Her father watched her carefully before speaking again. "Regaining what was lost will take time. Effort."

Layla straightened, her voice firm. "Then I will train. I will restore what was lost and rebuild our sect."

The air in the room grew heavy. Her father looked away. Her mother, who had remained silent for most of the conversation, exhaled shakily. The few elders lingering in the background averted their gazes.

"Meilin..." her mother finally spoke, her voice tinged with sorrow. "There is nothing left to rebuild. The world has moved on. We are a dying sect."

Layla met her father’s eyes. "But not dead."

He hesitated. "Not yet. But we are hanging by a thread. Resources are scarce, our numbers dwindle, and the other sects do not see us as a threat."

"Then that is an advantage," Layla said immediately. "If they do not see us as a threat, they will not see us coming."

Her father sighed, rubbing his temples. "This is not just about strength, Meilin. It is about time, about resources, about whether those who remain have the will to fight. Tell me, do you think a starving man who has lost everything will have the strength to wield a sword again?"

Layla remained silent, but inwardly, her mind raced. She would find a way. She had to.

Her mind worked rapidly, calculating possibilities, drawing from her past life as a ruler. What does a fallen nation need to rise again?

First—stability. The people needed food, security, and a reason to believe in the sect again. A dying sect did not attract disciples, and without new blood, the Silver Lotus Sect would wither into obscurity.

Second—resources. If cultivation was the foundation of power, then herbs, weapons, and training grounds were the pillars supporting it. They had neither the land nor the backing of any major factions. Would trade be an option? Or would they have to seize what they needed?

Third—strength. A sect’s power was judged by its strongest warriors. She had none. If they were to survive, they needed cultivators who could stand against the tides of destruction.

Fourth—alliances. No kingdom, no empire, no sect survived alone. If the Silver Lotus Sect had no allies, then Layla would create them. By force or by persuasion.

Her fingers twitched slightly, the echoes of a past life guiding her instinctively. A dying kingdom and a dying sect… are they truly so different?

She turned to her father, ready to speak, when the doors to the hall burst open.

A figure staggered in, covered in blood, his robes torn, his face barely recognizable beneath the bruises and cuts. Gasps filled the room as disciples rushed forward, but the man—barely standing—forced himself to speak.

"Sect Leader…" he rasped. "They're coming. The Crimson Serpent Sect… they intend to annihilate us."

Silence fell, thick and suffocating. Layla swore internally, a sharp pulse of frustration running through her. Damn it. This changes everything. All her careful planning, her measured steps—it meant nothing if they didn’t survive the night. She had been strategizing a future, but now the present was threatening to erase them entirely.

She clenched her fists beneath the table, nails digging into her palms. Obsolescence was not an option. If she couldn’t act, if she couldn’t turn this around, then all her grand ideas were worthless. She would not be worthless.

Around her, the room was sinking into despair.

The elders exchanged grim glances, their shoulders heavy with resignation. One of them, an old man with hollowed-out cheeks, shook his head. "So it has come to this at last."

Her mother covered her mouth, her eyes glassy. "We cannot fight them. We barely have twenty capable disciples left. Even if we resist, it will only delay the inevitable."

Layla glanced at her father, searching for defiance, for something other than helplessness. But his face was unreadable, his silence more damning than words.

The battered disciple coughed violently, blood staining his lips. "They gave us an ultimatum," he wheezed. "Surrender and dissolve the sect... or be slaughtered."

A sharp, rattling inhale filled the room. Someone stifled a sob. Another disciple sank to his knees, shaking his head as if he could will away the reality of their situation.

Fear spread like a disease. Layla could see it—fraying the last threads of resolve, wrapping around throats like an unseen noose.

Hopelessness.

She had seen this before, in another life. In the eyes of generals who realized the battle was lost. In the voices of rulers who knew their cities would burn.

But she had never let it stop her before.

And she wouldn’t now.

And she wouldn’t now.

Layla inhaled sharply, locking her emotions away. Panic is the enemy. Fear is the first defeat.

Her gaze snapped to the wounded disciple. "How much time do we have?" Her voice was steady, sharp.

The man swayed but forced himself to answer. "A day... two at most. Their vanguard was already moving when I escaped."

A day.

Layla's mind burned with calculations. Not enough time to mount a full defense. Not enough resources to hold a siege. Not enough warriors to fight head-on.

Layla hesitated for the briefest moment, considering the weight of what she was about to do. Should she take command? She was not the sect leader. Her father was. The elders had more experience. Yet, in this room filled with despairing faces, no one had stepped forward. No voice had risen in defiance.

She understood human nature—fear paralyzed, uncertainty killed before the enemy even arrived. They were waiting. For someone, for anyone to tell them they were not doomed.

If no one else would take that role, then she must.

But by doing so, she would reveal something else entirely. Something unsettling.

They would see her not as Meilin, the daughter they had known, but as something else. Someone else.

Then they wouldn’t.

She turned sharply, barking orders without hesitation. "Get him to the infirmary—now. Clean his wounds, apply a pain suppressant, and make sure he lives. We will not lose another soul today."

