The traces left by the receding demonic tide were like the wreckage left after a foul tide receded. Broken weapons, scorched earth, solidified dark red blood pools, and corpses in various poses everywhere. The disciples of Qingxu Temple in their blue Taoist robes and the demonic cultivators from Shadow Serpent Pavilion in their black attire were mingled together, indistinguishable, together forming the background color of this hell on earth.
The noise and battle cries had vanished, replaced by a suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional restrained cries of pain from wounded disciples, and the low, sobbing wails, tinged with crying, from fellow disciples collecting remains-like a dull knife cutting at the hearts of the survivors.
The Mountain Gate Plaza, this sacred ground where grand ceremonies were held and disciples practiced Daoist methods in the glorious days of Qingxu Temple, had now completely transformed into a massive graveyard. The white marble steps were fractured and collapsed, the founder's statue was cut in half at the waist, the archway symbolizing sect authority leaned precariously, and charred beams emitted wisps of smoke. The air was filled with an incredibly dense, unyielding smell of blood, the burnt smell, and a unique, sickeningly sweet smell characteristic of flesh about to decay.
The surviving disciples wandered through the mountains of corpses like wandering souls. Most were wounded, their clothes ragged, faces and hands covered in blood, dirt, and ash. Their eyes were empty, numbly carrying out the Temple Head's orders-searching for possibly surviving companions, collecting fallen comrades' remains.
Each time they turned over a cold corpse and recognized a familiar face, it triggered an uncontrollable wave of grief. That affairs officer who always cheerfully distributed pills had his chest completely pierced through. That lively junior sister who had asked him for sword techniques just days ago now had her head connected to her body by only a thin strip of skin. Those familiar faces who had once listened to teachings together, trained together, scrambled for food together in the dining hall-all now became cold, rigid, lifeless objects.
"Brother Li..."
"Sister Zhang..."
"Brother Wang..."
These tearful calls echoed softly across the silent plaza, like a prelude to a dirge.
The casualty statistics made everyone's heart sink into an icy abyss.
Initial count: over seventy percent of inner disciples were casualties, and outer disciples and servants were almost completely wiped out! The combat-effective strength of the entire Qingxu Temple had been halved by this battle! Countless inheritances might be severed, countless families had lost their children. This list was so heavy it took one's breath away.
The losses among the senior members were an even more devastating blow.
From the Spirit Pivot Valley direction, True Person Xuan Lin's heroic self-sacrifice to become a star protecting the sect had already spread. The master who seemed stern on the surface but genuinely cared for his disciples, who resolutely sacrificed himself at the crucial moment-his departure left all disciples feeling a profound emptiness and heartache as if a pillar of support had collapsed.
Although Temple Head Xuan Xuan True Person had defeated the masked elder, he was also seriously injured and his qi was weak. After simply arranging the necessary aftermath matters, he had to immediately enter closed-door cultivation for healing. Sect affairs were temporarily handed to several less severely wounded elders for joint management. Having lost both the Temple Head and Elder Xuan Lin, the top combat power of Qingxu Temple instantly fell to its lowest point.
Senior Brother Mu Qingfeng had several broken ribs and internal injuries, yet he forced himself to command the overall situation, his face deathly pale. Third Sister Liu Yun had a fractured left arm and multiple deep wounds exposing bone, hastily bandaged, still holding her sword patrolling, her eyes cold as frost, alert to any possible changes.
Tang Xiaoqi was placed in a relatively intact side hall, tended to by disciples skilled in medical arts. He remained unconscious, his breathing faint, his internal condition a complete mess-the purification source's backlash, burning of essence blood, demonic energy erosion, multiple severe injuries stacked together. Being able to cling to one breath was already a miracle.
Zhao Tiezhu fell off the cliff, his life and death unknown.
Second Brother Luo Feng acted as rearguard at the Black Wind Mountains, detonating all his magical artifacts. He was now missing with no news, and hopes for his survival were slim.
An elite squad that had infiltrated for reconnaissance was almost completely annihilated.
Had they won?
Perhaps. Shadow Serpent Pavilion had retreated, Qingxu Temple's mountain gate still stood, the sect's lineage was not severed.
But no one felt the slightest joy.
Standing on the battlefield strewn with corpses, seeing familiar fellow disciples become cold numbers and bodies, feeling the sect's severe weakening, bearing the heartache of losing teachers and close friends... how could this be called victory?
This was clearly a survival, bought with countless blood and lives, pushed to the most extreme and brutal degree.
The price was too heavy. So heavy that it imbued this very survival itself with an indescribable sorrow and humiliation.
The setting sun was like blood, dyeing this heavily ravaged land in a desolate beauty. The surviving disciples silently carried their fallen comrades' remains, arranging them neatly on one side of the plaza, covering them with white cloth. The white cloth stretched endlessly, as if there was no end.
No one spoke, only heavy footsteps, and occasional uncontrollable whimpering like wounded young beasts.
The wind howled as it passed, lifting ash and the smell of blood from the ground, brushing past the ruined halls, emitting a sound like a funeral hymn.
Qingxu Temple was preserved, but the price it paid cast a gray shadow of 'pyrrhic victory' over this defensive battle. The road ahead was long, the demonic plague remained uneliminated, and the sect was now in a precarious state, scarred and battered. The path of reconstruction, and the certain vengeance and even more cruel battles to come, were like heavy shackles pressing on the hearts of every survivor.