Hao hadn’t seen the Sect in such a mess since the day he became a disciple. Not even the departure and arrival of the flying boat for the Secret Realm were so chaotic.

  It was a little worrying that so many people found the words of the Elders so valuable. The First Elder would speak. Far too many would listen.

  Of course, disciples would listen to their Elders. Still, he thought a few of the Elders had much more trust than they deserved. Even when they were untrustworthy in the open, the disciples worshiped them all.

  Their reputations were like steel pillows.

  Hao brushed shoulders with waves of people, almost swallowed by their eagerness. Cheers and claps echoed out between inside jokes he didn’t understand.

  Before he knew it, he was standing at the edge of the Sect, a place he once avoided to keep his life intact.

  There were two entrances: one where Hao entered with the flood, and the other, which had far less traffic and was much wider.

  The stage, an auditorium, an arena with an open sky. Most of the seats were exposed to the sun on raised gray stone made as smooth as ceramic.

  A few spots shrouded from the sun with chairs instead of stone pews for seats. One such area was up high, made of the same stone as the rest of the arena below. It looked like a cave that went into the seats and walls with a railing to lean against and look down over everyone from.

  Those had to be the Elders’ seats.

  That spot stood out as the rest was uniform and curved to wrap around the pit below, the ground built with large tiles, rough and uneven in color.

  There are a variety of stains. The brown was likely blood. The rest, big bright squares where stages were once set. Right now, there was just one stage that hadn’t moved since Hao became a disciple.

  No one went up the stairs. The only people who sat or stood in those pews looking down stood tall. Straight-backed and dignified. They were from the upper peak.

  Hao was directed with the rest of the lower peak, walking over those old blood stains, his back turned to the stage. Shoulder to shoulder stood with other disciples as they lined up like a bunch of rabbits in an open cage.

  The sound became a gray buzz. Voices and the scuffle of feet became a blur, drowning senses until not a single word could be heard.

  There was a sudden silence. Hao looked up, feeling the fluctuation.

  An Elder to arrive first was the Sixth, old, bald, and scarred. With his closed by needle scars where they were sown shut, there was no tongue in his mouth either. Yet over the steady vibration of voices, he hummed. Few seemed to notice.

  Hao wanted to cover his ears, but he resisted the urge and ignored the sound like a stressed zither string being rubbed at by a metal file.

  Hall Leader Liang Wan Li, of the Medicine Hall, held the Sixth Elder’s arm as they stood in the air.

  The Eighth Elder followed not far behind, the youngest looking of the Elders. His eyes wandered to Liang Wan Li, but he avoided his fellow Elder.

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  All the Hall Leaders, except for Li Tuzai, arrived behind the Third and Seventh Elder. They looked like their own little team. Not for long. The Seventh Elder, who took Hao to the Secret Realm, floated down, leading the Hall leaders to the Pews, making them sit in the sun as he took his seat in the Elder’s box up top.

  The other three Elders and Liang Wan Li followed his lead. The Third Elder lingered in the sky a little longer than needed.

  In a spectacle that broke any remaining noise, the last four arrived at the same time. There was an audible gulp. Not just from the disciples but the Hall Leaders in the pews.

  Together in pairs, the First Elder, with black hair, crystalline blue eyes, and a back like a spear, and behind him the Fourth Elder with the surname Mo.

  Steps away in the sky, the Second Came. In red, not blue like the rest of them, the color of the palace wrapped her body, and the light of the sun shrouded her face.

  At her side, walking without a care in the World, the Fifth Elder leaned against a cane that pressed on air. Senior Brother Que and Senior Brother Guan's Master. He wore a face of boredom. Yet when his eyes left the Elders and scanned over the crowd, Hao felt like his blood would leap from his body.

  One side showed Hao favor. The other animosity. If he were to choose a side, the choice would be obvious, even though in terms of numbers, they would lose without a doubt. His death was already guaranteed on one side. Death seemed more amenable than fighting alongside beasts like Mo Bangcai and his father, or the wild, hungry man they both served.

