Lanhuā's knees trembled as she clutched the blood-slick sword, the metal nearly sliding from her hand. Nothing in this world was more unbearable than that song. It wasn't just a melody; it was an infection, crawling through her bones, burrowing under her skin, peeling away her will to fight.
"每一次你喘息,我便把秘密記成骨.
Měi yīcì nǐ chuǎnxī, wǒ biàn bǎ mìmì jì chéng gǔ.
Each breath you take I file as a secret into bone.
親愛的,你的恐懼是我最美的歌曲.
Qīn'ài de, nǐ de kǒngjù shì wǒ zuì měi de gēqǔ.
My dear, your fear is my most beautiful song."
Her ears rang. Blood slid warm down her temple. Her voice cracked into the darkness, thin and desperate.
"Stop… stop singing! Stop—Singing!! it's nothing but only glass cracking sound !! "
The yokai tilted its head as if savoring her agony. Its amusement was worse than a smile.
The bats shrieked and tore into the air, a black storm. Corpses rattled like broken instruments, bones dragging against stone. Lanhuā stumbled through the chamber, slipping on mud and half-melted flesh. The reek of blood clung to her tongue.
Candles guttered and died in quick succession, as though the cavern itself exhaled laughter. The yokai's voice chased her, brushing her back with invisible claws.
"你說要跑——可每條路都是我的藤蔓.
Nǐ shuō yào pǎo—kě měi tiáo lù dōu shì wǒ de téngmàn.
You say you'll run—but every path is my climbing vine."
The cave quaked. Her ribs heaved with ragged breath. The pounding of her heart grew louder than her footsteps. Her knuckles whitened around the hilt. If she slowed, she would be devoured. If she ran too far, she might never escape the labyrinth.
The bats hissed a chorus, "He came again… for Yu Yao."
Lanhuā burst out into the forest, night-smoke wrapping around her like a shroud. Every tree was identical, their shadows looping in circles.
"Mo! Mo, where are you?!" she cried, voice breaking into the mist.
Her foot skidded at the path's edge. The earth vanished beneath her—she staggered back just before plunging into a yawning valley, the infamous Mouth of the Fukaki. Its depth was bottomless, silence swallowing even the stones.
Behind her, silk-like whispers brushed her skin.
"在這裡,光會背叛你,黑會吻你成癮.
Zài zhèlǐ, guāng huì bèipàn nǐ, hēi huì wěn nǐ chéng yǐn.
Here, light will betray you; darkness will kiss you into craving.
睜開眼,我會把你的影子染成我的名.
Zhēngkāi yǎn, wǒ huì bǎ nǐ de yǐngzi rǎn chéng wǒ de míng.
Open your eyes, I will stain your shadow with my name."
Then—a different voice cracked the night. Male, hoarse, desperate. A sword-edge of sorrow.
"我來晚了,但我來了——帶著半小時的赤焰.
Wǒ lái wǎn le, dàn wǒ lái le—dàizhe bàn xiǎoshí de chì yàn.
I came late, but I came—bearing half an hour of crimson flame.
[Yu Yao — 三十息. Yu Yao — sānshí xī. Thirty breaths.]"
Her stomach plunged. "Yu… Yao…?" Thirty breaths. Thirty minutes of survival. The bats hadn't lied.
"Miss Lanhuā! Stay back!" Mo's voice split the forest.
Relief slammed into her chest. He hadn't abandoned her.
"Mo! Where are you?!" She spun in the mist. But she could feel it—two monstrous forces rushing closer.
The female yokai shrieked, ritual shattered. The man's voice cut her cry like a blade:
"你以為可以縛住月色,卻忘了鳥會回巢.
Nǐ yǐwéi kěyǐ fù zhù yuèsè, què wàngle niǎo huì huí cháo.
You thought you could bind moonlight, yet forgot the bird always returns.
[Oba ge — shēngcún shì yǒngyuǎn de jiǎ. Survival is only a disguise.]"
Black wings tore through the canopy. A glimpse—red eyes, half-black feathers, a monstrous silhouette.
A peacock, but twisted. Half black, half crimson, its scream warped and thunderous, wings snapping trunks like reeds.
Mo. He was controlling it. A special-grade yokai, unsealed only in fragments, yet enough to terrify the forest.
