In the depth gray-white limbo of the Hanz Clan Ancestral Shrine, the air was heavy with an eerie stillness, as if the world itself had been drained of vitality, leaving only a desolate void. The crimson threads binding Krogh Hanz pulsed with an unnatural glow, their rhythmic throbbing a stark contrast to the monochrome haze, as though they siphoned life from the very fabric of reality. The beaded curtain swayed faintly, its soft clinking a haunting counterpoint to the oppressive silence.
Donovan Valdez stood resolute before Krogh, his gaze unwavering despite the chilling weight of the bound cultivator's presence.
Krogh's voice was steady, weathered with wisdom yet softened by years of patience. "The Ju-On has taken my cultivation aura, mirrored my spirit energy, and even stolen the will of my sword," he explained, his words measured but kind. "Now, my Soulbound Artifact, the Sword of Red Run, no longer recognizes me as its true master." He sighed, the weight of the situation lingering in the air before he continued, his gaze firm but not unkind.
"Your task is to find my sword and remind it of our bond. Speak to its spirit—help it remember who I am." Though his eyes held the sharpness of a seasoned warrior, his tone remained warm, like an elder guiding a trusted disciple. "This is no small thing, but I have faith in you."
Donovan's brow furrowed, his mind racing with suspicion. "Aye, Senior Brother! But would you let us know? Where exactly is the Hanz Clan Treasury House located? My squad companions and I have already visited the Clan Chief Royal Study Libaraary and this Ancestral Shrine. If we waste time searching blindly, we risk delaying your plans." His voice was steady but laced with caution, a subtle probe into Krogh's intentions, wary of the manor's lurking dangers.
Krogh's face was calm, his voice smooth like aged wine—soft on the surface, yet carrying the quiet strength of a master who had weathered countless storms.
"The Treasure House rests deep beneath Driftdream Loch, where the water lilies bloom," he explained, his tone patient but firm. "It reveals itself only beneath the highest moon of the night. And there, at the heart of the lake, my sword stands vigil."
A faint warmth softened his words as he continued, "When the treasury opens, get to the lake pavilion. My Sword of Red Run will be waiting. Speak to it—not as a stranger, but as one who understands its duty."
Though his instructions were exact, there was no harshness in them—only the steady guidance of a mentor entrusting a sacred task.
Donovan's heart quickened, his instincts screaming of hidden motives. "Since Senior Brother you know its exact location, why not retrieve the sword yourself?" he asked, his tone respectful but edged with skepticism, probing for any crack in Krogh's enigmatic facade.
Krogh allowed a small, knowing smile to grace his lips, his eyes holding the quiet depth of a sword master who had seen centuries unfold. "There are... complications," he admitted, his voice as steady as an ancient oak. "Threads of fate bind me here—forces beyond your current understanding. But this task? It is well within your strength."
He leaned forward slightly, the crimson threads around him shimmering like whispered secrets. "Go alone, and move quickly. Your squad mates will be safe under my watch." His tone was reassuring, yet beneath it thrummed the unspoken weight of his power—not a threat, but a reminder that his protection was absolute. "Trust in that, and focus on your mission."
The faint glow of the threads pulsed once, as if sealing his vow, before settling back into stillness.
Donovan's instincts recoiled at the thought of splitting him with his Dominator Squad. "Senior Brother, this junior appreciate your offer, but we have always moved as one. My companions are my strength." His words were firm, a quiet defiance masked by deference, as he sought to keep his team intact against the haunted estate's relentless horrors.
Krogh chuckled, the sound rich with the fond exasperation of a master recalling a stubborn old friend. "Ah, the Sword of Red Run... a proud and willful thing," he mused, his eyes crinkling with something close to affection. "To this sword born, Qi Refinement Stage cultivators are little more than insects—hardly worth a glance. If your comrades follow you, they won't survive its temper."
His expression sobered, though his tone remained patient, like a teacher preparing a student for a trial. "When you reach the Treasury House, move with respect. The sword will test you—three slash strikes. Endure them, and it may deign to listen your words. But falter..." He paused, letting the gravity settle. "Well, it will see you as nothing more than its blood essence feast."
Leaning back, he studied the captain of Dominators, not with coldness, but with the quiet confidence of one who believed you could succeed. "Do you understand what must be done?"
