The black flames wavered on the pillars, casting flickers of shadow that danced like silent phantoms. The air hung heavy with the subtle crackle of unseen power — restrained, waiting, watchful.
Xu Wuzhou sat upon the cracked altar. He forced stillness into his posture, though every nerve screamed to flee. The four knelt before him — silent, waiting. Not in reverence, but in expectation, like tacticians before a general.
So long as they believed, he lived.
He studied them one by one:
Mo, the tall one — spine straight as his blade, eyes sharp beneath the weight of unshed violence.
Yan, hunched and muttering, his chains slithering across the stone like restless snakes.
Xue, crimson-robed, her smile curved like a blade, watching him with unsettling calm.
The Black Envoy, masked and motionless, unreadable, his presence still as water in a poisoned well.
Xu Wuzhou's heartbeat thundered. He needed knowledge — their roles, this place, the nature of the oath that bound them. But he couldn't ask. Not directly. Not without unraveling the illusion.
So he commanded them to speak.
He let the silence stretch like a drawn bow, until it rang taut in the air. Then, cold and clipped:
"Count what endures. No speeches. Facts only."
The words landed like an incantation.
Mo rose to one knee.
"Three safehouses remain. Hidden along the collapsed northern tunnels. Our informants in Ashveil still report — smugglers, ash-haulers, debt-slaves. They trade whispers through coded shipments. Loyal. Uncompromised."
Xu gave a sharp nod, masking his surprise. A network of loyalists among the living. Risky — but useful.
Yan slithered forward, chains rattling softly. His voice, a sanded whisper.
"Two corpse-vaults untouched. One crushed beneath a collapsed spire, but I can dig. The puppets are sealed — sleeping. Ready. And my sparrows — stitched, silent — see without being seen."
He raised one hand. From his sleeve, a misshapen bird made of bone and skin fluttered noiselessly. Xu fought the urge to recoil.
"Deploy them," he said evenly. "Map the tunnels. Every entrance. Every threat."
Xue stepped forward with liquid grace, veil shifting with her breath.
"The blood wells near the Bleeding Lake remain viable. I sealed ledgers there — names, debts, betrayals. Written in marrow. With your leave, I will recover and update them."
There was challenge in her tone — a provocation, waiting to be crushed or indulged.
Xu answered with ice.
"Retrieve the ledgers. Clean the trail. If a diviner so much as tastes your ink, you've failed."
Her eyes gleamed.
"Practical. As always, my Lord."
Finally, the Envoy moved. From his robe he unfolded a brittle parchment and placed it on the altar. His voice was low, smooth.
"The Ash Key endures. It binds us to this place. But with your blood, Lord, we may cross the veil. The Key sets time and space — boundaries defined by your will. If we stray too far, the oath burns us."
Xu examined the parchment briefly. Its surface shimmered faintly, drawn with sigils like thorned vines. A tether, not a prison. Control, but with conditions.
"Who watches the Ashlands?" he asked, voice flat.
Mo answered instantly.
"The Azure Sky Sect. Their garrison holds the Ashen Citadel. Patrols ride each new moon, torches burning blue. Cleansing rites, or so they claim. But they do not cleanse — they watch."
Yan hissed, chains vibrating.
"They etch Heaven's circuits into the dust. Lines of purity. Binding scripts carved into the ash. They scratch our door with Heaven's claws."
Xu's jaw tensed. So the Pavilion was not only buried — it was watched, sealed, contained.
"Who commands them?" he pressed.
The Envoy responded.
"A Watcher Envoy. The names change. The face, the voice — different each cycle. But the role endures. Their eyes are mirror-sharp. They are trained to see through masks."
A blade of cold ran through Xu's stomach. A man trained to pierce falsehoods.Trained to see lies.
Like me.
He rose slowly, letting silence stretch over them. Then, one by one, he delivered his commands — firm, surgical.
"For thirty nights, no blood near the surface. No signs. No noise.
Mo — shadow their patrols. Learn their rhythms. Stay unseen.
Yan — send the sparrows. Unearth the buried vault. Catalogue what lives.
Xue — recover your ledgers. Burn every trace of your ink.
Envoy — prepare the Ash Key. When I call, we leave."
The orders were not ritual. They were strategy.
The four bowed their heads in perfect unity.
He let silence press in one final beat. Then spoke:
"Dormancy is a blade."
The words were not sermon. Not prophecy. They were a lesson. A law.And yet, the four reacted as if hearing sacred scripture.
Mo's hand tightened over his blade.Yan cackled softly, chains twitching.Xue mouthed the phrase like an invocation.The Envoy gave a slow, deliberate nod.
They departed in silence — ghostlike.
Xu Wuzhou remained.
The black flames dimmed as he walked the Sanctuary's perimeter, fingers brushing along the carved lotus pillars. Then he stopped.
Symbols. Dozens — no, hundreds — etched faintly into the stone. Some deep, others worn smooth by time. Not characters. Not talismans.
Tally marks.
Not in any script he knew — but unmistakable in their purpose.Records.Of what?
Endurance? Failures? Deaths?
The Seed stirred within him — cold and knowing. Its whisper curled around his thoughts:
"They all counted. None lasted."
He stared at the marks. Felt their weight.
He was not a fighter. Not a cultivator. Not even truly chosen.
But he was a scholar. He recorded. He measured.He endured.
"I am not them," he whispered."I will not be them."
The Seed chuckled — dry and ancient.
The last candle extinguished.
Xu Wuzhou stood alone before the altar, repeating his words — no longer to the Elders, but to himself:
"Dormancy is a blade."
And in the dark, his monsters moved.
The Pavilion — long buried, long cursed — began to breathe again.