Lanhuā's breath caught. Hope.
But the female yokai's rage erupted. Her limbs twisted, scales bursting across her flesh. In a blink she became a lizard colossus, white eyes glowing like moons. The ground shook beneath her weight.
Lanhuā stumbled, forcing out a butterfly of light. "Father, please…" she pleaded. It shot upward, blue wings slicing through night, flying toward the Miè Rán Sect.
The lizard hissed, her fury doubling. She lunged, jaws snapping toward the messenger.
"No!!" Lanhuā screamed. If her father didn't come, she would die here.
Mo's shout cut through. "Not so fast, lizard!"
The peacock screamed and vaulted, talons striking her neck. The butterfly escaped into the horizon.
Fury howled back—fangs tore at the peacock's feet. It hissed and kicked away, crest bristling, disgust curdling its cry.
The disgust wasn't only hatred of her as an enemy. It was deeper—biological, instinctual. Special-grade yokai despised females of their kind. To them, the female stench was corruption. The peacock recoiled, feathers flaring, as though touching her had soiled him.
He would have torn her to pieces already if not for the contract's pull.
Mo's grip on the rope tightened. The yokai thrashed, rage spiraling, tail tearing trenches into the earth.
"Easy… I'm here. Calm down," Mo whispered, throwing himself forward. He pressed against the beast's long, half-stone neck, arms spread as though embracing a storm. The feathers bristled against his body, sharp as blades, but he didn't flinch. "We'll fight together. Endure until Yu Yao passes, and you'll be free. I promise, you'll taste the ounce you crave."
The peacock's crest softened, breath heaving like smoldering coals. For a fleeting second, Lanhuā saw gentleness in its monstrous eye , something almost… trusting. Then the female's screech shattered it.
"不,你不是她的救贖,你只是枯羽的餘灰!
Bù, nǐ bùshì tā de jiùshú, nǐ zhǐshì kū yǔ de yú huī.
No—you're not her salvation, only the ash of broken feathers!
[San Duan — nǐ de chìbǎng yǐ pò. Your wings are broken.]
她屬於我!她已經被黑夜吻下印記!
Tā shǔyú wǒ! Tā yǐjīng bèi hēiyè wěn xià yìnjì.
She is mine! She already bears the kiss-mark of night!"
The peacock roared in answer, tail unfurling crimson against marble-black. Light blazed in ribbons of blood and fire.
"她不是你要的祭品,也不是我來守的夢.
Tā bùshì nǐ yào de jìpǐn, yě bùshì wǒ lái shǒu de mèng.
She is not your sacrifice, nor a dream I came to guard.
我只來取你的聲音,將它埋入燭火深處.
Wǒ zhǐ lái qǔ nǐ de shēngyīn, jiāng tā mái rù zhúhuǒ shēnchù.
I came only to take your voice and bury it deep in the candles.
[Orachi Gate — yǎn huǒ zhī yè.
The candle-eyed night.]
你若再伸手,我便以羽為劍,斬落你所有的名字.
Nǐ ruò zài shēnshǒu, wǒ biàn yǐ yǔ wéi jiàn, zhǎn luò nǐ suǒyǒu de míngzì.
If you reach again, I will turn feather into blade and sever all your names."
The lizard's roar split the earth. Shadows writhed, red eyes blinking like lanterns. Her tail slammed down, missing Lanhuā by heartbeats. She crawled through mud and blood, lungs on fire, prayers ripping from her throat.
Darkness swallowed the battlefield. Only flashes remained—feathers slashing, scales gleaming, eyes burning. The peacock and lizard collided, their screams answered by other yokai stirring in the distance.
Lanhuā pressed her head to the ground, trembling. The female's shriek rattled the sky:
"MY MATE!! GIVE ME BACK MY MATE!! SHE IS MINE!! IF I CANNOT HAVE HER—NONE WILL!!"
The lizard lunged. The peacock clamped down on her tail, wings shaking the forest. His feathers flared in fury, but beneath it, a tremor of unease pulsed through him—the weight of Yu Yao's countdown, the chains of his contract, and the gnawing disgust of touching her.
And then—the night split again. A surge of power, cold and merciless, approaching from the direction of Miè Rán.
Lanhuā's blood froze. "Father…"