The moon was a thin blade above the mountains, its pale silver bleeding through the cracks of the cloud-filled sky. Mo Lianyin stood alone in the courtyard of the sect, his robes whispering against the stone tiles as the night wind wrapped around him like an unseen shroud. The Seven Forbidden Arts pulsed quietly inside his meridians, a constant reminder of both his salvation and his damnation.
Ever since his return, whispers had followed him. The disciples who once bowed in awe now stole glances filled with unease, as though his very presence distorted the air. The elders—those who had once praised his potential—now kept their distance, speaking his name as though it carried poison.
"Demon-blooded…" he had overheard one of them mutter.
"Unstable… he should never have returned," whispered another.
But Lianyin endured, as he always had. Betrayal had carved him into silence, and silence had become his weapon.
That night, as he traced the cracks on the courtyard stone, he felt it—the faint ripple of killing intent. It slithered like smoke at the edge of his senses. Without lifting his head, he shifted his hand, pressing two fingers against the seal burned into his wrist. The seventh art stirred in response, a black lotus blooming faintly under his skin.
From the shadows, three figures emerged. Masks covered their faces, but their movements carried the cold precision of trained assassins. Their robes bore no insignia, but the faint fragrance of burning sandalwood betrayed them. Lianyin's eyes narrowed. Harrison Sect.
The tallest of them stepped forward, blade gleaming with venom. "Mo Lianyin," the man's voice was low, distorted through the mask. "Your survival is a mistake we have been sent to correct."
Lianyin tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth curving into something that was neither smile nor snarl. "Sent… or desperate?"
Without another word, the assassins lunged.
The first blade came like lightning—swift, merciless. Lianyin did not retreat. Instead, he whispered, "Second Art—Veins of the Abyss."
Dark tendrils burst from the cracks of the stone courtyard, coiling like serpents. They caught the blade mid-strike, snapping it into shards with a scream of steel. The assassin staggered back, eyes wide beneath his mask.
The second assassin leapt into the air, weaving talismans into flame. Crimson fire coiled into a spear and descended with the weight of thunder. Lianyin raised his hand, palm open. The flames struck—and then bent backward, twisting into black ash before exploding around their wielder. The scream was brief.
The third assassin did not falter. His movements were calm, too calm, and Lianyin immediately recognized it—a killer who knew patience, not frenzy. He drew no sword, no flame, only a silver thread that gleamed under the moonlight. It was a binding art, one that could sever soul from flesh.
Lianyin's chest tightened. This was no ordinary assassin.
The thread lashed forward. Lianyin sidestepped, but the silver coiled unnaturally, following like a living thing. It brushed against his sleeve, slicing through cloth and skin alike. Pain lanced up his arm.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated. That was all the assassin needed. The silver wrapped around his wrist, pulling tight, aiming to strip the lotus seal from his flesh.
Lianyin's gaze darkened. His free hand closed into a fist. "Seventh Art—Devouring Lotus."
A black bloom erupted from his palm, petals of shadow curling outward. The silver thread screamed as though it were alive, disintegrating into motes of ash. The assassin staggered, clutching at his chest as blood dripped from beneath the mask.
The courtyard fell silent once more. Only the broken stones and the faint stench of blood remained.
Lianyin stood unmoving, his breath calm despite the wounds along his arm. His eyes, however, were distant. He could feel it—the lotus seal had pulsed stronger than before, its hunger sharper. Every time he used the Seventh Art, it demanded more of him. More of his soul.
Behind him, footsteps echoed. He did not turn until he heard the familiar voice.
"Lianyin."
It was Aoren, his once sworn brother, now bound by a thread of mistrust that neither could sever. Aoren's gaze swept the bodies littering the ground, then landed on Lianyin's blood-stained arm. For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his face.
"You're walking deeper into it," Aoren said quietly. "Every time you call on that art… it consumes you."
Lianyin did not reply.
"You think the sect fears you now? Wait until they see what's becoming of you."
Finally, Lianyin lifted his eyes, cold and steady as moonlit ice. "Then let them fear me. Fear is easier than betrayal."
Aoren flinched, but said nothing more.
Above them, the moon slipped behind a cloud, plunging the courtyard into shadow.
And in that silence, Mo Lianyin knew: the cracks in reverence were no longer cracks. They were fractures. And soon, the whole world would break.