The room jolted, startled by the authority in her voice. Even her parents looked momentarily stunned.

This was not their Meilin. The quiet, obedient daughter who had once hesitated behind their protection was gone. In her place stood something else entirely—a ruler, forged in fire.

And yet, as her voice rang through the hall, something darker stirred within the room.

The way she spoke, the raw command, the sharpness of her words—it was too reminiscent of him.

Her father’s fingers tensed at his sides. The elders exchanged wary glances, unease creeping into their gazes. They had heard this kind of authority before, this kind of unyielding will. And it had come from the very man they feared.

The tyrant.

Jinhai.

For a fleeting second, doubt flickered in her mother’s eyes. Not recognition—no, not yet—but something that made her look at Layla as if she were seeing a stranger wearing their daughter’s skin.

Layla felt her chest tighten, her body still weak from her slumber, but she pushed through it, stepping forward. "Those who are uninjured, gather what supplies we have! Rations, medicine, weapons—anything usable. We do not have the luxury of waste!"

No one moved. The weight of despair still clung to the room, suffocating, paralyzing. They had already accepted death.

Layla gritted her teeth. Fine. If they would not move, then she would force them to.

She took a deep breath, and then she shouted.

"DO YOU WISH TO DIE AS CATTLE, OR AS WARRIORS?"

Her voice was raw, powerful, tearing through the air like a war drum. Pain lanced through her throat, her weakened body screaming in protest, but she did not stop.

"THE CRIMSON SERPENT SECT THINKS WE ARE NOTHING! THEY THINK WE WILL KNEEL, THAT WE WILL WAIT FOR THE EXECUTIONER’S BLADE! BUT I TELL YOU NOW—THEY ARE WRONG!"

The torches flickered. Something shifted.

Disciples who had slumped in despair now sat straighter. The elders, once filled with silent resignation, looked uncertain. Even her parents—who had seen her as nothing more than their daughter—stared at her with something unreadable in their eyes.

Layla pressed on, forcing her voice to hold firm. A commander does not waver. A leader does not break.

"We have one day before the Crimson Serpent Sect arrives. One day to decide whether we kneel and wait for slaughter or rise and carve our own path!"

Her body trembled from the exertion. Damn this weakness. Damn this body for failing her. But she planted her feet, straightened her back, and lifted her chin.

She had been a ruler once. She would be one again.

She turned to her father, her voice quieter now but no less powerful. "Give me one day. One day to prepare, to rally, to turn this battlefield into our advantage. If by nightfall tomorrow we are still standing, then you will see what the Silver Lotus Sect is truly capable of."

A heavy silence. Then her father exhaled slowly. "One day."

The decision had been made. Layla clenched her fist at her side. Now, let’s see if I can make them believe it.

Unnoticed by her, her mother turned slightly, whispering to her father, "Meilin… she’s never spoken like this before."

Her father did not respond. He only watched his daughter, a shadow of unreadable thoughts behind his gaze.

Crimson Serpent Sect

The chamber was suffocating with the mingling scents of blood, incense, and damp stone. Torches flickered against the cavernous walls, casting grotesque shadows that danced with the dying embers of the fire pit at the center. Above it all, seated atop an obsidian throne adorned with serpent motifs, Shen Mu observed his captive with a lazy, almost indifferent gaze.

The half-dead disciple of the Silver Lotus Sect hung from iron chains, his face battered beyond recognition, his body bearing the cruel artistry of meticulous torture. His breaths were ragged, but he still lived—for now.

"You made it far," Shen Mu murmured, swirling a goblet of spiced wine in his hand. His tone was almost admiring, but laced with mockery. "But not far enough."

The disciple coughed weakly, blood splattering onto the stone floor.

Shen Mu leaned forward. "You know why we are coming, don’t you? It is not just for land, not just for resources."

He crouched, gripping the disciple’s chin between his fingers, forcing their gazes to meet. "It is because your sect harbors something far more dangerous than weakness. Hope."

He stood, his voice carrying across the chamber. "Hope is a disease. It spreads like wildfire, infecting even the most broken of people. It convinces the weak that they can defy the strong. That is why we must eradicate them."

He turned to his trusted lieutenants, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "But let’s not pretend this is merely about philosophy." His gaze darkened. "Your sect leader—Lin Wuye—he cost me dearly years ago. He was a thorn in my father’s side before I tore that old bastard’s heart out myself. I will not suffer the same mistakes. The Silver Lotus Sect should have been wiped from history long ago, but the old man refused to die. Now I will correct that."

A messenger entered, bowing low. "My Lord, our spies report movement in the Silver Lotus Sect. They have not fled. They are preparing to fight."

Shen Mu smirked. "Oh? How unexpected. Perhaps they have found their courage after all. No matter. We will teach them what happens when the weak mistake desperation for strength."

He turned to a hooded figure standing near the edge of the chamber—silent, unmoving. "Ensure the message reaches our informants. Let it be known that the Silver Lotus Sect is resisting. And ensure the Underlord of the West receives this… personally."

The figure did not bow. Did not speak. He simply turned and vanished into the darkness.