The forest was still.
Still in that strange, watching way—like it was holding its breath.
Moonlight slashed through the canopy, cutting pale lines into the mist that swirled across the forest floor. The air felt too dense, like it remembered the violence that had just occurred. Every tree stood as a witness. Every shadow leaned in, silent and watchful.
But Yanwei walked as if it were just another night.
Calm. Measured. Unbothered.
Blood still stained the edge of his sleeve, but he didn't look back. His steps were clean. Confident. The hunt was over—at least for him.
Wuyan rested on his shoulder, her black fur blending into the folds of his robes. Her tail flicked once, and then she let out a soft meow—light, curious. Like a question.
Yanwei's lips curled slightly.
"You're asking why I spared her life?"
Wuyan licked his cheek in response, a small gesture of confirmation.
He chuckled quietly. "Heh… as if it's that easy."
He paused beneath a crooked tree, silver moonlight falling over him in strips. The forest ahead was quiet. The blood-soaked clearing behind was quieter.
"She has trump cards," he said simply. "Too many."
His tone didn't change, but something sharp crept beneath it.
"Things even I might not see. Techniques, artifacts, bloodline secrets… who knows. I don't need to pretend I understand the full scope of what she's hiding."
He touched the inside of his robe, where the cold, smooth surface of the Tideglass rested against his chest.
"People like her, they're never simple. Even when they look finished, they're not. There's always something coiled up inside, waiting to explode. You think you've won—and then you're dead."
He began walking again, slowly.
"Let's say I killed her. What then? Maybe she would've detonated some soul-bound backlash. Maybe she would've cursed me with her last breath. Or maybe…"
He smiled faintly.
"Maybe the real problem would've come after."
Wuyan let out a low, thoughtful murmur.
Yanwei nodded.
"Exactly. I don't know who's behind her. But if someone is—a master, an ancestor, some old monster keeping an eye on her from afar—killing her might've lit a beacon straight to me."
He gave a small shrug.
"But sparing her? That's different."
His eyes narrowed slightly, amused.
"In fact, if her background is deep… they might owe me."
He scoffed.
"I mean, think about it. I didn't kill her. I gave her a lesson. A proper setback. Cultivators like them value that crap. They see pain as growth. They'd probably call this mercy."
Wuyan's tail flicked again. Her ears twitched as if she understood.
"I didn't burn a sect. Didn't steal a clan's legacy. I just took the Tideglass."
He tapped his chest lightly.
"Fair and square."
She blinked, considering it. Then meowed once—calm, agreeing.
But Yanwei wasn't done.
He scoffed, voice dropping into something colder.
"And it's not like she has the will to fight me anymore."
His smile widened, sharp and cruel.
"Looking into her eyes back there…"
A pause. Then:
"I think I traumatized her. Broke her completely. Maybe even gave her PTSD."
Wuyan let out a short, sharp snort.
Then the two of them laughed.
Low. Cruel. Shared.
A quiet, private moment between man and beast—as if the suffering they'd left behind was just a joke they both understood.
Wuyan looked satisfied.
So did Yanwei.
And that, perhaps, was the greatest mistake he ever made.
Because in sparing her—humiliating her, breaking her down to pulp and ruin—he didn't destroy Velurya.
He created something else.
He didn't end her.
He lit the fuse.
And someday… that fuse might burn through the world and kill the demon he had become.
…
Several days had passed.
The forest was quiet again. The dirt had dried. The blood had sunk into silence.
But far away from that ruin—hidden in a territory that bore no name, claimed by no nation—a hall sat buried in the folds of geography, unknown to all but the few who mattered.
It was not sacred.
It was not spoken of.
It simply was.
They called it The Hall of Ten.
Ten thrones, ten seats of judgment. Each forged from a different material—stone, bone, jade, driftwood, gold, obsidian, iron, crystal, something ancient, and something alive. The arc of the thrones curved inward, not to invite discussion—but to contain decisions.
The room had no walls covered in scrolls. No sigils or banners. Only dim white light from the ceiling, and pressure.
Pressure so heavy it didn't push down—it pierced.
Outside the sealed stone doors, a man stood.
Young. Pale. Drenched in cold sweat.
His name didn't matter. What mattered was his title: the newly-appointed Internal Affairs Informant—a liaison tasked with delivering reports directly to the Ten.
It was his first summons.
And his body was already betraying him.
His stomach twisted. His bowels churned with sick nerves. His hands had gone numb.
He tried to breathe, failed, and tried again.
They said the Hall didn't kill people often.
But often wasn't never.
He'd been trained to speak. Coached to be direct. Reminded again and again: "Clarity over cleverness. Truth over tone."
But none of that mattered when he touched the door.
It opened without a sound.
And as soon as he stepped through, it hit him.
A wall of invisible force. Not spiritual energy. Not killing intent. Just… weight.
Like walking into a realm where time had slowed, and everything could see you.
His legs locked.
His skin crawled.
His instincts screamed: Run.
But his position screamed louder: Obey.
He raised his head—barely—and met the gaze of the ten.
Ten figures. Ten seats. Ten ancient beings.
Each one sat still. None leaned. None blinked.
But their eyes were open. And they looked at him—not like he was a person—but like he was a file. A diagram. A pattern they had already memorized.
And he felt it.
Not imagined—felt it.
As if his soul was being x-rayed.
Every mistake.
Every ambition.
Every trace of fear.
He couldn't move. Could barely speak. But somehow, his voice scraped free.
"I… I bring a report."
Silence.
Crushing silence.
But no anger.
Just… waiting.
The test had begun.
The silence stretched too long.
He bowed too fast, his spine stiff with panic.
"Lords… the first matter I must report is about one of the heirs—Miss Velurya."
Even saying her name felt like a violation. Like breathing in a room that didn't want air.
His lips were dry. His stomach twisted violently. The ache in his gut had been there since yesterday, when the report first reached his hands.
"She returned to our territory yesterday," he forced out, "from that backward country."
His voice trembled.
"No escorts. No protection. Her aura was suppressed. And… she was injured."
The word nearly caught in his throat.
Injured.
He remembered the moment he read the report. The courier had shoved the sealed scroll into his hands and left without a word.
He opened it casually—expecting trivial updates.
Then he read the first line.
'Velurya has returned. Alone. Gravely wounded. No spiritual defense active. Collapsed at the gate.'
His legs gave out.
His bladder nearly failed.
He couldn't even finish reading the rest at first—his hands were shaking too hard.
Because this wasn't just any genius.
This was Velurya—one of the sect's chosen heirs.
The kind of person people bowed to before she spoke. The kind of person who had never lost. Never failed. Never bled in public.
And now?
She came back like a ghost.
"I-I was told her physical injuries were stabilized," he continued, voice barely holding. "But she hasn't spoken since. Hasn't explained. She won't respond to anyone."
He paused, choking slightly.
"The medics say… it's her eyes. They say she doesn't look at people. She looks through them."
No one interrupted.
But he felt the silence shift.
He wasn't sure how. But the temperature felt different. The weight in the room heavier.
The Ten didn't speak.
They didn't glare.
They didn't need to.
Their gazes felt like surgical knives peeling him open. Measuring not just his words—but his fear.
And for the first time since arriving, he realized something worse than punishment.
They weren't angry.
They were thinking.
Because Velurya didn't just return wounded.
She returned defeated.
And whoever did it—might not be finished.