Chapter 274: PTSD of the Sect
Massive, floating islands of white jade and petrified spirit-wood hovered amidst a sea of perpetual, rolling clouds.
Waterfalls cascaded from the edges of the floating peaks, disappearing into the mist below.
Thousands of disciples, dressed in the pristine white and blue robes of the sect, flew across the sky on flying swords, spiritual beasts, and floating talismans, looking like a swarm of very aggressive bees.
Lin Ji’an stood at the base of the massive, hundred-foot-tall entrance gate of the Outer Sect, looking up at the majestic peaks.
She took a deep, unrestricted breath of the crisp, freezing mountain air.
"Ah," Ji’an sighed, a genuine smile stretching across her face. "The smell of arrogant prodigies, impending violence, and zero fujoshis. It’s good to be home."
«It smells like unwashed teenagers and ozone,» the Nekomata projected from her shoulder, wrinkling its glowing silver nose. «Are you certain this is a place of high cultivation? It feels incredibly pedestrian.»
"Don’t be a snob, fluffball. Wait until you see the kitchen," Ji’an promised, stepping onto the massive, sweeping jade staircase that led up into the primary sect plazas.
As Ji’an ascended into the main concourse of the sect, she immediately noticed a drastic shift in the atmosphere.
The sect was usually a place of disciplined, quiet training.
But today, the plazas were in absolute, unmitigated chaos.
The air crackled with heavy, suffocating spiritual pressure.
The training arenas were overflowing.
Disciples were sparring with a manic, bloodthirsty intensity that bordered on actual warfare.
The sky was filled with the booming roars of high-level techniques clashing in mid-air.
"What is going on?" Ji’an muttered, dodging a stray wave of rogue sword-Qi that sheared the top off a nearby stone lantern.
It didn’t take long to figure it out.
The Official Sect Martial Ranking was just weeks away.
But more importantly, the ’Monsters’ had returned.
All the supreme geniuses, the golden children, the heirs of the major peaks who had spent the last two years out in the world taking extreme missions or locked in death-seclusion, were flooding back into the sect.
Lu Jianheng, the Sword Lord, had returned from the Northern Glaciers, his sword aura so sharp that disciples literally bled if they stood too close to him.
Gu Zhiwei, the Holy Son, had returned from the southern borders, radiating a holy light so blindingly self-righteous that several dark-attribute disciples had spontaneously combusted just by making eye contact with him.
Obviously, Wen Shiru must be back too, since those two were birds of the same flock.
Mu Wuchen, the Shadow Assassin, had emerged from the abyss, moving through the sect like a living eclipse, causing the temperature to drop and shadows to lengthen wherever he walked.
The competition was at a boiling point.
Everyone was sharpening their blades, condensing their cores, and preparing to tear each other apart for the top ten spots on the monolithic Black Obsidian Ranking Board.
And right into the middle of this high-stakes environment strolled Lin Ji’an.
She was wearing a battered gray cloak over mud-stained white robes.
She had a cast-iron spatula strapped to her leg, a glowing, two-tailed kitten wrapped around her neck like a fluffy scarf, and she smelled distinctly of garlic, swamp water, and roasted pork.
As she walked into the central bustling plaza of the Inner Sect, a group of intermediate disciples gathered near a mission board happened to turn around.
The disciple at the front of the pack, a young man who had once eagerly volunteered to taste-test Ji’an’s ’Spicy Abyssal Toad Stew’ experiment six months ago, locked eyes with her.
The young man’s face instantly drained of all blood.
His pupils contracted to pinpricks.
His jaw dropped, and a visible, full-body shudder racked his frame.
"By the Heavens," the disciple whispered, his voice trembling with PTSD.
He stumbled backward, knocking over a rack of training spears. "It’s him. He’s back."
The other disciples turned.
When they saw the familiar, arrogant swagger of the Martial Uncle from the Drunken Peak, a collective, horrified gasp rippled through the crowd.
"The Iron Wok Demon!"
"Hide the spiritual herbs! Lock the alchemy pavilions!"
"Don’t make eye contact! If he offers you a snack, run! I was in the medical pavilion for three weeks after eating his ’Explosive Lava-Root Dumplings’!"
The disciples didn’t just step out of her way; they actively, desperately parted like the Red Sea.
They pressed their backs against the jade pillars, holding their training swords defensively across their chests, looking at Ji’an as if she were carrying the bubonic plague.
Ji’an stopped in the middle of the plaza.
She looked at the trembling, terrified disciples.
She looked at the wide berth they were giving her.
A normal person might have felt insulted.
A normal person might have felt misunderstood.
But Lin Ji’an was a transmigrator who thrived on culinary dominance.
A slow, devastatingly arrogant, impossibly smug smirk spread across her face.
She puffed out her chest, casually resting a hand on the hilt of her spatula.
"Ah," Ji’an sighed happily, her voice dripping with maximum young-master toxicity. "They tremble before my Michelin-star aura. They recognize the sheer, terrifying magnitude of my gastronomic superiority! Do not bow, juniors! My greatness is merciful! I shall spare your palates today, for I am weary from my conquests!"
«They are not trembling in awe, you delusional ape,» the Nekomata projected, rolling its blue eyes. «They are looking at you like you are a walking war crime.»
"It’s called respect, fluffball. Learn the difference," Ji’an muttered back, flipping her gray cloak over her shoulder with a dramatic swish.
She strutted through the plaza, entirely ignoring the horrified whispers, and headed toward the winding, overgrown stone path that led to her true sanctuary: The Drunken Peak.
The Drunken Peak was a stark, jarring contrast to the rest of the Celestial Sword Sect.
While the other peaks were bustling with thousands of disciples, grand pavilions, and meticulously swept courtyards, the Drunken Peak was an overgrown jungle of wild peach trees, ancient bamboo, and unkempt vines.
