The Immortal Demon and his Five Disciples

The first day of the tournament had ended with the Heavenly Demonic Sect's disciples triumphant. The exhilaration of their victories still lingered in the air as the group made their way through the lantern-lit streets of Verdant Peak Village. The group retired into the lotus pavilion inn, each retreating into their respective rooms.

The disciples, eager for rest, quickly settled in. Ying Tao and Qing Mei, still buzzing with excitement, chattered quietly as they prepared for bed. Xue Lan, sat calmly by the window, gazing at the stars in the night sky. Yan Ling sprawled across her bed, her fiery energy at last exhausted. Ming Yue checked the room for any signs of disturbance before finally allowing herself to relax. Xiao Fengwu, ever vigilant, sat with her sword across her lap, her mind replaying the day's battles before finally succumbing to fatigue.

Mo Yanluo, however, did not rest. He sat cross-legged on a cushion in the center of the room, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and steady. He was circulating his qi, replenishing his energy and sharpening his senses. The events of the day had been satisfying, but he knew that the tournament was only the beginning. There were always enemies in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

The night deepened. The village grew quiet, the only sounds the occasional chirp of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl. The disciples, exhausted from the day's battles, soon fell into a deep sleep.

Mo Yanluo remained alert. His demonic qi pulsed through his meridians, his senses attuned to the slightest disturbance. He had survived countless nights like this, his instincts honed by years of warfare and betrayal.

Then, he felt it—a ripple in the air, a faint shift in the energy around the inn. His eyes snapped open.

Assassins.

He did not move, did not betray his awareness. Instead, he listened, his qi extending outward like invisible tendrils. There were at least six of them, their movements swift and silent, their presence masked by stealth techniques. They were skilled, their intent clear: to eliminate the group in their sleep.

Mo Yanluo's lips curled into a cold smile. Fools.

He waited until the first assassin slipped through the window, landing lightly on the wooden floor. The man was clad in black, his face obscured by a mask, a dagger gleaming in his hand. He crept toward the nearest bed, where Ying Tao lay sleeping.

Mo Yanluo moved.

In an instant, he was across the room, his hand clamping around the assassin's throat like a vice. The man's eyes widened in shock, but before he could cry out, Mo Yanluo twisted his wrist. There was a sharp crack, and the assassin's body went limp. Mo Yanluo absorbed the man's qi in a single, silent breath, his body drinking in the energy like a parched desert absorbing rain.

He did not pause. The second assassin was already through the window, his dagger raised. Mo Yanluo met him with a palm strike to the chest, the force of the blow sending the man crashing into the wall, his ribcage shattering into pieces. Before he could recover, Mo Yanluo was upon him, his fingers finding the assassin's neck. Another sickening snap, another surge of qi.

The third assassin attacked from behind, his dagger aimed at Mo Yanluo's spine. Mo Yanluo spun, his elbow driving into the man's temple. The assassin crumpled, and Mo Yanluo finished him with a swift twist of the neck.

The fourth and fifth assassins entered together, their movements coordinated. One lunged with a dagger, the other with a poisoned needle. Mo Yanluo effortlessly dodged the dagger, his hand snatching the needle from the air. He flung it back, the needle embedding itself in the assassin's throat. The man gagged, his eyes rolling back as the poison took effect, his skin turning a pale purple, as blood erupted from his eyes and mouth. Mo Yanluo dispatched the other with a single, precise strike to the heart, causing it to explode from within.

The sixth assassin, realizing the futility of his mission, tried to flee. Mo Yanluo was upon him in an instant, his hand clamping around the man's wrist. He twisted, the bones snapping like twigs in a storm. The assassin cried out, but Mo Yanluo silenced him with a blow to the jaw. He dragged the man to the center of the room, his movements swift and efficient.

The disciples, awakened by the commotion, sat up in their beds, their eyes wide with shock. Mo Yanluo held up a hand, signaling them to stay silent amidst the chaos. He turned his attention to the surviving assassin, his expression cold and merciless.

"Who sent you?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

The assassin, his limbs mangled, his face twisted in pain, shook his head. "I—I cannot say. They will kill me."

