The night wind over the Skyweeping Mountains was sharp, like a blade that could cut the soul.
Mo Lianyin stood at the peak, the moon a pale witness above. Beneath him, the world stretched endless—mountains, rivers, and the far-off glimmer of cities he once swore to protect.
But now… they felt like graves.
The Seventh Forbidden Art still pulsed inside him. It was not a gentle power—it roared in his veins, whispering of dominion, of death without end. The Heir of the Seventh Seal… that was what the spirits now called him.
He should have felt victorious.
Instead, he felt empty.
A faint crunch of gravel came from behind. Mo Lianyin did not turn.
"Qingxue," he said softly.
The woman stepped from the shadows, her white robes fluttering in the cold wind. Her eyes were unreadable, but her aura carried the faint frost of moonlit steel.
"You've changed," she said.
He gave a small smile, one that never reached his eyes. "So I've been told."
She stepped closer, stopping just beyond his reach. "The powers you carry… they'll kill you, Lianyin. One day, you'll look in the mirror and not see yourself."
Mo Lianyin let the wind fill the silence. "That day already came."
Qingxue's brows furrowed. "Then stop before you can't turn back."
He finally looked at her, his gaze deep and sharp. "Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I asked for seven forbidden arts to crawl into my bones?"
His voice dropped, colder. "Every step I've taken was because someone else decided my life was worth breaking."
Qingxue's lips parted, but she didn't speak.
He turned back to the horizon.
"They think I'm a weapon," he murmured. "Maybe I am. But before this ends… they'll know whose hand holds the blade."
---
Far away – The Crystal Hall
Zeiyan's reflection glimmered in the black glass floor. The elders stood around him, their faces pale from the news.
"The Heir of the Seventh Seal is dangerous," one elder said. "If he reaches the Eighth Art—"
"He won't," Zeiyan interrupted, his tone smooth. "Not unless we give him the path."
The elder frowned. "And why would we—"
"Because," Zeiyan's smile sharpened, "the Eighth will kill him faster than any sword."
The room fell into a tense hush.
---
Back on the mountain
Qingxue took a breath. "Then swear it," she said. "Swear you won't become like them."
Mo Lianyin's gaze didn't waver. "I can't swear to that."
Her heart tightened. "Then what can you swear?"
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "That before this ends… Zeiyan will fall. Even if it costs me my life."
The air grew heavy. The wind seemed to halt between them.
Qingxue's eyes glistened—not from weakness, but from the weight of knowing his words were true. She reached into her sleeve and drew a thin silver blade.
"If that's the oath you take," she said, "then I'll take it too."
Without hesitation, she sliced her palm. Blood dripped onto the snow.
Mo Lianyin met her gaze. Slowly, he cut his own palm, letting his blood join hers in the cold night air. The red mingled and hissed faintly as the Seventh Art's aura wove through it.
> "Our blood for our vow," Mo Lianyin said.
"Until the last breath," Qingxue replied.
They clasped hands. Power surged—a silent thunder that bound their souls.
Somewhere, the heavens shivered.
---
From the shadows below the mountain, unseen eyes watched.
A lone figure, cloaked in ash, murmured to himself:
"So the Heir takes a blood oath… Interesting. The eighth path will tempt him soon."
He vanished into the night.