That night, the Jian family inn was filled with warmth. The steam from herbal soup hung in the air, mingling with the scent of ginger chicken stew and the soft laughter of Su Daji. Tang Wu kept teasing Leon, who still couldn't tell his right chopstick from his left.
Jian Mo sat silently, spooning his food slowly. Occasionally, he smiled when his eyes met his mother's gaze. But there was something lingering in his eyes—a shadow that never truly faded.
After dinner, with the excuse of getting fresh air, Jian Mo put on his dark robe and slipped out without a sound. His steps echoed through the quiet cobblestone paths of Tianyin, slowly ascending a steep trail toward a place only he knew—a rocky hill on the western edge of the city, overlooking the misty mountain known as Mount Meiyue.
There, under a sky full of stars, Jian Mo stopped. The night wind brushed gently against him, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers growing between the stones. He closed his eyes, and time seemed to rewind…
Several Years Ago…
"Jian Mo! Did you throw Master's sandal into the well again?!"
"It wasn't me! It was... the wind!"
Laughter burst atop the old sect's rooftop. A middle-aged man with a messy beard sat cross-legged, holding a bowl of noodles so full that the broth spilled over.
"Brat. But not bad! If you can throw a sandal that far, your wind technique must be improving!"
A younger Jian Mo laughed while chewing on pickled radish. They sat side by side on the roof, their legs dangling freely, sharing a single thermos of tea that had gone tasteless since the afternoon.
"Master," said Jian Mo, gazing at the stars, "when I grow up… will I be able to protect the ones I love?"
The master turned, his half-lidded eyes warm and sincere.
"If you can't, then just act like you can. Sometimes, belief comes after you leap."
Jian Mo nodded slowly.
"So... if one day I lose control and hurt someone…"
The master laughed—loudly this time.
"If you ever hurt someone, Jian Mo, it's probably because you skipped dinner!"
Their laughter blended with the wind, filling the night with warmth.
But Jian Mo's smile slowly faded. The air around him turned cold. Very cold. The dancing wildflowers were now frozen in stillness.
Then came the whispers.
Not from outside.
From within.
> "You will lose them..."
> "Protect? You killed them."
Jian Mo opened his eyes. His breathing grew heavy. His body trembled. Before him—nothing, and yet shadows began creeping beneath his feet. A dark mist slithered like poison, forming thin hands reaching for his chest.
"I-I…" he whispered, lowering his gaze.
Cracks formed along his skin, faint at first, as if he was splitting apart. A crimson glow pulsed from within. His heartbeat thundered like war drums—wild and uncontrolled.
One of the shadowy hands touched his face—and suddenly he saw it:
His master.
Wounded. Smiling, yet consumed by shadows. Jian Mo's own hand… soaked in blood.
"No… that wasn't me…"
> "It's too late," the curse hissed.
Jian Mo collapsed to his knees. His hands dug into the ground. He bit his lip until it bled, trying to suppress the scream. But the pain wasn't just physical—this was a battle of spirit, of soul.
And then...
His master's voice echoed again, soft like morning dew:
> "If you can't believe in your strength… then believe in your smile."
Jian Mo lifted his face. Tears streamed down, but his eyes looked up to the sky.
The curse was still there.
But tonight, Jian Mo chose to fight.
Alone.
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