The transition into the sect premises was marked by a heavy, deliberate motion.

  The massive gates widened as if without physical input, a silent invitation that felt more like a trap.

  As the other disciples marched forward, crossing the threshold into their new lives, Zhao Tang took a small step back.

  An arrangement had been brokered earlier.

  Master Khetsu had pledged that the disciples, Zhao Tang included, would be permitted to rest in the dormitory.

  It was a necessary mercy; the climb had been brutal, and even a short period of recuperation would provide them with the energy needed to face the main cultivation area and their starting instructions.

  However, the moment Tang’s foot touched the inner stones of the premises, a deep, gnawing unease took root in his gut.

  The others kept moving, their faces filled with the exhaustion of the climb or the spark of ambition.

  Tang lingered, his senses assaulted by the sudden emergence of a terribly foul smell.

  It did not spur from the fountain, nor the gates, nor any external factor of the mountain. It did not carry the scent of earth or stone.

  It reeked of concentrated gluttony, a stench so thick it sparked a nerve of instinctive anger within him.

  He pinched his nose with his fingers, desperately trying to hide the visible signs of recoil.

  To his bewilderment, the other disciples walked on as if completely oblivious to the rot in the air.

  He wondered if they felt it too and were simply keeping their cool to avoid wasting time, or if their senses were truly blind to the stench.

  Motivated by a need to blend in, Tang forced himself forward.

  He flinched at every step, the stinging sensation in his nostrils making his eyes water, but he managed to keep pace while holding his breath.

  Strangely, the further he walked into the heart of the sect, the more the stench faded.

  It was eventually drowned out by a crisp, refreshing air that seemed to flow from the mountain winds, born in the cold and calming breeze of the inner clouds.

  Yet, as the billows thickened and the sun sank, the sky bled away into a glimmering dusk.

  When the pupils stepped into the foyer of the temple in unison, Tang trailed behind them, his awe warring with his lingering suspicion.

  The interior was a paradox of opulence.

  Jewels hung at high elevations, catching the dying light, and material wealth seemed to define the very grain of the polished wooden walls.

  Statues of historical figures, emperors, kings, and nobles, stood in silent reverence.

  Why?

  Tang wondered.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Why are the physical representations of worldly power held in a place of spiritual commune?

  Then, a realization clicked within him, a holy rule that seemed to reign over this place: The Law of Blissful Ignorance.

  The goal was immortality and virtue, yet the environment was a testament to the very indulgence the Master had denounced.

  The intricate window patterns allowed the chilly mist to escape inside, the wind crashing against Tang’s new robes, or at least, the robes that were new to this body.

  His memories were still raw, a jagged mess of two lives. He knew it would be a long time before he could comfortably address himself as Zhao Tang without the ghost of "Xiao Fang" haunting him.

  His gaze shifted as he noticed Tseng, the herbalist, moving toward the center of the monastery.

  The disciples were already gathering, sitting cross-legged around a unique, lifted stage. It was a bizarre construction: wooden blocks padded with cotton fabric, but the cushions were turned inside out, leaving the rough inner flesh as the surface.

  Tang felt a pulse of confusion.

  Weren’t we supposed to sleep? Why is the commune starting now?

  He trotted cautiously toward Tseng, finding an empty space nearby.

  Around him, the air was filled with the low hum of gossip.

  Some students spoke with reverence, while others blatantly cursed, showing no regard for the spiritual path they had been chosen for.

  “Song? No way he’d do something like that. Then again, he is an awful bastard!” one whispered.

  “The statue of Gambo seems more expensive than that weird podium,” another remarked.

  Tang leaned toward Tseng and tapped his shoulder. “Aren’t we all supposed to rest?”

  Tseng seemed to pull himself out of a deep trance, his pupils dilating as he returned to the present.

  “Oh,” the herbalist said. “I suppose we were meant to. But a student informed us the Master ordered our immediate presence here.”

  Tang stared at him, mesmerized by a strange phenomenon: Tseng’s eyes were shifting hues, moving from an oceanic blue to a bright emerald before returning to azure.

  It was a sight that halted Tang in his tracks.

  A knowing glint shone in Tseng’s eyes. “Then again... you should be relaxing. Letting the pores open. My medicine was strong, but the body still needs time.”

  The conversation died instantly.

  The banter of the room vanished.

  A sudden, intimidating presence crashed into the hall like a physical weight.

  “Most are far too ripe. Few fresh. This will have to do.”

  Master Khetsu’s voice rang out from the podium.

  He sat there with his legs folded neatly, having appeared as if from thin air.

  He was a grim figure, a smile curling the corners of his mouth while his eyes remained closed tight.

  And then, the smell returned.

  It was no longer a faint rot; it was a pungent, screaming aroma of rage, hunger, and gluttony.

  It was a scent that struck urgent fear into Tang’s soul.

  He looked at the other students, their faces were etched with panic and astonishment.

  The Master’s appearance was supernatural; no one had seen him enter.

  Tang, overtaken by an instinct he didn't fully understand, snatched up a set of unknown folded robes nearby and yanked them over his face, coughing through the fabric.

  It was a desperate attempt to block the burning sensation of the air, which felt as though it were beginning to scald his skin.

  “Tang, what’s wrong? Why are you acting like this?” Tseng whispered, his face appearing through a semi-transparent wave of crimson light that Tang alone seemed to see.

  Tang ignored him, his eyes locked on the Master.

  In that moment, Khetsu was no longer a man.

  A scorching veil of darkness and velvet cloaked him.

  The crimson haze deepened into obsidian, then bled into a filthy brown aura that wrapped around the Master like a transparent flame, flickering upward to lick the very roof of the sect.

  “W-What’s wrong? Can’t you see the literal devil pouring off him?!” Tang shouted, his voice cracking with terror.

  Tseng recoiled in astonishment. The room went deathly quiet. Every pupil turned to stare at Tang with a mix of pity and disgust.

  “Silence.”

  The Master’s voice was deeper now, a terrifying resonance that asserted absolute dominance. Khetsu’s eyes shuddered open.

  “All of you are rotten to the brim with impurity,” the Master grunted, his face stretching into a wicked grin that revealed layers of uncanny, serrated teeth.

  “Yet the fresh ones, I sense, their smell mixes with the crowded sinners.”

  He took a sinister pause before continuing.

  “Perhaps I’ll let them devour all of you, then take the pure ones for myself!”

  The room went cold as Khetsu’s maniacal laughter filled the air. Tseng stared at Tang’s disheveled, panting form.

  Suddenly, the laughter ceased.

  The Master spoke once more, his voice dripping with a dark, playful malice.

  “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

  End of Chapter two.

  Spoiler: Chapter three will be released tomorrow and so far, has had me on toes as well!