In the gardens of the Song estate, beneath the cover of the moon, Zhao Liren knelt before a lotus pond. The water rippled unnaturally, swirling as if something ancient stirred beneath it.
He held out a silver dagger and sliced his palm, letting blood drip into the water.
The pond responded—black tendrils of shadow curling up toward him like snakes.
A voice, genderless and cruel, echoed in his mind.
"She slips from your grasp, Liren."
"The Thread is fraying."
"She will return," Zhao said calmly. "The vessel must be completed."
The shadows hissed.
"Or we consume YOU."
Suddenly, pain erupted through his chest. His tattoos—inked along his spine from rituals he barely survived—began to burn.
The lotus mark—twisted and inverted—pulsed on his shoulder.
"She's mine," he gasped. "By right and by rite."
But the shadows only laughed.
---
At the same moment, far across the city, Jiaojiao sat in a candlelit room, ink-brushed talismans pinned to the walls. Chen Wanli knelt across from her, his hands steady as he unfolded a scroll.
"Do you trust me?" he asked.
"With my life," she said.
Wanli nodded and placed his hand on her chest, over the lotus mark.
A surge of spiritual energy lit the room in gold and white.
As the ritual began, Jiaojiao gasped.
She wasn't just remembering the past.
She had lived it.
She was not merely the heir of the Song family.
She was the Reincarnated Healer, last of the Divine Weavers, the ones who could mend fate itself.
And now—
Fate was bleeding.
---