Dawn broke reluctantly over the jagged spires of Death Valley, its pale, uncertain light sliding through mist and shadow as if afraid to fully reveal the realm below.
Few realized Mo Yanluo had returned, and those that did keep their distance; their master had always been a figure apart, rarely seen beyond the training grounds, shrouded in an aura that was both awe-inspiring and unapproachable.
The enigmatic master of the sect, sat alone in the austere hush of his private chambers. The sweet curl of incense blended with the faint, chilling edge of Death Qi that was never far from the air. All around him, ancient books lay open, reports and scrolls scattered in careful disarray—evidence of a mind that trusted words less than deeds.
Though the echoes of the grand tournament and Ming Yue's triumph still lingered in the memory of followers, for Mo Yanluo, the festival's glory was a brief ripple over deeper waters. He brooded not over victory, but the gnawing fragments of betrayal that his resurrection had never truly swept away. Where celebration brought most men comfort, for him, it only deepened his sense of isolation and suspicion.
Had the rot devoured the cult while he warred and cultivated? Was the Heavenly Demon Sect truly the home he remembered, or were new traitors merely waiting for their moment to seize control under the false sense of unity?
Determined to shatter illusion with truth, Mo Yanluo decided to see what he had refused to all this time. Ling Xiaoyin had arrived, as precise as ever, clad all in black. Her loyalty was absolute; even among the sect's most trusted, only she had earned the right to know of his doubts.
"Have you finished the preparations?" he inquired.
She gave a slight nod. "The disguise is ready. Unless someone is actively seeking the sect master himself, none would expect to see you in the Pleasure Pavilion, certainly not at this hour of the day."
Mo Yanluo's lips flickered—something between a smirk and a grimace. "Let's hope so."
They moved quickly, slipping from the shadowed corridors of the sect's main hall and into the winding lanes that led toward the pleasure district—a world he had, until now, only glimpsed through reports. Today, he would walk among his own people, not as a ruler but as a stranger.
The Pleasure Pavilion was like a jewel buried within Death Valley's wasteland, a palace of joy and relaxation erected in defiance of the land's twisted cruelty. Its lower floors serving as a cavern for the lesser members of the sect. It buzzed with life even in mid-morning: long tables crowded with disciples in lesser robes, courtesans weaving between them with trays of wine and rich food. It was a place where people, who sought to escape the fierce competition and the intense training of the sect, gathered.
As Mo Yanluo entered not as the master of the Heavenly Demon Sect, but as a regular customer. Here, in his own domain, nobody so much as batted an eye at him. That anonymity, so rare for a man of his power, sent a strange thrill through his veins.
Ling Xiaoyin, posing as his personal servant, followed behind at a respectful distance.
The scent of incense and spiced wine hung heavy in the air. The clangor of conversation was punctuated by a pipa's lazy drone and the distant tinkle of laughter rising from somewhere above. Girls in silk flashed their painted smiles, weaving through the tables.
Mo Yanluo and Ling Xiaoyin found a quiet corner near the back of the hall. He listened, not speaking—ears open to gossip and the muttered concerns of sect members grown bold on cheap liquor.
"Did you hear? The sect master's disciple won first place at the tournament…"
"Ha, serves them Orthodox dogs right, if I were there…"
"…Qing Lang's girls are so captivating, I'd do anything to spend a night…—"
"…I heard the Azure Blade joined the sect, is that true?"
The conversation was a current of envy, desire, suspicion. Mo Yanluo sipped his wine, eyes scanning the building.
Yet the true heart of the pavilion was not where these drunken braggarts and lowly initiates flocked. It was above on the upper floors.
He stood and prepared to ascend the stairs to the next floor, when a heavy presence blocked his path.
A man in tattered robes, his breath pungent with alcohol. His body swaying from side to side, sloshing cheap liquor across Mo Yanluo's boots.