Mo Yanluo's grip tightened. "You will die here if you do not speak. The choice is yours. I'm warning you, if you try to deceive me, your fate will be worse than your companions over there."

The assassin's eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape. But there was none, the grip on his neck tightening with every passing second. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, his head 

exploded in a violent burst of black energy. The disciples gasped, recoiling as blood and brain matter splattered across the floor.

Mo Yanluo stepped back, his eyes narrowing. He recognized the phenomenon—the work of a Soul Devouring Thousand-Leg Centipede, a vile creature used by the most ruthless sects to ensure the silence of their agents.

The centipede burrowed into the victim's brain, lying dormant until triggered by a secret command or the threat of betrayal.

The disciples, shaken but unharmed, gathered around Mo Yanluo. 

Ming Yue was the first to speak. "Master, what was that?"

Mo Yanluo's expression was grim. "A Soul Devouring Thousand-Leg Centipede. It is a dangerous insect used to silence those who would betray their masters."

Xue Lan's eyes were wide with horror. "Who would use such a thing?"

Mo Yanluo did not answer immediately. He surveyed the room, his mind racing. The attack had been well-coordinated, the assassins skilled. This was not the work of amateurs. Someone powerful wanted them dead.

He turned to his disciples. "Gather your things. We are leaving this inn."

The disciples obeyed without question, their movements swift and silent. Mo Yanluo watched as they packed, his mind already formulating a plan. He needed information, and there was only one person he trusted to get it.

He stepped outside, the cool night air washing over him. He raised his hand, forming a complex series of hand seals. A pulse of qi shot into the night, a signal only one person would recognize.

Minutes passed. Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged—a woman clad in dark robes, her face hidden beneath a hood. She moved with the grace of a predator, her presence both deadly and alluring.

"I've come to answer your call, master," she said, her voice a whisper.

"Ling Xiaoyin," Mo Yanluo replied. "We have been attacked."

Ling Xiaoyin's eyes gleamed in the moonlight. "I sensed the disturbance. Who were they?"

Mo Yanluo shook his head. "Assassins. Skilled, but not competent enough. Their leader used a Soul Devouring Thousand-Leg Centipede to silence the survivor."

Ling Xiaoyin's expression darkened. "That is the mark of the Blood Moon Sect. Or perhaps the Unorthodox Alliance. Both have been known to use such methods."

Mo Yanluo nodded. "I want you to investigate. Find out who is behind this. Leave no stone unturned."

Ling Xiaoyin bowed. "It will be done, Master."

She melted back into the shadows, her presence vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. Mo Yanluo watched her go, his mind already turning to the next move.

He returned to the room, where the disciples were waiting, their faces pale but determined. Mo Yanluo surveyed them, his gaze steady.

"We are not safe here," he said. "We will move to a new location. Stay alert. The tournament is but a stepping stone."

The disciples nodded, their resolve unshaken. They gathered their belongings and followed Mo Yanluo into the night, their footsteps silent on the cobblestone streets.

As they walked, the moon hung low in the sky, its silver light casting long shadows. The village was quiet, the only sound the distant howl of a wolf. Mo Yanluo led his disciples through narrow alleys and winding paths, his senses alert for any sign of danger.

They arrived at a secluded, unassuming cottage on the outskirts of the village, its windows shuttered, its door locked. Mo Yanluo produced a key and ushered his disciples inside. The cottage was small but clean, its walls lined with shelves of herbs and scrolls. A single lantern burned on the table, casting a warm glow over the room.

Mo Yanluo turned to his disciples. "Rest here. I will keep watch."

The disciples, exhausted but relieved, settled onto the beds and floor mats. Mo Yanluo sat by the door, his eyes fixed on the night beyond.

The events of the evening weighed heavily on his mind. The attack had been bold, the use of the Soul Devouring Thousand-Leg Centipede sent a clear message. Someone powerful was targeting them, and they would not stop with a single failed attempt.

Mo Yanluo's fists clenched. He would not allow his disciples to come to harm. He would find the ones responsible, and he would make them pay.

The night stretched on, the stars glittering in the sky. Mo Yanluo remained vigilant, his mind sharp, his resolve unbroken. The real battle had just begun.