I Become Sect master In Another World-Chapter 180 — When the Sky Began to Scream

The wind changed first.

Not in direction.

In weight.

It settled over the mountain like a held breath—thick enough that the crimson banners along the terraces sagged and stilled, their fabric pulled taut as if pressed flat by unseen hands. The faint flutter that usually lived in the air vanished, leaving the cloth hanging rigid and strained.

Leaves along the outer paths rustled once.

Just once.

Then stopped.

Silence followed—but not the empty kind.

Something hummed beneath it.

Stone beneath bare feet trembled faintly. Not enough to stagger anyone, not enough to alarm—but enough that a few disciples paused mid-step, brows knitting as they glanced down, uncertain of what they had felt.

Along the terraces, the ancient formation lines responded.

Not brightly.

Not violently.

A single pulse of dim light crawled through the grooves etched into the mountain’s skin, tracing paths that had not been touched in generations before sinking back into dormancy.

As if the mountain had flinched.

Elder Yaochen slowed.

Then stopped.

The teacup in his hand trembled, surface rippling despite the still air. He set it down carefully, eyes lifting toward the open sky.

Something was wrong.

Dusk should have been gentle—amber thinning into violet, the kind of evening that softened edges and cooled stone. Instead, the horizon darkened unevenly, shadows thickening where they shouldn’t. Patches of cloud seemed heavier, sagging low, while the air above the peaks shimmered faintly.

Not with heat.

With pressure.

Yaochen stepped forward to the edge of the terrace. His sleeves shifted, brushing his wrists—not from wind, but from the subtle displacement of qi responding to something vast moving beyond sight.

His breath slowed.

"...Flying," he murmured.

The word wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

Elder Wu turned sharply. "What?"

Yaochen didn’t answer.

He leaned forward slightly, gaze narrowing, pupils contracting as he focused beyond distance meant for ordinary eyes. The faint glow of qi gathered around his vision, the world sharpening, layers peeling back.

The sky did not look empty anymore.

It looked crowded.

And whatever was coming—

Was already too close.

Then—

Yaochen’s expression changed.

It wasn’t fear.

It wasn’t shock.

It was recognition.

For the first time since he had stepped foot into the Sanatan Flame Sect, his calm fractured—just enough.

The bells rang.

Not the clear, ceremonial chimes that marked gatherings or announcements.

These were different.

Deep.

Violent.

They tore through the mountain in brutal pulses, their sound heavy enough to vibrate through bone and stone alike.

Dong—

Dong—

Dong—

Windows rattled in their frames. Weapons clinked sharply where they rested in racks. Loose pebbles jumped along the paths, skittering before settling again.

Disciples froze.

Words died in throats mid-syllable. Laughter cut off as if sliced cleanly away. Training stances collapsed, feet shifting instinctively as heads snapped upward in unison.

"What—"

"Why are the bells—"

"Is this—"

"FORMATION!"

The roar cut through the confusion like a blade.

An elder stood at the edge of the courtyard, aura surging outward in a sharp flare that pressed discipline back into scattered minds.

"Positions! Now!"

The mountain answered.

Qi surged through the defensive arrays buried deep within the rock. Lines of light raced across the outer cliffs, blooming and folding over one another as barrier layers stacked into place. Ancient flames etched into the stone ignited briefly—orange, crimson, gold—before sinking inward, reinforcing the shield rather than lighting the sky.

The air thickened.

Pressure settled.

High above—

Something moved.

At first, it was easy to miss.

Dots.

Small.

Distant.

Too many.

They crossed the sky without order, tearing through cloud layers like a swarm that had learned flight through violence rather than grace. Their paths wavered, corrected, lurched again—speed uneven, movements jagged.

Wrong.

They were not silent.

They screamed.

Not with sound.

With aura.

The pressure hit the barrier like a hammer.

The formation flared violently, light rippling across its surface as the first impact landed—not an attack, but a collision. A body slammed into the invisible wall, flesh compressing grotesquely before rebounding, spinning away end over end through open air.

It didn’t fall.