"Watch where you're—urk—going, you little rat," the man cursed, approaching closer. He was broad-shouldered, his nose bent from too many brawls, his face redden from one too many bottles, and his eyes glittered with the crude aggression of someone whose only pleasure was in dominating weaker men.
Mo Yanluo contemplated letting it pass, but the man's dirty hand latched onto his sleeve.
"Didn't you hear? Lowlives like you take the last table. You trying to cut the line for a night with Qing Lang's girls?" He spat crudely, drops of spit landing on Mo Yanluo face.
Some nearby patrons began to watch, hoping for some entertainment.
Ling Xiaoyin's eyes narrowed, her hand flying to her sword, but Mo Yanluo signaled her to stand down. He had not descended from death and betrayal to be bullied by a drunk.
"Unhand me, or lose your hand."
The man laughed mockingly, tightening his grip—then grimaced as a stabbing pain lanced up his arm. In one impossibly swift motion, Mo Yanluo twisted the man's wrist, flipping him flat onto the messy floorboards. The crowd gasped.
The drunkard got up, and lunged towards him.
The tables shook as he swung—wildly and powerfully, but without technique, just pure brute strength. Mo Yanluo sidestepped, easily evading the mindless attack, and unsheathed his sword.
"I've warned you once."
Without hesitation, he swung the blade, and cleanly severed the man's hand that grasped him. The drunkard fell to the knees, his other hand grabbing the bloody stump. Screams of agony echoed throughout the pavilion, a detached hand and a pool of blood surrounding the drunkard.
The drunk gasped, crashing backward into a table, scattering cups and stunned onlookers.
Mo Yanluo knelt by the fallen man before he could rise, his words cutting through the man's cries like a blade: "If this happens again, the price will be more than just a hand."
He turned away. The silence in the hall was instantaneous, the courtesans frozen with wide eyes. Then, slowly, the noise returned—louder, wilder, a new undercurrent of excitement shooting through the ranks. Ling Xiaoyin's lips twitched with suppressed amusement.
The brawling man was escorted away, nursing his bruises and dignity, muttering curses that none dared to escape his lips.
It was then that a girl approached: graceful, silk-clad, her face painted with light make-up.
"Honored guest—my mistress, Lady Qing Lang, requests your company on the upper floors. Will you accompany me?"
Mo Yanluo exchanged a glance with Ling Xiaoyin, then followed the girl up curved lacquer steps that twisted ever higher, further from the smoke and raucous laughter below.
The upper level was a world apart. The air here was scented not with sweat and ale, but with rare spices and the faintest hint of musk. The rooms glowed softly with lantern light, every surface draped in velvet or gilded lacquer. Veiled attendants and exquisitely dressed cultivators whispered in alcoves, the true power brokers of the sect at leisure.
He was ushered into a chamber shielded by silken screens. Inside, reclining on a dais amidst piles of brocade cushions, was Qing Lang—the Bewitching Demon herself, Mistress of Illusion and the Pleasure Pavilion. Her form was ever-shifting, and tonight she wore the face of a cool, mature beauty: dark hair falling in waves over one eye, lips the color of crushed wine berries, eyes sharp and cold as obsidian.
She appraised her guests with leisurely interest. "Few dare cause such a stir in my domain. You—" she regarded Mo Yanluo's disguised form, lips curling into a knowing smile, "—are clearly not a simple guest nor a fool drunk for glory. What brings you to my floor, stranger, brawling with pigs?"
Mo Yanluo bowed, hiding his satisfaction behind humility. "I seek only good wine, quiet conversation, and perhaps to better know the true heart of the sect. The outer world speaks of the Pleasure Pavilion as a den of rumor and beauty—some say it is the very heart of the Demon Sect's shadow. I wished to see for myself."
For a moment, the web-spinning eyes of Qing Lang glittered with something dangerous. She gestured for him to sit, her hand soft but imperious. "So many are eager to see. But are you strong enough to look and not be devoured, guest?"
He sat at a small table at the center of the room, with Ling Xiaoyin at his side. The game had begun.