***
The air was damp. Stone close in on every side, the ceiling low enough that water bled through and dripped onto the ground. Rats scurried along the corners, claws scratching faintly against rock before vanishing back into the dark.
Rong Xi stood at the center of it, his gaze fixed on the man chained to the wall opposite him. Both wrists were shackled high, iron biting so deep into the skin that blood had dried into dark rings. The wounds looked old, broken and mended only to tear open again, caught in a cycle without end.
The man's head sagged forward, hair matted against his face. Dirt streaked across his arms and clothes, the fabric stiff with dust and dried blood. A fresh line trailed from the corner of his mouth, bright against the older stains down his chin.
He seemed unconscious, maybe even gone, yet the rise of his chest—slow, shallow—said otherwise.
Rong Xi did not move. He only watched, the silence stretching between them, broken now and then by the drip of water striking stone.
A faint rustle stirred as another figure stepped from the shadows, white robes marked with Selene's crest in silver thread. Black hair fell straight to his shoulders, framing a pale face, and his eyes—darker still—fixed on the crown prince.
On the back of his left hand lay the mark of the temple: a black hexagon inked into the skin, an infinity loop bound within its lines, and a single stroke cutting through the center to split it in two.
"Your Highness." The man inclined his head. "The arena remains unchanged. The girl has not returned, and Lord Shang and his son still wait before the portal."
Rong Xi did not look away from the chains, as if the world beyond them were far off. Even so, the words settled, and after a pause, he answered. "Keep the portal open as long as it holds. As many crystals as it takes. If need be, send the Gatebearers through."
His hand lifted, a finger tapping lightly against the iron links before him, as if struck by an idle thought. "Ah. Before that—have Father dismiss the Shang family. If Gatebearers are sent, it would be… inconvenient for others to see."
"As you command, Your Highness."
A faint clink of chains broke the silence as the prisoner stirred. His eyes stayed shut, leaving it unclear whether he had truly woken or only shifted in some half-dream. A dark stain marred the right side of his face, sprawling from temple to cheek in jagged edges, as though still creeping outward. Dried blood crusted at his ear, thick against the skin, cracked where fresh streaks had carved new lines.
Rong Xi's mouth curved faintly. "Still alive," he murmured. "But barely."
Beside him, the man—Nano—regarded the prisoner with cold detachment, as if the sight hardly mattered. One slow blink, indifferent, before he asked in a voice almost casual, "Shall I kill him and bring the next one in, Your Highness?"
"What a pity. He was doing rather well..." Rong Xi tilted his head, studying the sight with quiet interest. "Keep him alive. I want to see how long the stain lasts. But if he dies—then bring the next one in."
***
Spirit Realm
The Spirit King lowered himself to one knee beside Yao Yao. At her chest, the necklace flickered with a pale, strained glow, light trembling as though it bore more than it could hold. He recognized the weave at once—protection magic, layered with care, strong enough to delay what consumed her, never strong enough to stop it.
The black stain clung to her skin, veins branching outward in crooked lines as if the blood itself had darkened. Each breath carried it further, the web crawling beneath the surface as the mark spread wider across her flesh.
Abyssal Darkness.
His gaze shifted to the circle carved into the floor, then to the book lying nearby. He opened it, turning page after page, dark incantations sliding past until the one he sought appeared. Across the parchment sprawled a ritual circle, its center scarred with a smear of blood.
The circle matched the one in the book, yet it was not enough to create abyssal, nor to draw darkness from its depths. And still the stain clung to her, alive, refusing to retreat.
Impossible. It should not be here—but it was, and the girl was dying.
The Spirit King's brow furrowed, unease breaking through the calm he had always carried. He was no saint—ruler of this realm, not its savior. His power was never meant to cradle every fragile soul that wandered into it. Tainted or not, she was nothing to him.
Still, he found himself unable to turn away.
There was no reason he could name, no logic that would stand even if spoken aloud. It was simply what he was—kindness and cruelty woven together, as inseparable as shadow and breath.
His hand lowered at last, pressing into the dim white glow that flickered at her chest. The light did not resist him. It parted easily, yielding without a barrier, until his fingers brushed what lay beneath. A quiet breath escaped him as he pulled, drawing the darkness into himself.
The pain struck at once—familiar, sharp—the abyss tearing through him as it crossed into his veins. He endured it, letting the corruption flow inward as he always had. But before he could take more, something lashed out from within her, striking back.
A pulse.
It thudded through his head like a heartbeat, so sudden he could not tell if it was his own or something else—until he realized it came from her.
The stain convulsed and the black mist recoiled, snapping back in a rush that pulled everything with it. Veins that had spread across her skin shrank and slid beneath the surface, leaving nothing behind. The mark, the crawling lines—every trace of it was pulled back into her body.
His gaze stayed locked on her, but the composure in his features slipped as the truth struck. What he had drawn into himself had not remained; in the same breath it had been torn away, reclaimed by her as though it had never left.
The necklace dimmed, its glow easing as the strain broke. She lay still, her breaths shallow but steady, and still he did not look away.
The stain had vanished, but that only made the truth heavier. It was not gone—it had merely sunk deeper, buried within her. Why it was there, or how, he could not yet grasp. But the weight of it pressed on him all the same.
It was inside her, as if she were its vessel.