Souls ascended into a sky metallic in color.
They rose like breath on a winter morning, carrying the warmth of lives just released. Below them, bodies lay on the broken stone, fingers curled as if they were still trying to hold on to life. Some faces were peaceful, some twisted with regret, yet each soul drifted away gently, as if at last they had been given their own place to go.
At the center stood a lone figure.
Her cloak fluttered as a gust of wind passed over it, the dark fabric slashed open where blades had tried and failed to cut her down. Beneath the torn fabric, layered robes hung with deliberate grace, worn but unyielding. On her shoulder, Bing Ya's crest gleamed faintly, tarnished, sewn into the cloth like an old wound, a mocking reminder that she carried their symbol while belonging to none.
She did not reach for the souls, nor did she command them. Yet she could feel them. Each soul brushing past her sent a shock of sensation through her body, the sharp stab of fear, the final scream of pain, the hollow ache of a life lost. The pain of each soul ran through her like fire in her bones, and she held it all without flinching, though her hands gripped the sword tightly. Every death left a mark, every soul whispered something she could not stop or forget.
A young cultivator's soul floated close, stopping as if it was not sure it could pass. The moment it touched her, she felt his fear, his last heartbeat, and his final breath. The pain shot through her body, an echo she could not ignore. His expression softened as he crossed her shadow, tension unraveling in the instant before release. Their eyes met for a single breath, no words, no gestures, yet something fragile passed between them, recognition, the silent acknowledgment of a struggle that had finally ended.
The land exhaled. Blood sank into soil, it seemed to remember things long after people forgot it. Broken weapons, gray armor and plates stained with blood. Above, the sky shimmered as each soul floated upward like rain into a river. When the last light disappeared, she stayed in the silence, her cloak torn but her stance steady, carrying the weight of all the deaths she had seen and the pain she had taken.
Meilin's shoulders sagged and her head ached, she turned her head to the side.
Then she saw him. The only man still breathing among the fallen.
The soldier slumped against the bodies of his companions, clutching a broken spear. Blood ran from his mouth and stained his clothes. He shivered and mumbled under his breath, eyes wide with fear, yet he tried to keep himself upright.
"You… You…" His fingers trembled around the spear, his eyes fixed on her as though searching for mercy. "You are doing… evil."
Meilin did not raise her sword. Her voice came soft and weak. "One who serves no one, serves themselves."
She stepped closer but did not strike. She watched the way his grip loosened around the broken spear. Death was coming for him regardless, and she no longer had the strength to raise her sword. Meilin turned away as he slumped lower, letting himself fall into the stillness among the dead.
Each step she took was heavy, yet she moved forward, the sword in her hand warm against her palm, the dead whispering behind her, but she did not look back.