306 Return of Tao Long

306 Return of Tao Long

[POV: Tao Long]

A gigantic dragon with scales like polished sapphires tore across the skies, dragging storms in his wake. Thunder rolled, lightning arced, and rain threatened to fall, but with a single willful thought, the beast folded the storm back into his body. The serpentine figure contracted, coiling upon itself until only a man stood where a dragon had been.

Tao Long, the Divine Flood Dragon, stepped through the air as if it were solid ground. His azure robes flickered with threads of electricity that danced harmlessly across his frame, subdued by his command. He descended toward the mountain below, where an old temple clung stubbornly to the stone slope.

He landed lightly before the temple’s massive gates as he announced his presence.

“I am Tao Long, friend of the Virtuous King! Let me meet him at once!”

Only silence answered him.

Tao Long frowned. This temple, a Buddhist sanctuary, had once been lively, filled with chants and the sound of bells, its disciples eager to uphold their master’s teachings. Now, no formations guarded the gate. No monks appeared. The stillness was wrong.

He pushed the gates open.

An empty courtyard greeted him. Dead leaves danced in the idle wind, and where once incense smoke curled toward the heavens, only dust now lingered. Tao Long’s sharp Qi Sense spread across the temple grounds. His heart sank.

There was no one here.

No one, save for a faint, flickering life buried deeper within.

The Animal Soul dwelling inside him, the guardian beast of the Great Guard, leapt forth without waiting for command. A golden-furred dog materialized in a blur of light, its paws touching the stone as it sprinted toward the temple’s inner sanctum.

“Where are you going?” Tao Long called, striding after it.

The path led him to the temple’s heart, where an immense statue of a kindly Buddha sat cross-legged, palms open in eternal benevolence. But benevolence had been desecrated. The statue was smeared with dark, dried blood.

Beneath the figure sat a man.

A bald old monk, body shriveled, goatee white and thin, lips dry and cracked. His hands rested limp on his knees. His breathing was faint, like the last flicker of a dying flame.

The golden dog whimpered, crouching low beside him, its fur glowing as it poured healing energy into the man’s form. But the light washed over him without effect. His cultivation was… gone.

Tao Long’s voice trembled. “Virtuous King Yao Yahui… what happened to you? Where did your cultivation go?”

The old man shuddered. His head lifted weakly, eyes blurry and near blind. Yet when they found Tao Long, they widened slightly.

“…Tao Long? Is that you?”

The virtuous youth Tao Long once remembered with bright eyes, unwavering principles, and a presence like the sun, was nowhere to be found. All that remained was this fragile husk.

Tao Long lowered himself to his knees, his voice heavy with grief. “It is indeed me. Tao Long, the Divine Flood Dragon, your old friend.”

Yao Yahui’s lips cracked into a faint smile, but it quickly fell into despair. His words came as little more than a whisper.

“…You are too late.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Tao Long, the thunder behind his words trembling with contained storm. “Too late? I am here, now… That has to make the difference, doesn’t it?”

The dog whimpered and ran a short, frantic circle, pressing its muzzle against Tao Long’s leg as if trying to tell him something.

Yao Yahui scoffed. “Yes, it makes all the difference, but does it really matter?”

Tao Long’s patience snapped like a weathered rope. He raised his voice. “Explain! Tell me what happened here!”

For a long breath the old monk stared at him, then the spark in his eyes flared with fury.

“They came, that’s what happened,” he said, each word like flint. “They slaughtered everyone. I tried to call for Master Shouquan, the Ward… I called and called—” His breathing hitched. “No one answered. No one came.”

Tao Long felt a coldness spread through him. His hand hovered, wanting to reach for the old man but not yet finding the words. “Who did it? We’ll make them pay…”

The dog stiffened, then began to bark, not out of fear, but in angry warning, its fur bristling as it faced the monk.

Yao Yahui’s voice dropped to a bitter hiss. “Who else? The Heavenly Temple. Someone within Ward betrayed us. They have a list, every name written cleanly. They came, one by one! Where were you? Where were you while we were butchered, Tao Long?” Rage, grief, and accusation tangled in the old man's words.

