The Centralia Pavilion — home of The Master. A place usually soaked in the scent of blood and gore, where the vilest of vile beings resided. It was where he lived.
Inside a vast chamber stood a black marble tablet set atop a pedestal. Flickering candlelight cast long, twisted shadows across its furcated surface, the flames burning in all four corners of the room. Standing before the tablet was the wretched Master — his blistered, pock-marked scalp glistening wetly under the shifting light. A foul stench of rot clung to him like a second skin. He examined the tablet with care, then muttered, voice slick and trembling with emotion:
"Ahh... Chén Wēi. You are my disciple. Not like those fools before you... You value this Master of yours, don't you? You won't run, no. Oh, my disciple, I... I am truly touched by your sincerity to the self. And so, I shall help you climb to immortality with me.
Then those foolish lizards — they won't dare laugh at me. At us. We, we! I have not only made myself, but another! An immortal!
Then my name shall reach even the Heavens, and I shall walk its pristine and red-lacquered royal courts. Not like those pitiful half-immortals, still trapped in this wretched land.
Ohhh, my disciple… If you wish to receive your Master's wisdom — then speak. Ask."
Behind the grotesque master knelt a youth. His hair was medium-length, disheveled, and matted into knots. He wore the white robes of a Daoist, though tattered and dulled by grime noy of use but of abandonment . Upon his waist hung a black marble ornament, splintered and jagged like a shattered finger. Carved into it were the characters: Guǐlú Pài – Central Moon.
Cheng. He had been appointed as the Master's direct disciple — not by merit, but whim. The title "Central Moon" held no authority or meaning outside the deluded fantasies of the lunatic who ruled this place.
Without lifting his gaze from the warped wooden floor, Cheng spoke:
"Oh great and proud Master… please enlighten this flourishing disciple. Something has been plaguing my mind. What am I? What is a Phantasmael?"
The room fell into a sudden, suffocating stillness. The Master hummed — a low, distorted sound, like the final whimper of a dying animal.
"Yes, yes... I see it now. You... are a Phantasmael. Quite the misfortune. But… to be expected.
A Phantasmael is… hmm, not of this world. Nor of Heaven. A smudge in the rules and boundaries. Not wanted by fate, cursed by misfortune.
That's not... not good. But I must carry a disciple to the immortal realm. I must! I am better than those bastards!
Yes, Chén Wēi — I order you. Kill. Eat what holds the value of life."
The Master paused, as though awaiting Cheng's response. The flickering candles flared, casting frenzied shadows that danced like mad specters across the walls. The room grew heavier, darker. The scent of blood and decay lingered, thick and ever-present.
"Master… I do not understand. I pale in comparison to your insight. Please… spare me and guide this disciple."
"Ahhh… you come from—what was her name again? That fair-skinned, white-haired girl, yes… her.
Well then. If you're a Phantasmael, you cannot cultivate. So take another's soul. Take their seat, their boat — sail to immortality in their place.
Eat the girl. Not a drop wasted."
Cheng's hands began to numb. He wasn't shocked — not really. This world had been an endless assault of horrors since the day he woke in it. There was no safety. No comfort. Not in his body. Not in his mind.
He didn't even know who he was. He was Cheng, yes… but what did that mean? He hadn't discovered it yet. He had only crawled his way forward blind.
He swallowed the knot of saliva that had gathered in his dry throat.
"…Yes, Master. I shall do as you say. For your words are as true as the very laws of the world."