  The Fifth Elder walked down. The three followed behind him, all four touched down on the stone at the same time, sharing glares.

  No one else in the crowd seemed to notice. They all moved slowly, gulping and sliding their arms out of their sleeves to cup their hands.

  Hao copied the movements. All his other reactions were hidden while scanning the pews and crowd, locking eyes with figures that could crush him with a flick.

  They wouldn’t do it here. Reputation was as much of a concern to them as power.

  Pao Taoyi stood behind the rest of the Hall Leaders. His wide body made him visible even when he was relegated to the background. It was clear he was nervous. Why, Hao was curious. But watching the man wipe sweat from his face told Hao he didn’t need to worry about him for a while.

  Mo Bangcai was missing. Hidden away somewhere on the First or Fourth peak, scared and injured, waiting for his hunting group to form so he had more meat shields to hide behind while he was carried like a princess.

  Or so Hao imagined.

  He didn’t miss the queue as the Elders looked across the field of blue robes, bowing in a single great movement.

  Not everyone went for a full bow. Some people were absent-minded, half asleep, and a few were probably drunk after a long life on this lower peak.

  Hao did a bow, hard-to-call half, and he stood before the first disciple who had bowed, fully lifted their head.

  “Disciples greet the Elders!” Four words echoed from hundreds of mouths and bounced off the mountain peaks like thunderous drums.

  Those from the upper peak followed. In the pews, they turned to the side and cupped their hands, nodded their heads, and that was all.

  Hall Leaders turned and did the same, cupped hands with no nod.

  As everyone came back up, the Fifth Elder stepped forward, his eyes locking onto Hao’s. One side of his mouth lifted into a smirk.

  Hao didn’t know why. It was the same face he was expecting when there was a joke he didn’t hear or wasn’t supposed to.

  The Second Elder stepped up next to the Fifth. Her face hidden, nothing but a small sun above her heron-like neck, dimmer in the winter than in the spring or summer.

  As the rest of the disciples straightened their backs, the Fifth Elder tapped his cane on stone, watching Hao with a tilted head.

  Hao held the gaze until the First Elder stepped out to the railing.

  The Fifth nodded his head and pointed his cane out at the crowd, much to Hao’s confusion.

  The moment he looked, he knew what the old man wanted him to see. At both his sides, disciples gazed at the First Elder with admiration, a hundred stares full of worship.

  “It was with sacrifice,” the First Elder started, “with courage, with strength that the members of our Sect—disciples of the Drifting Stream returned from the trial alive with their hands full of treasure, many are desperate just to look at.”

  Hao knew from the first words that the First Elder spoke that the man may have been to the Secret Realm before, but everything he would say about it today—to those who hadn’t seen that hell-like cave of despair and death—would be nothing but bullshit.

  He could imagine it still, men and women dead at his feet. Some of his victims, some may have been his friends, most he didn’t know the name of, just the color of their robe, and the red of the blood.

  The crowd cheered. Hands clapped like cannon fire, a wave of sound that made birds flee.

  Hao looked between the First Elder and the Fourth, heads of the snake he had to kill. Those he wanted to disappear from this world, their souls never to find flesh again.

  Yet, how do you kill a god in the minds of the people? Replace him with another, show them their old one, snuff every breath with faith? Then, when that is done, how does a boy run a sword through a flood dragon, power beating through its veins and scales made to dull razor claws.

  The First Elder smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked at Hao, a hint of recognition but not a pause of care. Just another fish in the pond he fished at, where they all would take his line, get barbed by his hook.

  “I would like to call forward the Third and Fourth Elders to make the report. To share with all of you the Success of our Drifting Stream Sect. To tell you all the triumph of our sect's, your fellow disciples!”

  Thunderclaps turned to jarring cheers. The ground trembled with stomps as the First Elder waved and turned; his smile disappeared.