Lan gripped the hilt tightly.
At first glance, The Devil's Lie looked nothing like the legendary weapon feared in stories and whispered by trembling cultivators. Its hilt was bound in plain grey cloth, weathered and frayed, as if it had once been part of a mourner's robe. The blade itself was dull, spotted, and rust-stained—as if it had seen centuries of silence and rot.
No ominous hum of power.
No chilling whisper in the back of his mind.
No pull of fate.
Just stillness.
He braced himself for something—visions, screams, revelations. A surge of truth meant to split his soul in half.
But what he felt instead was… nothing.
His breath caught, and his brow furrowed.
"What… does this mean?" he murmured.
Had he truly changed so much? Had he become so hollowed out—so utterly detached from delusion—that even this blade had nothing to whisper?
Was he no longer lying to himself?
Had he severed that final thread of false virtue?
