The village of Lingxiu sat cradled between two ridges like a child tucked inside the arms of the mountains. At first glance it was no different from a hundred rural hamlets scattered across the empire: mud-brick houses roofed with thatch, terraced fields glowing faintly under moonlight, the trickle of irrigation channels singing softly in the dark. Yet, those who had lived here long enough whispered of something else—an invisible weight that pressed upon the valley, as though the mountains themselves guarded a secret best left undisturbed.
On ordinary nights the air was alive with small comforts. Old men would sit cross-legged under mulberry trees, their pipes glowing as they swapped stories of battles long lost. Children would chase fireflies near the communal well until their mothers dragged them home. Even the dogs, half-wild and ill-tempered, barked more from habit than fear. But this night was unlike any other.
From the moment the sun dipped behind the western ridge, silence spread like a contagion. No one could explain it, only feel it: a subtle tension, a tightening in the lungs as if the valley held its breath. Lamps were lit earlier than usual; doors were barred; and even the bravest elders muttered sutras under their breath. The night felt heavier than stone.
At the edge of the village, where a narrow path threaded into the surrounding forest, a girl sat alone beside a shallow river. Her name was Li Yan, though most of the villagers rarely spoke it. To them she was "the cursed child," "the omen girl," or simply that one.
The river's surface reflected the moon like a polished blade. Yan drew her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly, her eyes following the rippling silver lines. She had come here since childhood whenever she could not bear the stares, the whispers, the quiet cruelty of those who shared her bloodline only by nation but not by heart. Here, at least, the water did not judge.
But tonight the water betrayed her.
Her reflection wavered, reshaped by something more than the current. Her face in the river no longer matched the one she knew: her eyes glowed faint crimson, a mark like a smoldering brand pulsed at her brow. She gasped and pulled back, but the afterimage clung to her vision, burning inside her skull.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why me? Why can't I just be… ordinary?"
Li Yan had asked this question countless times, but never aloud, never to the night. She had learned early that weakness was dangerous; even the smallest crack invited ridicule, suspicion, or worse. And yet she could not escape the truth. Strange things always happened around her. Pots shattered when she argued. Flowers wilted when she cried. Once, a boy who mocked her too loudly collapsed screaming, blood leaking from his ears. The village healer declared it an accident, but no one truly believed. Since then, she had walked through Lingxiu with invisible chains clinking at every step.
The chains grew heavier now. Something stirred within her veins, hot and restless, like a beast clawing against bone. The longer she sat, the stronger it became, until her pulse roared louder than the river.
A voice—low, velvety, seductive—echoed inside her mind."Do not deny me. I am yours. You are mine. Together we awaken."
She clutched her head, nails digging into her scalp. "No! Leave me alone!"
"Talking to yourself?"
The sudden voice was not from within. She snapped her gaze upward.
A man stood beneath the trees, half-hidden by shadow. Tall, broad-shouldered, his presence was like a blade sheathed in silk—beautiful yet threatening. His robe, dark as midnight, shimmered faintly with thread of silver runes. At his hip hung a sword whose scabbard was etched with patterns Li Yan had never seen, though they thrummed faintly in her bones.
She stumbled back a step, riverwater soaking her shoes. "Who… who are you?"
The man's lips curved in a smile that was not unkind, but neither was it safe. He stepped forward, and the forest seemed to bow to his movement: the insects hushed, the leaves stilled, the air tightened.
"Your name is Li Yan," he said softly, as though speaking a truth carved into stone.
Her heart hammered. "How do you know me?"
"Because," he replied, eyes catching the moonlight, "your name was written long before you were born."
Fear surged like bile, yet curiosity held her ground. She should run—every instinct screamed it—but her legs refused. Instead, she asked, "What do you want from me?"
Before he could answer, the river convulsed.
The water frothed red, as though some unseen wound had split open beneath its bed. Mist rose, thick and copper-scented, curling into grotesque shapes that clawed the night sky. Whispers bled from the haze, anguished and hungry.
Li Yan staggered, the heat in her veins boiling. The voice returned, louder now:"Yes… come to me, daughter of blood. Embrace what you are."
Her feet moved without will, carrying her toward the crimson fog.
"No!" The man lunged, seizing her wrist. His grip was firm, almost painful. "Do not listen. Once you step into that mist, you'll never return."
Tears blurred her sight. "Then tell me! What is happening to me? Why am I like this?"
His expression darkened. For the first time she saw not mystery but conflict, as though he carried a truth too heavy to speak. Finally, he answered:
"Because you were born with cursed blood. And tonight, it begins to awaken."
The mist split. From its heart emerged a colossal shadow, towering high enough to blot out stars. Two eyes blazed crimson across the valley, fixing upon her with hunger older than mountains. When it spoke, the world itself seemed to tremble.
"Daughter… at last, the time of return has come."
Li Yan collapsed to her knees, clutching her chest as searing fire spread through her body. The man drew his sword in a blur of steel, its runes igniting with pale light, but even his hand shook. He knew this presence. He had prayed never to face it again.
The shadow opened its maw, and the night filled with the sound of a thousand screams.