The town was blanketed in that peculiar post-dusk stillness—the kind that rang louder than temple bells, where every footstep echoed off cobbled paths like a whispered omen promising blood. Mochen wandered without purpose, kicking at loose stones with barely contained frustration, lips curled into a perpetual scowl. A bored sigh escaped him like smoke.
He had had enough of this farce.
"Where the hell is he," he muttered, eyes scanning every corner as if Chen Xinyu would magically step from a passing shadow to ease his mounting anxiety. At the inn, Xinyu was nowhere to be found—his room empty, cold, abandoned. Mochen asked the staff with increasing urgency, then a fruit vendor, then finally cornered a group of local boys who blinked up at him wide-eyed and eager to please.
"Oh, that pretty-faced man with the crying girl and another beautiful man?" one said innocently.
Mochen nearly choked on air. "Beautiful man? You mean stoic-faced bastard. That's not beauty, that's facial paralysis."
But his gut told him it was them—of course it was. Without another word, he turned and followed the path down to the river with predator's focus.
There, in the distance, a large boat rocked gently against the current like a sleeping beast, dark-robed figures loading something bulky onto it—a long, rectangular box. A coffin.
His brows furrowed with dark recognition. Mochen ducked low, moving silently along the shadows like liquid night. He was nimble as a hunting cat, hiding behind bundled crates with practiced ease, his breathing slow and deliberate as meditation. The boat launched. He stayed hidden all the way, only slipping off when the boat reached the far bank with barely a ripple.
The men were speaking in low voices.
"Another young one for the master," one said, adjusting his robe with casual cruelty.
"Yes," another replied with satisfaction, "once this one's qi is consumed, he'll grant the town another blessing. We eat well. We live well. All under His protective wing."
Mochen's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.
So the rumors were true—worse than true. These people weren't desperate victims—they were loyal servants. Loyal to something wicked that fed on innocence. He remained still as death itself, eyes glinting with a hunter's focus. They carried the coffin into the trees. The word *ritual* floated from their lips like rot seeping from a wound.
"What the hell are they doing..." Mochen murmured to darkness. He scratched his head and looked around, jaw tightening with resolve. "This isn't normal cultivation. I need to find Xinyu before—"
He picked up pace, following the traces of qi that clung faintly to the air—Xinyu's distinctive signature. That soft, gentle warmth he always carried around like an unconscious shield against the world's cruelty. Mochen could sense it like a compass pointing home.
He inhaled deeply. *I've got you.*
Behind him, a sudden sound—quick, deliberate steps.
Mochen spun with deadly precision, seized the figure, and slammed them against a tree trunk, his forearm pressing against their throat with bruising force. The person choked, flailing desperately.
"It's—me—you idiot—Mochen—!"
Chi Ruyan's voice rasped under his grip. He immediately released her, lips curling in irritation.
"I should've known you'd follow like a persistent ghost," he muttered.
She coughed violently, hand pressed to her abused throat. "You maniac—!"
He ignored her theatrical suffering.
"You're following Hua Ling, aren't you?" she accused, walking after him with determination. "I couldn't find him at the inn. I figured you were on his trail."
"I'm not following that insufferable bastard," Mochen snapped. "I'm looking for Yu-ge."
"Hmph," Chi Ruyan rolled her eyes with knowing expression. "Same difference. Where Xinyu is, Hua Ling is glued like moss to stone."
They walked in terse silence, weaving through a thinning forest that seemed to hold its breath. Mochen stopped suddenly, crouched low, pulling her behind a bush with a sharp warning glare. Voices again—closer now.
Two men in black robes.
"The master awaits. Let's hurry before dawn."
"The girl should still be in the cave. She won't be a problem—too weak to escape."
Chi Ruyan stilled like prey sensing predator. Mochen's jaw clenched until teeth ground together.
*Girl?*
After the men disappeared into darkness, they crept out cautiously.
Chi Ruyan muttered, "Hey, do you really know where they are?"
Mochen didn't answer. His fingers were already curled tight into fists. His heart thudded with growing urgency that tasted like copper. He knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Chen Xinyu was in mortal danger.