Mid-spin, its limbs snapped into place.

It corrected itself.

Laughter echoed—layered, distorted, too many voices folded into one.

Another hit.

Then three more.

Then ten.

Bodies struck the barrier in rapid succession, each impact sending ripples across the defensive light like stone thrown into water. Shadows filled the sky, circling, slamming, rebounding—testing.

Hungry.

"Hold the formation!"

Elder Liya was already at the front, blade drawn, aura blazing around her like a living flame. Her stance was firm, feet planted wide, eyes locked on the chaos above.

"Do not open the barrier," she commanded. "Not for anything."

Above them, the swarm gathered.

And the mountain braced itself.

Disciples lined the terraces.

Not shoulder to shoulder—space had opened naturally between them, as if the mountain itself demanded distance. Weapons were held too tightly, knuckles pale beneath leather grips. Blades trembled—not from doubt, but from the weight bearing down from above.

The air pressed.

Qi circulation stuttered. Meridians resisted flow like clogged channels, spiritual energy turning sluggish, heavy. Sweat beaded across brows and ran cold down spines despite the stillness. Breathing became measured—not from discipline, but necessity.

Above the barrier—

One of the figures drifted closer.

It didn’t rush.

It leaned.

Its face met the invisible wall with a soft, wet sound.

Skin flattened grotesquely, features spreading sideways as if pressed against glass. Its eyes bulged outward, veins thick and purple, pulsing beneath translucent flesh. The pupils were blown wide—not with madness.

With delight.

Its mouth stretched open, teeth grinding slowly against the barrier. The sound carried—faint, grating, like stone rasping against stone.

Then its lips peeled back.

It smiled.

The barrier vibrated.

"Found you."

The words did not travel through air.

They pressed directly into the formation—into bone, into breath—intent sharpened into sound. Several disciples flinched involuntarily, feet scraping backward as the barrier flared faintly in response.

More figures drifted closer.

They did not strike.

They hovered.

Watching.

Bodies suspended in the sky like carrion birds circling a battlefield that had not yet been claimed. Some tilted their heads, studying the layers of light. Others pressed claws against the barrier, tracing lines they could not cross.

Testing.

Waiting.

On the highest terrace, Elder Yaochen stood perfectly still.

His fingers curled slowly within his sleeves, nails biting into skin.

"...These are not demons," he said.

The words were quiet.

Certain.

Elder Wu spat to the side, the sound sharp against stone. "They’re worse."

Below—

In the medicinal garden, Xu Ran did not move.

Her hands were slick with blood—warm, sticky, clinging to her skin no matter how tightly she clenched her fingers. Behind her, her father lay motionless, chest rising shallowly as emerald light pulsed weakly across shattered meridians.

Elder Hua’s hands moved fast.

Too fast.

Xu Ran didn’t watch him.

She didn’t hear the bells anymore.

Her gaze was fixed upward.

On the shadows.

On the shapes pressed against the sky.

Her grip tightened around her sword.

So hard that pain bloomed—sharp, grounding—as her nails broke skin. Blood welled into her palm, dark against steel.

She didn’t notice.

Cheng Fang stepped forward, placing himself just ahead of her—half a step, angled without thought. His presence was quiet, instinctive.

She didn’t thank him.

She didn’t look at him.

She didn’t need to.

Above them, the creatures waited.

And the mountain held its breath.

Above—

One of them drifted forward.

It was larger than the others, its outline swollen and uneven, as if the body had been forced to grow in directions it never agreed to. Muscle knotted beneath torn flesh, bulging in wrong places, stretching skin until veins stood out like dark cords. Old wounds crossed its frame in layers—cuts that had split, healed, then split again—scar tissue packed so tightly it looked armored.

In its hands hung a hammer.

Massive.

The head was misshapen, edges chipped and cratered, metal dulled beneath stains that hadn’t fully dried. Something thick still clung to the grooves, catching the light as it shifted, trailing in slow, sticky threads before snapping free.

The creature rolled its shoulders once.

Slow.

Intentional.

Then it raised the hammer.

