The night sky above Yunshan Peak was different tonight. Clouds didn't simply drift—they coiled, thick and black, pressing low over the mountain as if they wished to crush it into the earth. Through the swirling dark, a moon bled its crimson light onto the world below.
Mo Lianyin stood on the cliff's edge, his robes snapping in the cold wind. Every whisper of the air seemed to carry words no mortal could decipher. The faint hum in his veins—the residue of the Seven Forbidden Arts—pulsed in rhythm with the moon's slow, oppressive heartbeat.
He could feel it: tonight, the veil between realms was thinning.
Behind him, the faint crunch of gravel announced another's presence.
"You shouldn't be here," a familiar voice said.
It was Yan Xue, her white robes already dusted with frost, a slender blade strapped to her back. The moonlight painted her face pale, but her eyes… they were dark, filled with something dangerously close to fear.
"You feel it too," Lianyin said quietly, not turning to face her.
"It's the Blood Moon," she replied, her tone low. "They say the last time it rose, three sects vanished in a single night. Their disciples were found wandering days later, blind and mad, whispering the same name—one that none dared to repeat."
Lianyin finally turned, his gaze locking with hers. "And you think that name will come for us tonight?"
Yan Xue hesitated, her hands tightening on the strap of her blade. "I think whatever's waiting beyond that veil has been watching you for far longer than you realize."
For a moment, neither spoke. The wind howled like a living thing, wrapping around them with claws of ice.
Then, without warning, the mountain trembled.
A low, resonant hum rose from deep within the ground, vibrating through their bones. Crimson light bled through the cracks in the rock beneath their feet. The air thickened, tasting of iron.
Lianyin's instincts screamed—this was no natural phenomenon. This was a calling.
The shadows in the forest below began to move, writhing as if alive. Dozens—no, hundreds—of figures emerged, each cloaked in darkness. Their forms were indistinct, faces obscured, yet their eyes burned with faint, otherworldly light.
Yan Xue's blade was in her hand in an instant. "Lianyin—"
"I know," he cut in, stepping forward. "Don't touch them. They are not… here."
As if to prove his words, one shadow passed directly through a boulder, leaving not even a scratch. Another reached a hand toward Lianyin, its fingers stretching unnaturally long until they nearly brushed his chest.
The moment it came close enough, the mark on his sternum—the one etched into him the night he first accepted the Seven Forbidden Arts—flared with searing heat.
He gasped, staggering.
From the shadows came a voice—soft, melodic, yet layered with countless tones as if an entire crowd spoke at once.
"Mo Lianyin… return."
The word struck him like a physical blow. His vision blurred, and in the haze he saw flashes—fragments of another place. A bridge of bone suspended over a sea of blood. Towers of glass that reflected nothing. Eyes—so many eyes—watching from the void.
Yan Xue's hand closed on his shoulder, grounding him. "Lianyin! What is it saying?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. The voice was inside him now, curling around his thoughts like smoke.
"You are bound. You are ours. Your heart—"
He tore himself back with a snarl, the crimson light in his eyes dimming. "It wants the Seventh Art."
Yan Xue's face went ashen. "The Seventh Art… You swore you would never—"
"I may not have a choice," he said, his voice hoarse. "If I don't give it, it will take it by force."
The shadows moved closer, their edges fraying like tattered cloth in the wind. The Blood Moon's light grew stronger, and the humming beneath their feet turned into a rumble.
From the treeline, a new presence emerged—a tall figure draped in black, his face hidden beneath a silver mask. Unlike the other shadows, his form was solid. Real. His steps were soundless, yet every movement carried weight.
"Mo Lianyin," the masked figure said, his tone almost amused. "You've made them very impatient."
Lianyin narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
The man tilted his head. "A messenger. Nothing more. But if you insist on defiance, then I suppose I'll have to escort you myself."
Yan Xue stepped in front of Lianyin, blade raised. "You'll have to go through me first."
The masked man's laugh was soft, like silk tearing. "That can be arranged."
In the instant he moved, the air split. Yan Xue's sword met his, sparks erupting in the cold night. The shadows surged forward in unison, their whispers rising to a deafening chorus.
Lianyin didn't wait. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood, pressing his palm against the mark on his chest. The seal responded instantly, the forbidden energy flooding his veins. His vision turned sharp, colors bending and twisting in unnatural hues.
The first Art: Silent Step—he vanished from sight.
The second: Phantom Grip—his hands closed around the masked man's arm, locking it in place.
The third: Shatter Pulse—a wave of force rippled out, scattering the nearest shadows.
But the masked man only smiled beneath the silver. "Good. Show me more."
Lianyin's breath came heavy. The pull of the Seventh Art grew stronger, whispering promises of absolute dominance if he would just surrender to it. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but from the unbearable temptation.
Somewhere deep inside, he knew: once he used it, there would be no turning back.
The Blood Moon above seemed to lean closer, as if waiting for his choice.