The morning after the Soul-Flame Invocation was quiet.
Too quiet.
Mo Lianyin stood at the edge of the forest, his body still aching from the ritual. Every breath felt heavier—as though the air now demanded respect before it entered him. His skin held the warmth of a sleeping fire, and in his chest, something pulsed steadily, like a second heartbeat.
The Phoenix slept inside him.
But it was awake enough to listen.
Behind him, the clearing of the Crimson Echo had vanished. The cloaked figures? Gone. No footprints. No broken branches. Even the enchanted flames had left no ash.
It was as if the entire night had been a dream.
But the burn on his hand—the sigil now etched into his palm, shaped like a phoenix in flight—reminded him otherwise.
He was not who he was yesterday.
And the world would know it soon.
---
As he walked through the valley below, a strange sensation brushed against him. The wind carried whispers—not voices, but intentions, like invisible fingers tugging at the threads of fate. Lianyin paused and turned toward the west.
Something… someone… was calling.
The Phoenix stirred slightly inside him. Enemy.
He narrowed his eyes.
That way led to the cliffs of Ru'an Vale, a place avoided by most cultivators—too unstable, too steep, too cursed. But that was precisely why Lianyin knew he had to go.
He moved.
---
The journey was not long, but it was perilous. The path wound upward like a serpent drunk on moonlight. Rocks shifted underfoot, and the cliffs breathed foul mist from cracks like open wounds.
As he neared the peak, a silhouette appeared.
A lone figure stood at the edge of the cliff, robes trailing in the wind.
He was beautiful.
Hair like silver rivers, eyes like polished obsidian, skin untouched by dirt or time. But what struck Lianyin most was not his appearance—it was the way he stood.
Like he belonged nowhere.
Like he had never belonged anywhere.
The figure turned.
"You climbed all this way just to see me?" he said, his voice smooth, half-mocking.
"I was summoned."
The man chuckled. "I merely whispered."
Lianyin's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
The man smiled faintly and walked toward him, slow and deliberate. His steps left behind frost on the stone.
"I go by many names. Most are forgotten. But to you…" He paused before reaching out and gently brushing Lianyin's shoulder. "I am the Third."
Lianyin stepped back.
"What?"
"You hold the Second Art now. You were chosen by flame. I… was chosen by silence." His smile turned sharper. "The Third Forbidden Art: Silence of Names."
Lianyin's blood chilled.
The Phoenix inside him stirred again—conflicted. Not warning… but wary.
"You're a bearer too?" he asked.
The man nodded. "Barely. I am a memory pretending to be alive."
"Then why are you here?"
"To warn you."
Silence stretched.
"There is another," the man whispered. "Someone seeking the arts for destruction, not restoration. They do not care for the curse, nor the cost. They do not bleed. They only consume."
Lianyin's fists clenched. "Who?"
The man tilted his head. "He calls himself Zhaoren. You knew him once."
A cold fog swept Lianyin's memory.
Zhaoren.
That name—familiar, painful, forbidden.
He remembered a boy with hollow laughter. The first sparring partner he ever lost to. The one who whispered cruel truths like they were compliments. The one who disappeared during the massacre at the Jade Pavilion.
He had liked Zhaoren once.
Maybe even trusted him.
But Zhaoren was dead.
"Impossible," Lianyin said quietly.
The Third stepped closer. "He lives. And he has already taken the Fourth Art."
Lianyin looked up sharply. "Which one?"
The man looked away, as if ashamed. "The Echo of Blood."
No.
No.
That Art—rumored to be banned even among the Forbidden Seven. It allowed the user to command those they had killed. Not as corpses, but as echoes—alive in memory, voice, and soul.
If Zhaoren had that…
"He is gathering the Arts?" Lianyin asked.
"Yes," the Third whispered. "And once he has all seven, he plans to unmake the heavens. Not challenge them. Unmake them."
The wind howled.
Lianyin said nothing for a long moment.
Then: "Why tell me this? Why not fight him yourself?"
The man's eyes darkened. "Because I am dying. The Third Art comes with a price: it erases me every time I speak my own name. Soon, there will be nothing left of me. No memory. No trace."
Lianyin looked at him in stunned silence.
"And so," the man said gently, "I place what remains of me… in you."
---
The Third extended his hand.
In it, a silver pendant—shaped like a tongue with a line sliced through it.
Lianyin took it without hesitation.
The moment his fingers closed around it, a rush of cold surged through him. Voices vanished. Sound dulled. Even his heartbeat faded into nothingness.
And then—
Clarity.
His mind opened like a temple door, and within it, a phrase appeared:
> "When you no longer fear being forgotten, the power of silence becomes yours."
---
The man smiled, weaker now.
"You may never need the Third Art," he said. "But if you must… use it on those whose names should never be remembered."
Lianyin nodded.
And then, just like the Crimson Echo before him, the man faded into wind.
No scream. No cry.
Only snow, falling where he once stood.
---
Alone again, Lianyin turned and began his descent.
The pendant pulsed softly against his chest.
He now held two of the Forbidden Seven.
And the race had already begun.