Across the mountain, the barrier responded.

Formation lines brightened, runes tightening as if pulled taut by invisible hands. Light sank deeper into the stone, compressing inward. The air grew dense—hard to breathe, harder to move.

The hammer fell.

The sound was not metal.

It was stone screaming.

The impact tore through the barrier in a violent ripple. Light warped and bent, branching fractures racing outward—not shattering, but bowing under impossible force. The mountain shuddered as if struck in the chest.

A shockwave exploded down the slopes.

Trees flattened instantly, trunks snapping with sharp, wet cracks. Leaves and splinters were ripped free and hurled into rock, embedding themselves like blades. Stone railings split. Flags tore loose and vanished into the sky.

Disciples reeled.

Some were driven to their knees. Others were thrown backward, bodies slamming into terraces hard enough to knock the air from their lungs. Qi circulation stuttered, then seized—energy crashing back into meridians like a flood against blocked gates.

Blood ran.

From noses. From ears.

Dark drops spattered pale stone.

A few screamed.

Most couldn’t draw enough breath to try.

Above the barrier, the creature straightened.

Its head tipped back.

And it laughed.

The sound rolled through the formation, deep and layered, vibrating through bone and teeth. It wasn’t alone for long.

Laughter answered it.

From every side.

Dozens of voices rose—ragged, overlapping, uneven—spilling across the sky without rhythm or unity. The sound crawled over the mountain, pressing down until even stone seemed to recoil.

On the front terrace, Elder Liya stepped forward.

Her heels dug into the stone. Cracks spread beneath her feet as her aura surged outward, heat distorting the air around her. Flames crawled along her blade, tight and controlled, drawn inward rather than flaring wild.

She set her stance.

Didn’t look away.

Her jaw tightened.

"...Master," she breathed, the word barely sound. "...if you are coming—"

The barrier flared.

Another strike landed.

Harder.

Light compressed violently inward. Cracks widened, runes flickering—some dimming, others blinking out for the briefest instant before snapping back to life.

The mountain groaned.

"—don’t be late."

The barrier screamed.

Not with sound—

—but with light.

Every formation line ignited at once, runes flaring so brightly they burned afterimages into the eyes. The glow surged outward in a violent pulse, then collapsed inward as if seized by invisible hands and squeezed tight.

The mountain lurched.

Stone pitched beneath unsteady feet. Several disciples staggered, boots skidding across terraces; one lost balance entirely and slammed shoulder-first into a railing, breath tearing from his chest in a sharp gasp. Loose gravel rattled down the slopes in sudden avalanches.

Above—

The creatures reacted instantly.

Their heads snapped toward the barrier as one.

Then they laughed.

Sharp sounds. Broken sounds. Too many voices layered together, excitement bleeding through every ragged note. It wasn’t mockery.

It was anticipation.

One of them surged forward and slammed its palm flat against the barrier.

Light buckled.

The formation rippled outward from the point of contact, runes distorting like reflections in disturbed water. The creature leaned closer, face inches from the invisible wall, eyes burning as its lips peeled back.

Another followed.

Claws dragged slowly along the barrier’s surface.

Sparks sprayed where nail met light—bright, violent streaks that hissed as they scattered, fading before they could fall. The sound scraped across the ears, setting teeth on edge.

Below, someone choked back a cry.

On the front terrace, Elder Liya moved.

Her voice cut through the chaos—clear, sharp, carrying without strain.

"Positions!"

She stepped forward as she spoke, blade already in hand. Flames coiled tight along its edge, not flaring outward, but drawn inward like a restrained breath.

"Now!"

The sect answered.

Not with cheers.

With motion.

Elders stepped into place, robes snapping as aura surged. Defensive arrays flared awake beneath their feet, geometric light locking into alignment. Disciples moved automatically—shoulder to shoulder, ranks closing, weapons rising even as hands shook and knuckles whitened around hilts.

Qi churned.

Fear didn’t vanish.

It was pressed down.

Focused.

Above them, claws scraped again.

And the barrier held—

For now.

To Be Continued...