In the 9th Cycle of the Heavenly War, when the Blood Moon Sect drowned the earth in corpses and painted it's rivers with blood to appease their hungering god, a smith named Liánjié the Unbroken forged a weapon unlike any other.
He did not use God-steel. He did not carve runes of power.
He hammered the blade from a single tear shed by the last living monk of the Silent Temple—a man who had watched his brothers flayed alive for refusing to scream.
The sword's name?
"The Devil's Lie."
Because it was not a weapon.
It was a confession—carved in steel. The grief of a world where righteousness had drowned in silence.
To wield the Devil's Lie was to hear the truth. The screams of the ore it was forged from. The betrayals festering in an enemy's heart. The cowardice hiding beneath a desperate vow.
But its true horror lay not in what it revealed, but what it forced the wounded to remember. One scratch—and they would see.
Every sin.
Every compromise.