---
Elsewhere in the woods, beneath the cover of ghostly trees whose branches seemed to reach like skeletal fingers, Xinyu pulled his robe tighter against the biting wind that carried whispers of something wrong. Hua Ling walked beside him, quieter than usual—concerning in itself, while Mister Xu followed leisurely behind, humming tunelessly like a man without care.
"Can you sense her?" Xinyu asked with mounting concern.
Hua Ling paused. His crimson eyes were heavy, clouded like blood diffused in water.
"No... It's strange. My senses... they're numb. Dulled."
Xinyu frowned with sharp worry. "Are you unwell?"
Before Hua Ling could answer, Lingque, who had been gripping Tang Tang's hairpin tightly like a lifeline, stopped abruptly.
Her brows furrowed. Her breath slowed to nothing. Her eyelashes fluttered.
"I can feel her."
Xinyu turned sharply. "What?"
Lingque looked up, her voice suddenly trembling with urgent hope. "Tang Tang. She's alive—I can feel her qi signature. It's faint as dying ember, but she's not far. We have to move—now."
She took a step back, summoned her divine qi with determination, and in a brilliant shimmer of light transformed. Her human form faded like morning mist, replaced by a majestic pink-feathered peacock, elegant and proud. Her wings spread wide, catching the moonlight like blades of rose gold that could cut through darkness itself.
"Come on, get on!" she commanded.
Xinyu turned. Hua Ling grabbed his hand gently—touch lingering, warm despite the cold.
"I'll be right behind you. Be careful."
Their fingers lingered for just a breath longer than necessary, saying what words couldn't.
Then Xinyu climbed onto Lingque's back, and with a rush of wind that stirred dead leaves, they soared into the cold sky.
---
Hua Ling walked on foot, Mister Xu trailing like shadow. For a while, neither spoke—silence thick enough to choke on.
"You seem to care for your friend far too much," Xu said, voice light and casual—too casual.
Hua Ling remained cold as winter stone. "So?"
"It's rare. To see someone like you care that deeply for anyone."
Hua Ling didn't answer, but thought with growing unease, *Why would he say that? Why does he care?*
Something gnawed at his chest like rats in walls. His pace slowed involuntarily.
The world was too quiet. His breathing turned shallow and labored.
Suddenly—he stumbled.
Mister Xu stepped forward with feigned concern, placing a hand on his back. "Young master? You alright?"
Hua Ling's knees hit the earth with jarring impact. He trembled, hands pressed to the ground for support.
Red eyes glared upward with dawning understanding and fury.
"...What did you do to me?"
"Huh?" Xu blinked innocently, but his smile was wrong. "I did nothing."
"Don't lie to me."
Xu's grin widened, all pretense dropping like shed skin. "Still sharp, aren't you? Even poisoned."
Hua Ling's body felt heavy as if buried under earth—his limbs numb, his qi muddled and scattered, like someone had clogged his meridians with ash and poison. Xu's voice shifted, darker now—revealing true nature.
"Arrogant little thing. Just like your father."
A chill raked down Hua Ling's spine like claws on bone.
"What... did you say?"
Xu leaned in, crouching beside him like vulture over dying prey. "Demon Lord's son. It's obvious to those who know. You have his eyes. That same insufferable pride. That same contemptuous disdain for all beneath you."
"You..."
"He'll be very unhappy when he hears you've been slaughtered by a nobody like me." Xu's laugh was cruel as winter wind. "I'll enjoy delivering the news personally."
Xu's hand grabbed Hua Ling's chin with brutal force. Cruel fingers dug into delicate skin hard enough to bruise.
"I hate your father more than anything in this world. And now—he'll finally know the taste of loss."
Hua Ling's vision blurred like ink bleeding on wet paper. His head throbbed with agony. His qi scattered like dust in storm wind.
He collapsed onto the cold dirt, red eyes dimming like dying coals. Xu stood, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve with casual disdain.
"Such a waste of a pretty face."
He spat to the side and walked away without looking back.
The forest swallowed the sound of his footsteps, leaving only silence and suffering.
And Hua Ling lay still, breath shallow and labored, like a candle fighting against the final wind before darkness claims all.