Donovan's heart sank, but he masked his unease with a curt nod, clasping his fists in a gesture of compliance. "Understood." He turned to his companions, Zoe Wright and the others, his voice low and resolute. "Stay here and attend to Senior Brother Hanz's order. I'll return soon." His eyes lingered on them, a silent plea for vigilance in this cursed place.
Before Donovan could say more, Krogh raised a hand, and dozens of crimson threads surged from his body, coiling around Donovan with serpentine precision. The threads were icy, their chill seeping into his bones, yet they did not hinder his movement.
A wave of vertigo gripped the Mister First Dominator, the world shimmering like a mirage. When his vision cleared, Donovan stood in the main hall of Ancestral Shrine before the beaded curtain, its soft clinking now a sinister whisper in his ears. Fear gnawed at him, but he dared not linger. With a final glance at the curtain's ominous sway, he hastened out of the shrine's gaping maw, his breath ragged, his pulse hammering against his ribs like a trapped thing desperate to escape. Behind him, the ancestral shrine hall loomed, its time-warped beams groaning under the weight of centuries, its darkened alcoves humming with the whispers of the dead. The blood moon hung directly above, a swollen, livid eye, casting the torii gate in a sickly crimson glow. The once-vibrant vermilion paint had long since flaked into rust, the wood beneath cracked and weeping like old scars.
From this height, the abandoned Hanz Stronghold sprawled beneath him—a skeletal giant slumped against the mountainside. Its empty watchtowers jutted like broken ribs, its crumbling walls sagging like the flesh of a long-decayed corpse. The wind howled through its hollow bones, a mournful dirge for the lives that had once filled its courtyards with fire and clamor. Now, only ghosts walked there. And worse things.
Channelling Footwork Art, Donovan's boots skidded on the moss-slicked stone stairs as he plunged downward, the mountain's spine uncoiling before him in a treacherous descent. The shrine laterns that once lined the path had long since guttered out, their stone brackets now home only to creeping vines that snatched at his sleeves like skeletal fingers.
He didn't dare look back.
But the shrine's presence clung to him, its shadow stretching unnaturally long, as if the very earth sought to drag him into its embrace. The air smelled of damp stone and something older, something metallic—like the tang of a blade left too long in the rain.
He ran faster.
——
The mountains stood as ancient sentinels, their jagged peaks clawing at the bruised and bleeding sky. Twilight had not come gently—it had seeped into the world like a wound, staining the horizon in hues of rust and violet. And there, hanging low between the teeth of the Twin Peak Hill, the blood moon swelled, a baleful eye watching the land with eerie stillness.
The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the wind whispering through the trees like a chorus of forgotten voices. Shadows stretched long and hungry across the slopes, swallowing the last remnants of daylight. The rocks, worn smooth by centuries of unseen hands, gleamed faintly under the moon's crimson glow, as if slick with something darker than dew.
It was a moment suspended between dusk and nightmare—a breath held too long. The mountains, timeless and indifferent, bore the weight of the blood moon's gaze, their secrets buried deep beneath the shifting shadows.
As Lordi Payne emerged from the northwest rear mountain, his heart pounded with distrust.
He swung his Blade of Life Hater at the crimson threads binding him, but the bone blade passed through them as if they were phantoms, untouched by its razor edge. Summoning the Ice Pith Fire, he tried to burn them away, but the flames merely danced around the threads, unable to grasp their ethereal form.
Lordi's stomach churned with unease; Krogh's promises rang hollow, and the Holy Sect's so-called fellow dao camaraderie was a cruel jest. If he retrieved the Sword of Red Run, would Krogh truly share the Cosmic Path Foundation Establishment Technique with a stranger who had come to plunder his Hanz Clan Estate's treasures? More likely, he and Ruru Rosa would be slaughtered the moment Krogh's power was restored.
Worse still, Krogh had admitted the Sword of Red Run could not distinguish him from the Ju-On. Since that was the case, was the figure in that weird courtyard beneath Ancient Stone Well truly Krogh Hanz, or a cunning imposter woven by the Ju-On's malice?
Although Lordi had no idea what exactly was a Ju-On, he could tell from its name that it wasn't a good one. The name "Ju-On" alone evoked dread, a harbinger of malevolent and evil intent.
Lordi's only way to survival lay not in serving Krogh but in bolstering his own strength. Maybe the Hanz Estate's Treasure House was his key, a trove that might hold the power to defy and help him flee away this haunted estate.
With renewed urgency, Lordi accelerated his Blood Spectre Footwork Art, his form blurring into a streak of crimson as he raced toward the Water Lily Lake.