As he strained to stand, Tao Long at last saw the wound. A ragged opening marked the monk’s chest, a hole large enough to fit a hand through. Tao Long’s breath stuttered. “What did they do to you? Your… chest—”

Yao Yahui met his stare with a smile that was not a smile. “This?” he answered, voice thin and terrible. “I did it to myself.” He pressed a trembling hand over the place where his heart had been, as if feeling for a beat that would not come. “I tore it free and offered it to the void. I consumed what was left of it and cursed the heavens until my mouth bled prayers. It was the only way I could speak to you without dying. They took my cultivation, my everything! There was no other path.”

“But you’ll be damned!”

“Yes, I bound myself,” Yao continued, words slurred by pain and purpose. “Now I cannot pass. I am tied to this temple. It keeps me from leaving, but it also keeps me breathing, of a sort. If you free me, if you break the bonds, I can go beyond this shrine. You will help me, won’t you, old friend? You must help me leave this place.”

Tao Long’s throat tightened. Memory uncoiled from bright days of debates with Yao Yahui, pavilion tea, and earnest doctrine, the young virtuous boy who had once embodied quiet radiance. That boy had been a light among mortals; shards remained, but were dimmed now.

Still, something in the cadence of the monk’s plea did not settle right. The words bore an undertow, a taste of something black and cunning. Tao Long felt it in the hairs on his arms: the residue of malice masked as a plea.

He rose then, the dragon’s power humming beneath the façade of a man. Blue lightning danced along his robes as he kept his voice soft but decisive. “What was it the Heavenly Temple did? Who bound you so? Speak the truth plainly.”

Yao Yahui’s eyes gleamed, and in them Tao Long saw not the pleading pupil he had once known but a hard, hollow thing that leaned toward hunger. “They cut the root of me,” the old man said, “and I… so I cut the root of myself. I swallowed it and made a new root in the dark. Now I am here, and I will make sure none of us remains to be used. They will come for our people, Tao Long. They have lists. They have names.”

The dog growled, hackles raised, its fur bristling with arcs of electricity. Tao Long’s expression darkened as his gaze locked onto the shriveled figure before the Buddha statue.

“That’s not all, is it?” His voice carried both storm and sorrow. “Tell me, Yao Yahui. Tell me everything.”

The old monk’s head twitched, his hollow eyes wavering with madness. His cracked lips parted, trembling with words caught between hesitation and conviction. “The one who betrayed us… the one who betrayed Ward… I think I knew who it was…” His breath faltered. “But… I… I am not sure. I might be mistaken. I could be mistaken…”

Tao Long softened his tone, folding the storm back for a heartbeat. “It’s fine. Tell me anyway.”

A shadow crossed Yao Yahui’s face. His voice came out in a rasp that felt heavier than thunder. “I think Master Shouquan is done with Ward. I think… he has chosen to abandon us.”

Tao Long felt his heart wrench, as if a blade had been driven deep. The name echoed in his chest, striking against the bedrock of faith. Shouquanm the Ward, and the one who guided them, who stood as their pillar. To abandon them? His rational mind screamed that it was conjecture, a delirium brought forth by grief and corruption. Yet the emotional part of him wanted to roar, to break the mountain itself in denial.

He closed his eyes briefly, breathing in the storm. “We don’t know the whole picture. Don’t be blinded. Don’t.”

The golden dog whimpered beside him, the voice of his Animal Soul flowing directly into his mind, gentle and sorrowful. “Some things must be let go, Tao Long. Not all storms can be chased. Not all skies can be cleared.”

His hand rose slowly, fingers curling into a mudra. Lightning leapt between his fingertips, fierce and azure, humming with divine judgment.

Yao Yahui’s head jerked up, eyes narrowing in sudden clarity. “What is the meaning of this?” His voice cracked, malice lacing the air.

The golden dog dissolved in a shimmer of light, its form sinking back into Tao Long’s chest, fusing once more with his spirit.

