A storm of screaming and steel split the night, burning the illusion of sanctuary to ash. It had been her home, her prison, her pedestal—now the sacred courtyards flowed red, moonlight crawling over bodies heaped in heaps, shattered jade tiles drowned in blood and bile. Smoke licked the rafters, swirling with sparks and the sickly stench of burning flesh. Somewhere, bells tolled for the dead, too late for prayers.
Yue Liuxue—saintess, savior, puppet, whore—ran barefoot through the carnage, the silk of her ceremonial robes shredded and filthy, clinging to her skin in bloody tatters. Blood welled from a split lip, painted her teeth crimson. Her spirit blade was gone, broken by the very hands that had once knelt in adoration. The halls she'd blessed, the brothers and sisters she'd healed, all twisted against her now—hungry for her head, her power, her shame.
The ones who called her "holy" led the slaughter. Elder Liu's white beard was soaked with gore, eyes wild with zeal and hate. "There! Don't let her escape!" he roared, flinging a talisman that shrieked in the air—cursing, binding, writhing with forbidden qi. Behind him, the inner disciples fell on the wounded like starving wolves, carving open old wounds, ripping holy sigils from the dying, feeding on pain.
Liuxue's feet slapped through blood-slicked corridors. Every breath seared her lungs; every heartbeat screamed. She leapt a pile of corpses—too small, too young, their hands still clutching prayer beads—and stumbled, gasping, into the ruined garden. The moon shone down, indifferent, cold silver bleeding over the carnage.
She had been their hope. She had spent a lifetime swallowing poison, stitching together broken bodies, blessing fools who saw her as little more than a living talisman. When the plagues came, she took the fever on herself. When the demon tide rose, she bled to save the sect's precious sons and daughters. When they needed a scapegoat for failure, for drought, for war—her body bore the pain. Tonight, her blood paid the price.
A fresh wave of killing qi slammed into her back, sending her crashing into a half-burned cherry tree. A spearpoint grazed her side—warmth spilled out, sticky on her thigh. Someone's laughter—high, bright, familiar. She twisted, caught a glimpse of Sect Brother Yan—her first friend, her first kiss—his sword drenched in viscera, eyes glassy with a fanatic's joy.
"Don't look so betrayed, Sister. Did you really think we'd let you keep it all?" His mouth twisted, spitting out the word "saintess" as if it tasted of shit.
She answered with a snarl, throwing a handful of shimmering talisman shards—moonfire flared, blinding and cold, eating at his qi. He cursed, recoiling, but another came behind him—then another. They surged after her, blades flashing, laughter growing crueler with every step.
She ran, half-blind, vision swimming with blood and tears. Her legs barely obeyed her. Her mind clawed for a plan, for mercy, for anything—but mercy was for the dead. All she could do was run, teeth bared, hate bubbling up from the pit of her soul.
Through the north gate, past shattered statues, over broken wards. The air reeked of burning spirit grass and roasting flesh. She crashed through the lotus pool—scalding water seared her feet, mixing her blood with sacred moonlight. She saw herself reflected in the surface: not a saintess, not a savior. Just a wounded animal, face streaked with filth, lips pulled back in a snarl, gold eyes wild with the need to live.
A memory flashed—her master's hand on her head, voice whispering that all suffering was a gift from the gods. The urge to laugh—broken, hysterical—rose in her throat. Where was the gift now? What god watched as her sect raped its own savior, stripped her power, pissed on her name?
She stumbled into the hidden sanctuary, the heart of the valley, where moonlight spilled over a sacred spring. The stones glowed faintly, sigils etched deep, promises of protection long since broken. Her knees buckled. She fell hard, palms scraping open, blood sizzling on the wards.
She tried to call her power—reach deep, knit flesh and bone, seal the wounds, banish the poison. But her spirit was cracked, qi leaking out like water through a shattered jar. The spring's waters hissed where her blood touched, turning the moon's reflection red.
A footstep—soft, deliberate—echoed in the dark. She whipped around, ragged breath hissing through her teeth. Yan stood in the moonlight, sword drawn, face smug and sharp as a dagger.
"Well, isn't this poetic?" He stalked closer, voice thick with contempt. "The saintess, on her knees. You should get used to that. It suits you."
She spat blood at his feet, eyes burning. "You'll die choking on my name, traitor."
He chuckled, running his sword along her cheek, tracing a line of blood. "Still so proud. Still pretending you're better than us. Who healed the traitors? Who let the demons into our gates, in the name of mercy? Every corpse here, every ruined disciple—that's your gift to the world. You're filthier than any of us."
His words cut deeper than his blade. For a heartbeat, her vision blurred—not from pain, but from raw, white-hot rage. She lunged, lashing out with bare hands, nails raking his face. He laughed, backhanded her hard enough to send her sprawling into the water.
Her mind screamed: Not like this. Not kneeling. Not broken. She bit her tongue, tasted iron, forced herself up—one last spell, one last defiance.
She carved a bloody sigil into her own chest, drawing on every scrap of power, every curse, every filthy, forbidden thing she'd learned while healing the damned. The moon above shivered. The water boiled. Her aura flared, dazzling and raw, stripping away any illusion of sainthood. For one glorious, agonized second, she was power incarnate.
The cultivators shrieked, their weapons splintering, talismans burning away in blue-white fire. Yan screamed, clutching his ruined face, falling to his knees. For a moment, she was victorious—a vengeful goddess drowning the world in hate.
But it wasn't enough. They swarmed her, a dozen hands dragging her down, weapons stabbing, boots crushing, laughter echoing. They tore her robes, spat on her, pressed her face into the mud, the water, the blood. Someone drove a blade through her thigh. Another broke her fingers one by one. Her spirit weapon—her last hope—shattered in a flash of pain. Her name became a curse on their lips.
They stripped her title with every blow. They called her demon, whore, traitor. Her flesh burned, bones cracked, spirit unraveling. In her ears, only the pounding of her own furious heart.
She begged the gods for nothing. She didn't pray for mercy. She spat blood, cursed every name, every hand, every faithless promise.
Her last thoughts were not of forgiveness, but of fire. She saw the faces of those she'd loved, now dead or worse—disciples butchered, friends gone hollow-eyed and mad, lovers twisted by jealousy and fear.
She remembered the girl she'd been—young, bright, hungry for affection. She remembered the first time the elders praised her, the first time a friend betrayed her, the first time she learned that love was a leash and duty a blade. She remembered every filthy humiliation, every sacred lie.
And as her body failed, as her heartbeat faded, she refused to let go. Her soul clung to the world—not for salvation, not for peace, but for vengeance.
The world blurred. Cold water closed over her face. She tasted death—wet, metallic, final.
Yet something answered. In the darkness beneath the spring, in the void where spirit and flesh came undone, a shadow coiled—a hungry, waiting thing. Her soul tore free of her ruined body, writhing in agony and hate.
She cursed the living, the dead, the gods themselves. Her soul twisted, refusing surrender, flinging spite and sorrow into the void. Her killers flinched as a cold wind swept the spring, an ancient promise broken, a curse laid.
As her body bled out, as her final breath shuddered free, Yue Liuxue's last prayer was a scream: Let me live again. Let me burn them all. Let the world know the fury of a saintess betrayed.
The moon shivered. The water turned to silver fire. Her soul vanished—dragged, kicking, biting, shrieking—into the darkness that waited beyond death.
The world above moved on, the blood cooling, the laughter dying. But somewhere, far from the ruined sanctuary, a new monster began to stir.