The air inside the ruined temple has gone still—
as if time itself no longer wishes to move forward here.
Broken pillars stand like shadows, and the walls are stained with dried blood and burnt incense, blending into a strange, suffocating scent.
That scent does not carry death alone—
it carries years of prayers, failed vows, and desires that were buried before they could ever be fulfilled.
Lián Zhào steps inside slowly.
Under his boots, the ashes of shattered talismans crumble with a faint sound.
It is small, insignificant—yet it rings in his ears.
He is used to this.
In places like this, even sound is a traitor.
His grip tightens around the hilt of his sword.
Cold metal presses into his palm, reminding him of who he is.
A demon hunter.
Bound by oath.
A man trained to suppress emotion.
And yet—
There is a strange emptiness in his chest today.
As if something was lost long ago…
something he cannot even name.
When he reaches the center of the temple, he sees him.
A demon bound in chains.
The black shackles are carved with spells, driven deep into the ground—breaking them would not be easy.
Yet there is no helplessness in the demon's posture.
He sits upright.
His hair falls loosely over his shoulders.
His eyes are clear even in the darkness—fearless, deep, tired.
Yán Mò.
The name already lives in Lián Zhào's mind.
From reports. From elders' warnings.
An ancient demon lord.
Massacres. Curses. Fire.
But this sight—
It does not match the image in his head.
Yán Mò watches him as if looking at someone he has known for a very long time.
A faint smile touches his lips—not mockery, not triumph.
Only exhaustion.
"You're late,"
he says calmly.
His voice is deep, but not harsh.
The words drift through the air and strike Lián Zhào's chest.
He doesn't know why—but the moment he hears that voice, something tightens inside him, as if an old wound has suddenly awakened.
"Be quiet,"
Lián Zhào says.
He freezes at the sound of his own voice.
There is more hesitation in it than anger.
Yán Mò notices.
He always does.
"Don't speak like that," the demon says softly.
"You used to say it the same way before."
Lián Zhào's brows knit together.
"I don't know you."
"I know,"
Yán Mò replies with a faint smile.
"In this lifetime."
Those eyes—
there is something in that gaze Lián Zhào has seen before.
From very close.
Very deeply.
Where?
When?
There is no answer in his mind—only a heavy pressure.
He raises his sword slightly.
The blade glimmers in the light reflected off the chains.
Killing this demon is his duty.
It should be simple.
But his hand trembles.
Just a little.
Still—he feels it.
Yán Mò sees it too, but says nothing.
He only watches—as if waiting.
"You hate me,"
he says at last.
"But you don't know why."
Lián Zhào clenches his teeth.
"I hate demons. I don't need a reason."
He has said this countless times.
To himself. To others. To his disciples.
For the first time, the words feel hollow.
Silence descends upon the temple.
Ash stirs in the air—but makes no sound.
Then Yán Mò speaks again, very softly—
"That's a lie."
The word is small.
Its weight is not.
It feels as if something has struck a hidden door inside Lián Zhào's chest.
Not a memory—
something erased before it could ever become one.
He does not raise the sword fully.
Nor does he lower it.
Both of them notice.
Yán Mò does not look away.
There is no victorious smile on his face—only a quiet, sorrowful acceptance.
"See?"
he says.
"You still can't do it."
Lián Zhào says nothing.
He knows this silence is dangerous.
Demons exploit hesitation.
But strangely—Yán Mò makes no move.
It feels as though he has been standing here, in this very place, for countless ages.
At last, Lián Zhào takes a step back.
He cannot explain why.
But both of them understand—
This is not their first meeting.
Only…
The first in this lifetime.