been human hands.
They piled onto him.
Bodies slammed into his back. Onto his shoulders. Around his legs.
He disappeared beneath them.
A mound of twisting limbs and pale flesh formed, clawing and biting, a living heap of blood and movement.
The City Lord roared.
Gray aura detonated.
The explosion ripped outward like a storm breaking free. Bodies were hurled in all directions—some smashing into walls hard enough to leave stains behind, others collapsing in boneless heaps across the street.
The mound collapsed.
For half a breath—
Silence.
Then—
Heavy footsteps.
One shape remained standing.
Bulky.
Massive.
Its shoulders were broad beyond proportion, muscles swelling beneath torn skin. Veins throbbed visibly across its arms and neck. In its hands, it hefted a hammer the size of a cart axle—head dented, slick with old blood.
Its grin split wider than it should have, lips torn at the corners.
"City Lord," it rasped.
Its voice gurgled, wet and pleased.
"You can't defeat us."
The hammer moved.
Not fast.
Certain.
It crashed into the City Lord's face.
Impact.
Stone exploded behind him as his body was launched backward, smashing into the wall hard enough to crater it. Dust and rubble rained down as he slid, boots scraping uselessly against broken stone.
He staggered.
Forced himself upright.
Blood poured from his mouth, dripping down his chin, splashing onto the ground at his feet.
The hammer lifted again.
Around them—
The others rose.
Laughing.
Breathing hard.
Closing in.
They rushed him again.
Not together.
Not in formation.
They came like animals that had learned how to hunt as a group—some low, some leaping, some circling wide with broken weapons raised.
The City Lord stepped into them.
His sword flashed.
One clean arc.
The creature in front of him split from shoulder to hip. Flesh tore apart with a wet sound, ribs snapping as the blade passed through.
Its lower half collapsed immediately.
Its upper body didn't.
Momentum carried it forward.
The torso spun through the air—arms flailing, mouth stretched wide in something that might have been laughter—
—and smashed its skull straight into the City Lord's face.
Bone cracked.
Blood burst across the air.
The impact knocked him backward a step, vision flashing white as the thing's ruined body slid down his chest and fell at his feet.
Hands grabbed him.
From behind.
From the sides.
Fingers dug into armor seams. Nails bit deep into muscle. Teeth snapped inches from his throat.
They dragged him.
Stone scraped under his boots as he fought, sword hacking blindly, carving chunks of flesh away—but there were too many bodies, too much weight.
They hauled him backward.
Into a broken house.
The doorframe shattered as they slammed him through it, stone and wood exploding inward. The roof sagged. Walls cracked.
Inside—
Darkness.
Dust.
And screaming.
Long.
Agonized.
Human.
The sound tore out of his chest again and again, echoing against the collapsing walls, rising in pitch, then breaking, then rising again as blows landed and teeth tore and claws ripped.
Outside—
The soldiers stood frozen.
Not in formation.
Not as an army.
As men.
Faces drained of all color, lips parted, breaths shallow and uneven. Their eyes were locked on the ruined house—the collapsed doorway, the cracked walls, the blackened interior where the screams poured out.
The screams went on.
But the city understood—it was alone.
To Be Continued.....
