Chapter 3
The staircase of frozen light led not upward, but inward.
Each step sank him deeper into a silence that hummed with divine tension. The void around him shifted; the stars condensed until they became towering spires, each crowned with a crimson moon. By the time he reached the final step, the world had rearranged itself into a city that defied orientation—a labyrinth of palaces, shrines, and shadowed streets spiraling around a single colossal tower.
The City of Darkness.
Even air here tasted of power—ancient, jealous, resentful. The ground shimmered with obsidian dust that reflected distorted versions of his form: tall, feminine, pale-skinned, long black hair spilling to his waist, red eyes like dying stars. The illusion of his new identity was perfect. Not a thread of demonic Qi escaped his control.
His new name whispered through his thoughts like a curse.
Nyxara.
He adjusted the long cloak draping his shoulders. Beneath the feminine shape of his disguise, he was still himself—blade, scar, and flame—but his aura flowed differently now, soft yet cold, concealing every pulse of killing intent.
He had learned from the monks of the Holy Bell City: sometimes purity was not an enemy, but camouflage.
At the edge of the city, an ancient gate opened of its own accord. Two colossal statues flanked it—warriors with broken crowns and eyes that dripped liquid night. Between them, a woman cloaked in silver waited, her face half hidden by a porcelain mask.
She bowed slightly.
"Welcome to the Palace of Fallen Princes," she said. "The city of the god-slain, the ambitious, and the doomed."
Her voice was beautiful—empty, but melodic. "All who enter seek the treasure sealed within the Eternal Palace. You are no different."
Nyxara's lips curved faintly. "And what does one offer in exchange for entry?"
The woman tilted her head. "A name. Once given, it will never return."
Without hesitation, Nyxen said, "Nyxara of the Unorthodox Path."
The woman's porcelain mask cracked faintly, as though smiling. "Then enter, Nyxara. Let your ambition be judged."
She vanished like smoke.
The Palace of Fallen Princes was less a palace and more a labyrinth of ruined splendor. Statues wept black ichor; corridors looped into themselves. Music echoed from nowhere—notes played by invisible hands. Each sound pressed upon the mind like memory.
Inside, shadows moved.
He was not alone.
The princes and princesses of the fallen realms gathered here—scions of ancient bloodlines, each one corrupted by the promise of the Heaven-Sealing Sword. They walked like gods, spoke like emperors, and killed like beasts.
Nyxara's first encounter came swiftly.
A voice, smooth as silk but dripping with venom, echoed behind her.
"Another stray dares walk these halls? How amusing."
She turned.
A tall figure stepped from the darkness—a man whose beauty was almost inhuman. Silver hair framed his face, his eyes like twin moons. Across his chest burned sigils of forgotten kingdoms.
"Prince Rehain of the Lunar Court," the man announced himself, smiling languidly. "And who are you, black-haired ghost?"
Nyxara inclined her head, voice calm. "A traveler seeking what lies beyond the seal."
Rehain's smirk deepened. "Every traveler dies here. Every seeker becomes the seal."
He flicked his fingers. Lunar light condensed into blades, orbiting his hand like tiny crescents.
"Let me make you a star among the fallen."
Nyxara raised one hand.
The runes of the Golden Scripture shimmered faintly under her skin.
"Metal," she whispered.
A thin line of light cut through the air. The crescent blades shattered before touching her. Rehain blinked—then smiled wider.
"Oh, you're dangerous."
The next instant, he vanished.
Only instinct saved her. Nyxara spun, catching his strike with a thread of sword Qi drawn from her fingertip. The impact rippled through the hall, sending cracks through the marble floor.
"You hide strength well," he hissed, stepping back. "But you're not one of us. Your aura—it's... foreign."
Nyxara's crimson eyes glowed faintly. "I walk no bloodline's path."
He tilted his head, intrigued. "Then perhaps you'll entertain me longer."
The battle became a dance of light and shadow. Crescent blades clashed with invisible petals; their movements painted constellations across the air. Walls melted, the ceiling vanished, and the palace expanded into an arena of collapsing stars.
Rehain laughed, blood trailing from his lips. "Excellent! At last, someone worth killing!"
Nyxara's blade-finger gleamed, now humming with faint demonic undertone.
"Then die content."
"Flowriver Sword — Second Bloom."
A thousand spectral petals spiraled outward, silent, blinding, absolute.
Rehain's laughter cut short. His body dissolved into dust, leaving behind a single silver feather.
Nyxara stood amid the ruins, the echo of his voice still clinging to the air.
Excellent… excellent…
When the light faded, she noticed the marks on the walls—names carved into the stone, hundreds, maybe thousands. Every one belonged to a prince or princess who had fallen here.
The city itself was a graveyard of ambition.
She stepped deeper into the palace, where light no longer existed, only reflections. Her disguise flickered briefly, the true demonic light beneath her skin pulsing once before dimming.
Ahead, another presence stirred—colder, stronger.
The princesses.
In the heart of the palace stood a hall filled with black lotus blooms. Their fragrance was sweet, cloying, and faintly poisonous. A woman sat atop a throne of bones, her beauty sharp as broken glass.
"Another one?" she said softly. "How many corpses will this city feed me?"
Her name reached Nyxara's mind before it was spoken—Princess Nareth of the Crimson Dominion. Her eyes were rubies burning with amusement, her dress woven from living shadows.
Nyxara bowed slightly. "I came for the sword."
Nareth smiled. "Then you will kneel before me, like all who sought it."
The petals of the black lotus began to rise, turning into blades.
Nyxara's eyes narrowed.
"So this city's princesses are no gentler than its princes."
The throne hall erupted into chaos. Shadows and petals collided with the force of storms; divine sigils burned against demonic flame. Nyxara's disguise shimmered, her real self pressing against the surface, threatening to break through.
She pushed harder, her voice low, steady, and filled with killing intent.
"Golden Scripture—Fire."
Her aura ignited. The air itself turned into ash. The black lotus petals burned, leaving streaks of crimson flame across the throne.
When the smoke cleared, only silence remained. Princess Nareth's throne had collapsed. A faint laugh echoed once, then vanished.
Nyxara exhaled slowly.
Another step closer to the Heaven-Sealing Sword.
Outside, the palace trembled. The remaining heirs—six princes and three princesses—felt the disturbance.
High above, in the inverted sky, a voice thundered:
"The ninth has fallen. The Seal trembles."
And deep within the universe, the sword awakened slightly—its call faint but undeniable.
Nyxen, beneath the mask of Nyxara, felt it vibrate in his soul. The next stage awaited—and the price would be blood.
He looked toward the direction of the tower, where light no longer existed, only a faint shimmer like the edge of a blade.
"The Heaven-Sealing Sword," he murmured. "I'm coming."
He vanished into the storm.