Yao Yahui’s form trembled. His ghostly shell was filled with bitterness and madness, but it was fragile. As an evil spirit clinging only to a Fourth Realm foundation, stripped of the cultivation he once possessed, he could not withstand what was coming. For a flicker of a moment, the insanity bled from his eyes, replaced by sorrow and a faint smile that was almost the Yao Yahui Tao Long remembered.

“Thank you… old friend.”

Tao Long clenched his jaw. “Be at peace.”

Lightning exploded from his raised hand, spiraling into sacred sigils. The exorcism spell of his Animal Soul layered over his thunder, the two forces intertwining into a brilliant storm of purification.

In the echo of the spell, Tao Long heard a familiar, soothing voice ripple across his mind, the echo of Da Wei, the spirit within the Animal Soul. “Let me do it in your place. It will be easier for you if I bear this burden.”

But Tao Long’s eyes flashed, fierce and resolute. “No. He was my friend. This is mine to bear.”

With a final surge, Tao Long unleashed the storm. The exorcism wrapped Yao Yahui’s spirit in blinding light, lightning, and prayer joining as one. The temple trembled, and the hollow echo of Yao’s curse scattered into nothing.

Tao Long left the temple in silence, the air behind him heavy with the residue of thunder and grief. The dog lay quiet within his being, its voice subdued, its work done. He stepped into the open courtyard, ready to take to the sky again, only to find himself suddenly surrounded.

A half-circle of cultivators materialized from the trees and cliffs, weapons drawn. Their robes were of varying colors and styles, each probably belonging to different sects or clans, none of them matching. Their Qi was scattered, wild, not unified. A mixed force.

“You there!” one man barked, pointing a sword toward Tao Long. “Who are you?”

Another, wielding a staff, added, “What business have you in the Temple of Virtue?”

“Don’t let him get away!” a woman snarled, planting the butt of her spear against the stones.

Tao Long’s eyes swept across them. Five in total. Their cultivation methods varied: sword Qi, body refinement, elemental manipulation, even a fan-wielder with illusions threading faintly around her presence. If he judged their essence correctly, they ranged between the Fourth and Seventh Realm.

Clearly, they couldn’t gauge his cultivation at all, or else they would never have been so reckless.

Calmly, Tao Long extended one hand. With a ripple of power, a long spear appeared in his grasp, its shaft deep indigo, its blade humming faintly with stormlight. He planted it lazily on the ground, sparks licking across the stone.

“What faction do you belong to?” Tao Long asked, his tone even, curious more than hostile.

The response was immediate. It was a swell of nervous hostility.

“How about you?” spat the swordsman.

“This is suspicious,” muttered the fan-wielder, illusions flickering weakly around her fingers.

“Where are the monks?” cried the woman with the spear, her voice nearly breaking.

Tao Long’s patience thinned. He exhaled, and the storm within him surged outward.

World force, vast and unrelenting, crashed down over the five like the ocean collapsing on driftwood. His Tenth Realm cultivation pressed into them, inexorable and suffocating. Their knees buckled instantly, slammed into the stones as though mountains had fallen upon their backs.

The Seventh Realm woman with the spear, face trembling, tried to rise against the pressure. She screamed, lifting her weapon to strike.

Tao Long turned his gaze upon her.

Lightning sparked faintly in his pupils.

She collapsed without another sound, body falling face-first onto the courtyard stones.

The others gasped, fear replacing their bravado.

“Let them go!” boomed a voice of authority, cutting through the thunder of Tao Long’s pressure. “They are my people!”

The world force within Tao Long recoiled as he turned, his eyes narrowing in surprise.

A man strode into view, his presence firm but not hostile, wearing the robes of leadership rather than the garb of battle. He was not a stranger. Recognition pierced Tao Long like a sudden bolt of lightning.

It was him, the Holy Spirit he had fought beside on Ward’s sacred mountain, the one who had stood against the tide of the Heavenly Temple at the Arch Gate.

Dave… Now, Mao Xian.

“It’s good to see you’ve returned to the world, Tao Long,” said Dave, voice calm but weighted with command. “Now, please let go of my adventurers.”

Tao Long stared at the cultivators who fell under his spiritual pressure.

“I think they fainted… Apologies…”