The mist closed around them like a living thing.

Once the beach's laughter and bonfires were swallowed behind a thick wall of fog, the world changed, as if the very air had been steeped in memory. The sand turned to a path of compacted earth, ringed by skeletal trunks whose branches clawed at the sky like blackened hands. Fallen stone markers jutted from the ground. Every step the group took was swallowed by silence, save for the soft crunch of leaf-litter and the distant creak of timber.

Shaurya walked at the head. His expression was steady, eyes scanning the fog and the uncanny geometry of the graveyard-forest with a leader's precise calm. Behind him, the Sanatan Flame Sect formed an ordered tide: elders in poised ranks, disciples aligned by training and trust. The Moonlight Pavilion followed, their movements hesitant—like people who had wandered into a dream that had teeth.

"Keep your senses open," Shaurya said, voice low, barely a ripple through the mist. "Who knows what will come before you."

Wang Tian and Luo Chen flanked him, fists clenched but faces easy, the kind of confidence shaped by countless drills. Single Mingle Gang moved with that lazy-light footing of men who trusted their reflexes; Lu Fang and Sheng Lu calm, confident while other top disciples Protecting weak disciples although it's not necessary. The Moonlight Pavilion disciples maintained a small distance—some with hands white on hilt, others with eyes darting between trunks.

The ground deepened into an avenue of tombstones: crooked, mossed, engraved with characters half-eaten by time. Here and there, carved petroglyphs glowed faintly—minute etchings that pulsed like tired hearts. Shaurya paused beside one such stone, pressing a gloved finger against a rune that hummed like a bell beneath skin.

"Here," he murmured. The rune responded with a cold flutter, and a vaporous script uncoiled from its surface: short lines of foreign syllables and a rough map—three marks in a triangular arrangement, the last mark beyond a river that was not water but silver glass. The map's ink dissolved as quickly as it formed, leaving only the impression of a direction.

"Clue," Elder Wan said beside him. His tone was soft but thrilled—the alchemist's delight at a mystery revealed. "A test, or a ward. Either way, someone put effort into hiding something."

Shaurya nodded. "The treasure is close. Treasures like that are not left ungarrisoned." He looked up into the mist as if listening for a reply. "Spread out five steps and sweep in columns. No one charges alone. We take the path slow."

The Sanatan Flame disciples split into methodical sweeps. Their formations moved like measured currents, every glance exchanged a signal, every footfall a covenant. Where their discipline went, the Moonlight Pavilion followed—guarded, mirroring movements until their nerves steadied.

At first, the forest offered only uneasy reminders—moist air, the smell of old incense, the occasional flutter of a moth that seemed to materialize out of the fog only to vanish into nothing. But then the path narrowed and the moss thickened like a carpet over bone.

A sound cut the hush: a low, metallic clink, distant but certain. Someone behind them breathed sharp. Yan Chen's head snapped toward the noise; his hands tightened on his sword hilt.

"Sound from the west," he whispered.

Shaurya's eyes moved like a hawk's. They step towards there.The deeper they went, the denser the mist became — until even the faint outlines of the forest seemed swallowed by a silvery void. The air had changed; the scent of salt and sea was gone, replaced by something stale, metallic… ancient.

Shaurya walked at the front, hands casually tucked into his pockets, his confident steps echoing softly over the cracked earth. Behind him, the disciples of the Sanatan Flame Sect moved in perfect rhythm — silent, alert, unwavering. The faint glint of their armor and weapons flickered like small stars in the fog.

The Moonlight Pavilion followed behind, their pace slower, eyes sharp. Every shifting shadow felt like it carried a memory, every whisper of wind like a sigh from something unseen.

And then — the mist lifted slightly.

Before them stretched a massive clearing that ran for miles. The earth opened into a wide, flat plain — and scattered across it were hundreds upon hundreds of purple gravestones, each cracked and weathered by time, half-buried in ash-colored soil.

A graveyard.

The stillness was suffocating. Even the air felt thick — heavy with age and regret. The faint sound of dripping moisture echoed, though there was no water in sight.

Moonlight Pavilion disciples instinctively drew their weapons. Their expressions hardened; tension glimmered in their eyes.

The Sanatan Flame Sect disciples, in contrast, raised their guards with steady excitement — their grips firm, their movements disciplined, faces alight with the spark of anticipation.

Shaurya tilted his head, surveying the scene with an amused smirk.

"Huh? Is this some kind of graveyard? But who the hell built a graveyard inside a secret realm?"

He turned his head in confusion, brows furrowed slightly.

"Do people live in secret realms?"

Elder Liya stepped forward, folding her hands. Her tone was patient, informative.

"Technically, those who enter the secret realm can decide if they want to get out or not."

Shaurya raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Wow… People and their fetishes."

He chuckled lightly and stepped forward again — his boots pressing into soil that crumbled like dry bone.

Suddenly, the ground trembled.

A faint sound rippled through the air — like a groan from the earth itself. The disciples stiffened instantly, formation tightening in reflex. Lin Shu's gaze sharpened, her aura flaring faintly around her.

"Shaurya," she called, her voice calm but tense. "Something is not right. Step back."

Shaurya's lips curved in his usual fearless smile.

"Don't worry. I can handle whatever it is."

He cracked his knuckles casually — that trademark gesture of confidence that somehow steadied everyone else.

Then, without warning, a low violet mist began to rise from the ground ahead. It seeped out from between the gravestones, curling around their feet like ghostly smoke.

The temperature dropped instantly.

The mist thickened, swirling around them as a strong demonic aura unfurled across the clearing. It was thick, suffocating — like standing inside a breathing shadow.

Shaurya's expression hardened. His instincts screamed.

