Wu Xin did not hesitate. He did not pause to calculate, did not consider the danger. His heart was ablaze, and nothing mattered except one truth: he could not lose her to the river.
The River of Oblivion did not welcome him. Not because his heart bore darkness—no, his soul was pure enough—but because his body bled. Each drop of his blood was a siren song to the spirits of the river, a call they could not resist. They surged like wolves starved for centuries, eyes glowing with feral hunger, teeth gnashing, claws slicing the very air.
The wound from the ambush last night by the Shadow Demons still marred his chest, raw and burning. His blood, hot and alive, spread into the waterless river, sending ripples of crimson across the swirling mists. The spirits devoured it greedily, their shrieks rising like jagged blades, tearing at him, testing his resolve, clawing for his very essence.
Yet he did not falter. Every muscle screamed, every fiber protested, but he pressed forward, diving, slicing through the ghostly currents, following the faint shimmer of her presence. Each stroke carried the desperate weight of fear, hope, and unspoken devotion.
And finally—he saw her.
She sat still on the riverbed, the waterless current swirling around her like smoke in slow motion. A thick, pulsing aura radiated from her—a light of death and dominance so intense that even the river's spirits dared not approach. The shadows recoiled, whispers dying to a hushed murmur. The air vibrated with the resonance of power far beyond his comprehension.
Where had she inherited such strength? Or perhaps… whom had she copied it from?
He pressed forward, each step drawing the spirits into frenzy. They clawed, bit, and tore, their ethereal forms flickering like broken mirrors. Their whispers cut through his mind:
"She carries the flame of the Furnace… She is not of our world!"
Her eyes opened slowly, silver light igniting within them like frozen flames. She saw him—fading, battered, bleeding.
She did not flinch. She did not move. The wound he had scarred upon her palm—the memory of his choice to favor Mei before her—clouded her heart, distorted his image in her perception.
She watched coldly, detached, as the spirits devoured him—piece by piece, claw by claw. A feast of courage, perhaps, or devotion, but neither softened her gaze. She remained poised, as if observing a lesson in mortality.
Silently, she raised her diamond earring and fastened it back to her ear, the familiar weight grounding her, restoring her place in the living world.
And in that instant—everything changed.
His voice came, trembling, broken, barely more than a breath, yet it cut through the abyss like sunlight piercing fog:"You're safe… my sweet one."
He smiled, and it was a smile that defied agony, that made the tearing of his flesh and the gnashing of spirits meaningless. Seeing her unharmed was worth more than his life.
Only then did her heart tremble. She moved toward him, cradling his head gently in her lap. The warmth of her hands, the soft pressure of her fingers against his skin, seemed to anchor his soul, temper the frenzied currents, calm the devouring chaos.
Her gaze turned fierce, a silent command to the circling spirits:"Touch him again… and I will end this river. I will dry it to dust."
Then, her voice softened, gentle yet imbued with authority that could still command the cosmos:"Why didn't you come to me first? Why did you take so long?"
His response was faint, carried with the weight of exhaustion but utter sincerity:"You're my courage. If I saved you first… I'd have none left to fall after you."
He closed his eyes. The river's spirits quieted, sensing the finality of his surrender. His blood cooled upon her lap, smoke curling faintly as if reluctant to leave.
She unfurled her small diamond wings, the soft glow bathing him in light, a cocoon of safety. Then she opened her great wings—wings of crystal, radiant and strong, ready to rise from the depths. Their feathers caught every shimmer of spectral light, refracting silver and sapphire through the oppressive darkness of the river.
But before she could ascend, a lone spirit drifted near. Unlike the others, it did not wail, did not hunger. It hovered quietly, like a dying comet, pale fire against the dark. It brushed against her robe, whispering through the friction, the faint metallic scent of a soul long departed.
Huo Feng paused, curiosity and confusion threading through her silver gaze."Are you… truly hers?" she whispered.
The spirit gave no answer. It only brushed the edge of her cloak, a silent plea.
Something inside Huo Feng softened. A small warmth blossomed in her chest, a sense of responsibility, of kinship with the lost and wandering."Very well," she said softly. "I promise—I will find him. And I will protect him."
Ah, you have promised… Let us hope you will not regret it, nor break it.
Her words barely faded when seven more spirits emerged from the shadows, drawn by an ancient resonance. These were not mere wandering souls. They were remnants of ancient lords — warriors, sorcerers, masters condemned to annihilation, their sacred weapons cast into the Heavenly Furnace to erase their names forever.
Yet they had survived. Hidden in the flames, they endured for ages, awaiting a vessel worthy of harboring their echoes. And here, Huo Feng's presence called to them. Their resonance intertwined with her aura, mingling sorrow, strength, and ancient wisdom.
The seven spirits drew close—not to attack, but to pass through, to whisper their farewells, leaving behind their final sorrow, their final wishes, their essence absorbed into her being. It was as if they had finally found a home, a new existence in her light.
Except one.
The first spirit.
It did not vanish. It did not fade. It hovered, still and observant, its gaze piercing deeper than any blade, recognizing more than she yet understood about herself.
When she spread her wings to rise once more, the spirit finally whispered, voice like wind through broken glass:"You will return to me… when your fire ripens — when the time of harvest comes. Then… you will know who I am."
And then, as silently as it had appeared, it vanished into the darkness of the river, leaving only the pulse of its promise, a lingering echo in the currents, and a spark within her soul.
Huo Feng exhaled softly, lifting Wu Xin with gentle precision. The River of Oblivion churned beneath her, black tendrils recoiling as if afraid. She rose higher, wings spreading wide, silver and crystal catching the first threads of distant starlight.
Above the river, the first dawn of hope began to pierce the endless gloom, heralding the return of life to a place where death had once reigned.