The smoldering ruins of Qianci Yuan, and Mistress Zhao Hansu's terrified, grateful submission, solidified Jianyu's new policy: punishment by rebirth. He had gained a formidable, if unwilling, ally. Leaving Hansu to grapple with her mortal existence and the echoes of her lost power, Jianyu, still in his male form, turned his attention back to the Hidden Severance Guard. He had left them to forge themselves in the wilderness, but now, he needed them.
He returned to their hidden sanctuary, the crumbling underground complex that served as their training ground. The air, usually thick with the scent of sweat and raw qi, was now heavy with the metallic tang of fresh blood and the cloying sweetness of death. A cold dread settled in his gut.
He found them amidst carnage. Half of the fifty-strong Guard lay dead, their bodies twisted, their qi extinguished. The survivors huddled, wounded and terrified, their faces etched with a profound betrayal.
Ren Kaifeng lay bleeding in the center of the chamber, his body broken, his eyes glazed with pain and disbelief. He looked up at Jianyu, a gurgling cough escaping his lips. "Betrayed," he whispered, his voice ragged. "One of our own… seduced. Corrupted by Nie Yuelian's moonrot qi. They turned on us."
Jianyu knelt beside him, his face a mask of cold fury. This was not a random attack; it was a targeted strike, a calculated act of infiltration and subversion. Yuelian, still obsessed with Niánmei, had found a new way to strike at him, through his nascent male army.
Kaifeng gasped, his breath failing. "The dream… the age of men… it was a lie…"
"No," Jianyu said, his voice low and firm. "It is not a lie. It is a seed." He looked into Kaifeng's dying eyes. "You will not die in vain. You will become a part of my vengeance."
He performed a forbidden Resonant Burial, a dark, ancient technique gleaned from his absorbed memories. He pressed his hand to Kaifeng's chest, his qi flaring. He felt Kaifeng's soul, raw and grieving, begin to separate from his dying body. With a silent, agonizing command, Jianyu drew it into himself, not to consume, but to fuse. He channeled it into his weapon, a simple, unadorned blade he had carried since his escape from Chixia Gong.
The blade shimmered, then darkened, absorbing Kaifeng's essence. A faint, crimson glow pulsed from its hilt, and a low, mournful hum resonated from its steel. It was no longer just a blade; it was a weapon imbued with a soul, a blade that would weep blood when drawn.
The traitor, a young, once-idealistic male cultivator, now stood among the survivors, his eyes dull, his face a mask of chilling emptiness. He had been seduced, corrupted, turned into a puppet. Jianyu looked at him, and a new, terrifying realization dawned. This wasn't just Yuelian's doing. This was a manifestation.
"You," Jianyu said, his voice a low growl. "You are not him. You are an echo."
The traitor's lips moved, but the voice that emerged was not his own. It was a familiar whisper, cold and mocking, yet laced with a profound resentment. "You were meant to be silent flesh. A docile vessel. Not a voice. Not a leader. You defy your very nature."
It was one of Jianyu's absorbed past selves, a rogue echo from the Root Aspect, now manifesting within the System, attempting to assert its own will, to undermine him from within. It had found a weak point, a susceptible mind, and exploited it.
Jianyu's eyes blazed with a cold fury. He would not be undermined. He would not be controlled, not by external forces, and certainly not by his own fragmented past. He raised the soul-blade, its crimson glow pulsing with Kaifeng's sorrow. He moved with a terrifying speed, striking the traitor, not to kill, but to sever the connection, to force the rogue echo back into the depths of his System.
He suppressed it, forcing the rebellious fragment back into the silent prison of his inner being. The traitor collapsed, a lifeless husk. But even as it faded, the echo's whisper lingered in Jianyu's mind: "You were meant to be silent flesh. Not a voice."
Jianyu stood over the fallen, the soul-blade humming in his hand, its crimson glow a testament to the price of his vengeance. He had lost half his nascent army, and gained a new, insidious internal enemy. But he had also gained a weapon, a blade that wept blood, infused with the spirit of a broken idealist. The path to vengeance was paved with sacrifice, and he was willing to pay any price.