He turned sharply and shouted, "Everyone, get yourselves ready!"

The earth shuddered again, stronger this time. Purple gravestones began to glow, runic lines pulsing like veins of light beneath the soil. Then — cracks split open around them.

Slowly… from beneath the stones… hands began to emerge.

Decomposed. Twisted. Some still wearing the rusted remains of armor.

Shaurya's eyes widened slightly.

From those cracked graves, dead cultivators began to crawl out — their bodies ruined, skin pale and torn, eyes hollow and lifeless. They groaned in strange, guttural voices — animal-like sounds that echoed across the clearing.

Some had no arms. Others dragged themselves forward on one leg. A few had faces half gone, jaws dangling loose.

Everyone froze.

For a moment, not a soul moved — the silence torn only by the crunch of skeletal limbs dragging across the ground.

Weapons were drawn in unison. Spiritual energy surged into the air like heat before a storm.

Shaurya took one step back, rubbing his neck with an awkward smile as he stared at the grotesque scene before him.

"Wait… Are they… Are they zombies?"

Elder Hua, utterly confused, blinked at him.

"Zombies? What is this, Master?"

Shaurya tilted his head incredulously.

"Huh? You don't know zombies?"

He looked around; everyone shook their heads, equally baffled.

Shaurya sighed, rolling his shoulders.

"Zombies are… well, you can say they're mindless beings. A frightening creature that is a dead person brought back to life — but without human qualities."

The disciples listened intently, some wide-eyed, others whispering to each other.

They nodded slowly in understanding.

Wang Tian grinned, a sharp, eager light in his eyes. He stepped forward, sword in hand.

"Zombies, huh? Let's see what they're capable of."

Luo Chen cracked his knuckles beside him, his grin equally fierce.

"I'd love to beat something that has no brain or thinking."

They stepped forward in perfect sync, confidence radiating from every motion.

The Sanatan Flame Sect disciples cheered loudly, the excitement contagious.

Shaurya sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with mock exasperation.

"Don't take them too lightly. Aim for their heads. It'll kill them… probably."

The air rippled again. The faint humming sound deepened into a violent resonance.

The dead cultivators responded to the sound — their heads snapping toward Wang Tian and Luo Chen in eerie unison.

Then they screamed, their broken voices tearing through the silence, and charged forward with terrifying speed.

Shaurya blinked, momentarily surprised.

"Huh. Running zombies? This could be one of the worst nightmares for normal humans. Thanks, Narayan… I'm not normal."

He smirked.

Meanwhile, Wang Tian and Luo Chen exchanged confident glances.

"Let's do this, partner," Luo Chen said, his tone steady but fierce.

"Of course," Wang Tian replied, smiling.

They raised their fists and bumped knuckles — a ritual before battle — before drawing their swords from their backs.

Then, they rushed forward.

Two streaks of light — one violet, one blue — darted into the crowd of undead like blades through silk. Their swords sang as they cut through the air, each swing a flash of deadly elegance.

They struck with precision — every blow aimed at the neck, every motion fluid and controlled. Severed heads rolled, black ichor staining the cracked ground.

Their laughter echoed through the chaos — sharp, wild, and full of life.

For a heartbeat, the undead seemed like mere playthings before their storm.

Wang Tian ducked under a swipe, spinning low, his sword cleaving through two corpses in a single motion. Luo Chen flipped backward, using the momentum to sever another three with a single arcing strike.

Their movements blurred together — sidestepping, leaping, flipping, slicing — their blades a dance of death amidst the stench of decay.

Even the air seemed to hum in rhythm with their fight.

From the sidelines, Yan Chen stared in awe. His knuckles whitened around his weapon, admiration burning in his eyes.

The Moonlight Pavilion disciples could only watch, stunned — fear slowly giving way to amazement.

The undead closed in from all sides, encircling Wang Tian and Luo Chen. Their bodies collided back-to-back, surrounded by an ocean of groaning corpses.

But instead of fear, both warriors grinned.

The dead surged, leaping onto them in a wave of pale limbs — swallowing the two in a writhing mountain of bodies.

Gasps erupted from the Moonlight Pavilion side. Meng Liyu's heart clenched, her eyes wide with dread.

But then she turned — and froze.

Shaurya stood with his arms folded, smiling. Not a single flicker of worry in his eyes. Around him, every disciple of the Sanatan Flame Sect wore the same expression — calm, certain, confident.

Her confusion deepened.

Then — a boom.

Light burst from the pile of corpses. Purple and blue flares erupted between gaps in the writhing horde.

"Wha—" one of the Moonlight Pavilion disciples began, but his words were drowned by a roar of energy.

The next moment — a shockwave exploded outward.

The corpses were blown away like dry leaves in a storm. Dust and black blood scattered through the air.

Wang Tian's violet aura burned like wildfire, while Luo Chen's blue light intertwined with it, swirling together into a spinning vortex of energy.

They stood back-to-back — both in perfect T-poses, their auras spiraling upward.

Then, as if answering each other's rhythm, they spun.

Their swords cut through the air simultaneously. Purple and blue lights merged into a tornado that expanded outward, tearing through the horde. The undead were lifted into the air, twisted apart by the spinning force.

When the light finally faded, the graveyard was silent again.

Black blood rained down in fine droplets, hissing faintly where it touched the soil.

Wang Tian and Luo Chen stood side by side — calm, unshaken, their swords now sheathed with a soft clank.

Both wore proud smiles.

Shaurya began clapping slowly, the sound echoing in the stillness.

"As expected of my strongest disciples."

The two grinned, puffing out their chests with pride, laughter ringing through the graveyard.

And in that moment — amid broken gravestones and fading mist — the flame of the Sanatan Sect burned brighter than ever.

To be continued…

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