Han Yu felt a chill creep up his spine as the words continued.
He raised his trembling hand, and the blood gathered around him. A blade took shape—pure crimson, born from his hatred and grief. With that blade, he slashed the blood moon above. The heavens trembled, and the moon bled anew. A rain of crimson fell upon the village, upon the corpses, upon the bandits who still laughed among the dead.
Those touched by the rain screamed as their flesh melted into liquid scarlet. Their forms dissolved into the ground, merging into the rising tide of blood that poured back into the moon above. The moon pulsed once more, its light deepening until it shone like a ruby carved from the heart of the world.
Han Yu exhaled slowly, awed despite himself.
