They called it justice.
The banners of the Heavenly Accord flew proudly as they marched—sect masters in flowing white robes, Imperial envoys bearing golden seals, disciples holding scrolls that named traitors and demanded blood. One after another, minor sects were erased from the martial map. Their crimes? A hidden manual. An unorthodox technique. A rumor passed between tea house whispers.
But behind the scrolls and steel, the true hand was hidden.
The Purge did not begin in the halls of Shaolin, nor in the stone chambers of the Imperial Court. It began far below, far west, far behind—where light could not reach. It began with the Independent Cults.
They were monsters from an older world—unseen, unacknowledged, struck from the histories recited by the righteous. And they knew they could not challenge the Heavenly Accord in open battle. Not yet.
So they whispered.
A single forged manual, slipped into the vault of a reclusive sword sect.
A corrupted elixir traced back to a renowned alchemist.
A survivor from a massacre who "confessed" under truth-incense.
One by one, lies became evidence. And evidence became fire.
The Accord did what it was born to do: cleanse.
But it was no longer cleansing evil. It was culling its own.
Sects vanished overnight. Families were erased. Those who refused to kneel were buried with their homes. Even the Shadow Covenant—long a thorn in the Accord's side—was shattered. Some of its number fled into the mountains. Others turned on one another. A few disappeared beneath the rivers and cities, waiting.
By the time the Accord realized it had been deceived, it had already drawn too much blood. Blood that could not be washed away.
They had killed too many.
And the world remembered.
The martial world did not die that year. But it splintered. Trust dissolved. Loyalty turned brittle. Unity—once a word chanted with pride—became something dangerous to speak aloud.
The aftermath was not peace.
It was suspicion.
The Shaolin closed their gates.
Mount Hua summoned back all wandering disciples.
The Beggar's Union fractured, each faction accusing the others of betrayal.
Wudang sealed its scrolls.
The great families turned inward, hoarding pills and forging steel in silence.
And those who still dared to walk the martial roads found only closed doors and fearful eyes.
No one believed in honor anymore.
No one, except those who caused the fall.
Deep in hidden caverns, the Order of the Shattered Soul chanted the names of the sects they had destroyed.
The Blood Cult tested poisons beneath the frozen wastes, their victims silenced by ice.
The Cult of the Black Veil dug deeper beneath the Capital, feeding on its shame.
The Heavenly Divine Demon Cult did not act.
They simply watched. And waited. And smiled.
They had not survived the Purge.
They had ignited it.
And while the Accord bled, they bloomed.
The few who saw the truth were dead. Or hiding. Or sharpening blades in silence.
And beneath the quiet snowfall, a lone survivor clutched a scroll—disguised as an exercise manual—and swore he would never forget.
The Fractured Era had begun.
And the sword that would one day split heaven still lay quiet… beneath the snow.