The Ashlands knew no birdsong. No rustle of wind through leaves. No whisper of water. Only the dry hiss of ash dragged over cracked stone — the endless murmuring of a dead world.
Xu Wuzhou staggered through the wastes, boots sinking into silt-fine dust. His scholar's robe, once proud with ink and silk, hung in tatters, stained with sweat and soot. His satchel — once brimming with scrolls — now carried only a single bamboo tube. The rest had been seized and burned by the orthodox patrols when they branded him heretic.
They had asked why a failed scholar carried fragments of forbidden history.He had no answer — only curiosity.And curiosity had nearly killed him.
Now, every breath scraped his ribs like broken glass. He pressed forward, one painful step after another. Around him: grey dunes, shattered rock, and the ruins of empires swallowed by war and time. No water. No shelter. Only endless exile.
Until he saw it.
A stair of black stone, half-buried in the ash, descending into the earth like the spine of some ancient beast.
He hesitated.
Even in the farthest eastern provinces, children whispered of the place buried beneath the Ashlands — the remnants of the Black Lotus Pavilion, scourge of the demonic age. Annihilated centuries ago in the War of Burning Sky, its name still made temple bells tremble.
To descend into its bones was to court death.
But death already followed him.
He tightened his grip on the broken half of a sword — dulled, notched, more rust than steel — and began his descent.
The stair spiraled into a vast subterranean hall. The darkness here was alive.
Pillars twisted upward like petrified lotus stalks, their surfaces etched with curling petals. Niches in the walls cradled black candles that burned with no flame, no heat — only a cold, flickering void. The air smelled of ancient incense, iron, and something older.
At the center stood a stone altar, cracked and weathered, lotus patterns blooming out in rings around its base.
Xu Wuzhou halted, chest heaving.
He had read of this place once — a fragment hidden in a forbidden commentary, barely legible. It could only be one thing.
The Lotus Sanctuary.
He stepped forward. The altar pulsed, faint and slow — like a heartbeat under stone.
Shadows peeled themselves from the walls. Smoke condensed into figures. Darkness grew teeth and shape.
Four figures emerged.
Xu froze.
The first towered over the others, broad-shouldered, still as a drawn sword.The second hunched low, chains wrapped around him like a shroud, muttering to voices no one else could hear.The third was a woman in crimson robes, her smile a knife dipped in honey.The fourth wore a black silk mask, every movement unnervingly fluid, as though he danced to some silent rhythm.
Their presence descended upon Xu Wuzhou like mountains.
Then — they knelt.
The tall one bowed, fist to chest. His voice rang out, metallic and cold.
"Supreme Lord… you have returned."
The others followed, kneeling in perfect unison.
Xu Wuzhou's breath caught. Supreme Lord?
They thought he was someone else. Someone they had once served.
If he confessed, they would destroy him. If he faltered, they would see through him.
His only weapon now was deception.
He steadied his hand. Slowed his breath. Let silence drag out until it frayed nerves.
Then, cold and measured, he said:
"You still linger."
The four bowed lower.
The woman in crimson raised her head, lips curved.
"Do you doubt our loyalty, my Lord? Have the centuries of waiting earned only suspicion?"
A test. She was probing for cracks.
Xu Wuzhou didn't flinch.
"If your devotion falters under questions, how will you withstand Heaven's wrath?"
Her smile twitched. Smaller now. Sharper. She lowered her head again.
Chains rattled as the hunched man hissed laughter.
"Heaven. Always scratching at our gates. But we remain. Bound. Sealed. Waiting."
The masked figure spoke for the first time. His voice was deep and still as black water.
"Then the Seed has chosen well."
The Seed?
Before Xu Wuzhou could speak, the altar shuddered. Blackness welled from its cracks like blood from a wound. Pain lanced through his chest — cold and crushing.
He staggered, clutching his ribs.
Something had entered him. Vast. Hungry. Ancient.
Visions tore through his mind:
— a lotus blooming beneath a sky the color of spilled wine— shadows without faces, bowing— a throne surrounded by silence, its master watching without eyes
Then it ended. He stood trembling, soaked in sweat.
The four remained kneeling, reverent, still.
"The Seed accepts you," said the tall one.
Xu Wuzhou looked down. His palm bled where it had struck the altar. The stone had drunk from him. Something nestled within his chest now, whispering.
Lie. Deceive. Endure.
It had chosen him.
Not for his strength. Not for wisdom or ambition.But because he was empty. Unclaimed. Fertile soil for corruption.
He straightened slowly. Forced authority into the slump of his shoulders.
"So be it," he said. His voice no longer shook."The Black Lotus blooms again."
The four touched foreheads to the ground.
Xu Wuzhou stood above them, heart pounding like a drum of war.
Inside, he was still a fraud. Still lost. Still terrified.
But tonight — the lie lived.
And that, for now, was enough.