The villagers watched from a distance.
Dozens of robed strangers knelt in perfect unison before Shen. Each wore crimson-stitched robes, their faces covered by veils dyed with ash and blood.
Ru Chen stood at their front, arms crossed over his chest.
"With your awakening, we swear ourselves once more to the Phoenix Line. Body, soul, and legacy."
Shen frowned. "I'm not a king."
"No," Ru Chen said, his eyes gleaming. "You are something older."
Inside the ancestral hall
Hu Meilin counted the scrolls the Archivists brought.
"Fifty-three martial techniques, twelve forbidden ones, three ancient bloodline awakenings… And this one talks to me." She pointed at a scroll wrapped in snake-skin. "It hissed when I touched it."
Shen ignored her. His eyes were on the sealed mask resting in the shrine alcove.
It pulsed again.
Whispers.
"Refine them. Test them. Break them."
He winced.
The mask wanted blood.
Training ground – later that night
Yueyin faced one of the Archivist disciples in mock battle.
He was fast. Precise.
She was faster.
Within minutes, the man lay unconscious, pressure points sealed.
Yueyin wiped sweat from her brow. "They're trained, but rusty."
Shen watched quietly. "We'll fix that."
Ru Chen stepped forward. "My Lord, we were scholars once. But if the mask has awakened… we will become your blades again."
Midnight – the third trial begins
Shen sat in meditation, surrounded by the Archivists. Candles flickered.
Ru Chen's voice was steady.
"This is the Crimson Oath Rite. It will bind you to our ancestral flame."
"What's the price?" Shen asked.
"Only truth."
The mask floated before him now, weightless. Its eye sockets glowed faintly red.
"Speak your name," it demanded.
"Shen."
"Speak your desire."
"To never be weak again."
"Speak your truth."
A pause.
"I am not just Shen. I am the shadow of a prince. I was thrown away. Forgotten. But I will carve my place into history."
The mask pulsed once.
Then melted.
It flowed into his skin, branding itself into his chest — not as a burden, but as a flame.
Outside the village
In the woods nearby, three shadows approached silently.
Black-robed. Silver knives.
The Black Veil, assassins of the Empress.
One whispered, "Target: Shen, age 16. Suspected heretic."
The other chuckled, "Poor boy. Probably doesn't even know why she wants him dead."
They never saw the fourth shadow behind them.
Yueyin's blade whispered once.
Only silence remained.