The wind howled through the narrow mountain path as Shen Ziyan stood still, his gaze fixed on the nine cloaked figures that blocked the way forward. The mist twisted and clung to their forms, blurring their outlines, but not their intent. Murder emanated from them like cold radiance from a glacier—dense, pure, and unforgiving.
Bai Yanyue stepped closer to Ziyan, her usually teasing face now frozen with killing intent. "Nine against two... not exactly polite, is it?"
Ziyan didn't answer. His eyes narrowed slightly, taking in every breath, every subtle shift in the air around the assassins. These weren't common cultivators. Their presence was so empty, so precise, that it felt like the world itself refused to acknowledge them.
"Silent Sect," he muttered. "Weren't they supposed to be extinct?"
"They were," Bai Yanyue replied grimly. "Which makes this even worse."
The lead figure stepped forward. His cloak rippled, revealing a strange insignia upon his chest—a lotus flower impaled by a black sword, its petals stained with blood.
"We are the Hands of Silence," the assassin intoned, voice neither deep nor high, as if spoken by a soul unanchored from flesh. "You carry what must not awaken. You tread a path that must not be walked. Shen Ziyan, you are sentenced to death by the Ninefold Oath."
Ziyan cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. "Sentence me after I've sinned, not before."
The air trembled.
Then everything erupted.
In a heartbeat, the nine figures moved—so fast that even Ziyan's enhanced perception strained to track them. They split, vanishing into streaks of shadow and sound, encircling him and Bai Yanyue in a perfect death formation.
Bai Yanyue's fan unfolded, releasing a burst of golden light that froze three of the figures mid-step. Her body shimmered with graceful movement, weaving through their blades like smoke through moonlight.
Ziyan didn't waste time.
His hand closed around the hilt of the bone-carved sword at his back—the one formed from the corpse of the Forgotten Behemoth. It hadn't yet revealed its true name, but it pulsed eagerly now, hungry for slaughter.
With a single breath, he struck.
The first assassin met his blade. Their weapons clashed in a burst of energy that shattered the stones beneath their feet. The assassin's body twisted unnaturally, bones rearranging mid-fight to dodge what should've been a killing blow. Ziyan's eyes sharpened.
"These bastards aren't fully alive…"
Indeed, when he cut the assassin across the torso, no blood spilled. Only gray mist and strange runes.
They weren't human.
They were constructs—puppets carved from corpses and bound by ancient soul-forging techniques.
Bai Yanyue flicked her fingers, sending a flurry of razor-sharp petals at another attacker. "Soul-bound corpses," she said, panting. "This technique hasn't been seen since the Era of Shattered Light."
"Then someone's been digging into forbidden history," Ziyan growled.
One of the puppets landed behind him, twin daggers slicing for his neck. Ziyan ducked, then twisted with brutal force, shattering the puppet's skull with the pommel of his sword.
But for every one he felled, two more replaced it.
The formation was tightening.
Bai Yanyue shouted, "If we don't break the command node, they'll wear us down!"
Ziyan's eyes darted—then locked onto the lead figure.
The one who hadn't moved.
The one orchestrating the attack.
With a surge of marrow flame pulsing through his veins, Ziyan launched himself into the air. The runes on his forearms lit up as he twisted mid-flight, drawing upon a forbidden movement technique he hadn't yet tested: Heaven-Treading Dragon Step.
The wind exploded behind him. The lead figure raised a hand to defend—but too late.
Ziyan's blade descended like the judgment of gods.
Steel met flesh—if it could be called that—and the figure staggered back. A crack split his chest open, revealing something not human: a core of spinning runes sealed inside a black lotus.
Ziyan's eyes widened.
"A soul array? Inside a puppet? No—this thing's… sentient."
The leader's hood fell back.
And Ziyan stared at a face carved from wax, skin too perfect, too unmoving. A smile curled across its lips.
"You disappoint me," it said. "But you are still young. Perhaps… you'll learn."
Then the puppet exploded.
The entire mountain trembled as an explosion of soul-force ripped through the mist. The rest of the assassins crumbled into ash, severed from their command. Bai Yanyue shielded herself with her fan, blood leaking from her mouth.
When the smoke cleared, a massive crater had replaced the path.
Ziyan knelt at its edge, panting. His robes were scorched. His right arm bled heavily.
Bai Yanyue landed beside him. "That… wasn't an ordinary puppet."
"No," Ziyan said darkly. "It was testing me."
"For what?"
Ziyan didn't reply. But deep inside, he felt the feather in his robes pulse once.
The gods were watching.
Three days later...
They arrived at the outskirts of Wuwei City, nestled against the spine of the Dragonbone Mountains. A city that hadn't been on any map, nor mentioned in any sect's records. It had no trade, no fame, and no travelers.
And yet, when they approached the gates, a man was waiting.
Clad in scholar's robes, holding a brush and scroll. His face was calm, and his eyes… strange. Not threatening. But bottomless.
"You must be Shen Ziyan," he said, bowing. "And you, Bai Yanyue of the Moon-Hanging Pavilion. We've been expecting you."
"Who are you?" Ziyan asked, wary.
The man smiled. "My name is irrelevant. What matters is that Wuwei City welcomes those who have heard the Song of the Forgotten."
Ziyan's blood chilled.
He hadn't told anyone.
No one but Bai Yanyue knew about the song that whispered to him each night—a lullaby in a tongue older than time itself, heard only in his dreams.
"You heard it too," he said slowly.
The man nodded. "Everyone in this city has. That's why we're here."
He turned toward the city gate.
"But you must come quickly. The city is safe… but only for tonight. Tomorrow, the Eclipsed Flame arrives."
Ziyan frowned. "What's that?"
The man smiled faintly.
"You'll see."
That night, as Ziyan stood on the balcony of the inn overlooking the city, a strange procession marched silently through the streets.
Dozens of men, women, and children—all wearing blindfolds.
They carried lanterns of black fire.
And at the center of the procession, a child's voice sang the Song of the Forgotten.
Bai Yanyue appeared beside him, her face pale.
"Ziyan… that's the song from your dreams, isn't it?"
He nodded.
But inside his chest, something deeper stirred.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
But... recognition.
As if a part of him belonged to that procession.
As if he, too, had once marched beneath the Eclipsed Flame.