The storm above the Skyweeping Mountains had not ceased since Mo Lianyin touched the Fifth Forbidden Art. Thunder clawed at the heavens, but beneath that chaos, there was a greater silence—one that hummed in Mo Lianyin's ears like the whisper of death.
His body lay collapsed at the base of the shattered altar, the veins on his arms now blackened, pulsing with the newly-absorbed Veins of the Abyss. His breath was shallow, like a thread trying to stay connected to this realm.
But the Abyss was not done with him.
"Child of fate…" a voice rumbled from the deep. It came not from the sky nor earth, but from within. "You have taken what was never meant for the living."
Mo Lianyin stirred. His eyes cracked open—bloody, cracked, filled with anguish.
"I… don't belong among the living," he whispered. "I died the day they betrayed me. This… is only vengeance walking."
A silhouette emerged from the mist—a spirit draped in ethereal chains, its face obscured by a cracked mask. It looked at him with something ancient… and broken.
"You think vengeance is power?" the spirit asked. "You have taken five forbidden arts, and yet you cannot even stand."
Mo Lianyin spat blood and pulled himself up, one knee grinding into broken stones.
"I can stand."
"You cannot," the spirit said, lifting its hand. A wave of spectral energy hit Mo Lianyin like an avalanche, smashing him into the altar.
He coughed, wheezed. "Then… I'll crawl."
The spirit watched. Silent.
"You think this tomb is a gift? That these powers are yours to wield freely?" Its voice was thunder, echoing across the void. "You are unworthy of the sixth."
Mo Lianyin's jaw tightened.
He remembered Zeiyan's smile as he delivered the fatal blow. He remembered the warmth of his master's blood on his hands. The silence of the sect hall as his body lay broken and abandoned.
"Then I'll become worthy."
His voice shook the mist. Around him, the echoing tombstones of those who had failed before trembled. The shadows of the dead began to stir.
"You dare challenge the test of the Sixth Forbidden Art?" the spirit asked, looming over him.
"I don't dare." Mo Lianyin stood now, bloody, cracked… but burning. "I declare it."
The spirit's chains shivered. "Then face the Echoes of Yourself."
From the mist stepped another figure—Mo Lianyin.
But this one was pure. Untouched by hatred. His eyes held innocence, his soul unstained.
The two Mo Lianyins stood before each other, and for the first time, the real Mo Lianyin felt afraid.
"You must defeat yourself," the spirit said. "Not the weak version… but the man you could have been, if the world had not shattered you."
---
Across the sky, golden light burst through the clouds. A divine pillar descended, swallowing the battlefield in sacred pressure.
The duel began.
Mo Lianyin lunged first, the Fifth Forbidden Art coiling around his arms like hungry serpents. But his pure self was faster—fluid like water, grounded in harmony. Where Mo Lianyin struck with rage, his opponent struck with balance.
They clashed, again and again. Blood flew. Power exploded. But it was clear—Mo Lianyin was losing.
The pure version of him was stronger… because he had never fallen.
"I am what you lost," the other Mo Lianyin said softly. "What your rage could never protect."
Mo Lianyin's fists trembled. "Don't speak of things you've never tasted. You've never watched everyone you loved burn."
The pure version stared into him, unshaken.
"You don't need me to win. You need to forgive."
That word struck harder than any blade. Forgive?
The spirit watched, eyes dim with eternity. "The Sixth Forbidden Art is not a power of rage," it said. "It is the power of truth. If you cannot accept your past, you will be consumed by it."
Mo Lianyin dropped to his knees.
The truth was… he didn't want to forgive. Not Zeiyan. Not the elders. Not himself.
But in that moment, as he knelt before his reflection, he realized—
He couldn't carry this hatred forever.
"…Then teach me."
The moment the words left his lips, the illusion shattered. The pure Mo Lianyin stepped forward and embraced him.
"You already know how."
---
The Sixth Forbidden Art surged into his veins—not with fire, but with clarity. A deep, glimmering blue flame surrounded his body, and the spirit bowed.
"You have passed."
Mo Lianyin stood alone at the heart of the altar. A wind stirred his robes. His eyes, now glowing with the seal of the sixth art, stared into the night.
But he was not the same.
And yet…
Far above, in a temple of glass and jade, Zeiyan turned from the mirror.
"He's getting close."
Beside him, a figure cloaked in dragon scales asked, "Do you want him dead?"
Zeiyan smiled darkly.
"No. I want him to arrive."