The snow over Skyweeping Mountains had not yet melted when the dream began.
Mo Lianyin was not sleeping—he hadn't in days—but the moment his eyes closed, darkness consumed him.
It was not the darkness of night, nor of shadow.
It was alive.
He stood in a void without sky or earth, his heartbeat echoing too loud in the silence. The Seventh Art's silver light flickered faintly over his skin, but it did nothing to warm him. Instead, a voice emerged from the dark—soft, almost gentle.
> "Heir of the Seventh Seal… you've come far."
Mo Lianyin clenched his fists. "Who are you?"
The voice laughed. "Names are for the living. I am the gate you have yet to open. The one they have kept hidden from you."
His breath slowed. "The Eighth Forbidden Art."
Silence stretched before the voice replied, like it was smiling in the dark.
> "You've tasted power. You've seen what mortals are—frail, treacherous, fleeting. You think you still fight for them?"
Mo Lianyin's jaw tightened. "I fight for what they took from me."
The darkness shifted, a shape forming—a mirror.
In its reflection, Mo Lianyin saw himself: taller, crueler, his silver eyes glowing with an abyss no light could reach. In his hands, not a blade, but the world itself, cracked and bleeding.
"This," the voice said, "is you with the Eighth Art. Unstoppable. Eternal. A god who bends life and death."
"And the cost?" Mo Lianyin asked coldly.
The mirror shattered.
"The cost," the voice whispered, "is that you will never be human again."
---
He woke with frost on his lashes and blood on his tongue.
Qingxue was still asleep by the dying campfire, her breath soft against the cold. Mo Lianyin looked at her for a long time. His palm—the same one that had clasped hers in their blood oath—tingled with a strange heat.
He flexed his fingers.
Somewhere, deep inside, the Seventh Art pulsed… and another heartbeat answered.
---
Far away – The Crystal Hall
Zeiyan stood before the Mirror of Fates, watching the shifting vision of Mo Lianyin in his dream. The elders behind him whispered in unease.
"He's hearing it," one said. "The Eighth calls to him."
Zeiyan's lips curved. "Good. The faster he answers, the sooner the heavens will turn against him."
The eldest among them frowned. "If he masters it, even heaven may fail."
Zeiyan's smile did not fade. "And if he falls trying, we won't have to lift a finger."
---
Two nights later – the city of Yunqiu
Mo Lianyin and Qingxue entered the city under a false moon. The streets were too quiet, the air too still. He could feel eyes following them.
In the center plaza stood a lone figure cloaked in ash—the same one who had watched them from the mountains.
"You walk the edge of the Eighth Path," the stranger said without preamble. "The choice is yours, but know this—once you step onto it, you cannot turn back."
Mo Lianyin's gaze sharpened. "Why warn me?"
The stranger tilted his head. "Because I once took that step."
His cloak slipped back just enough to reveal bones where flesh should have been, glowing faintly with black fire. "And I have been walking for a thousand years without finding an end."
Qingxue's hand tightened on her sword. "Then why not let it die?"
The stranger's smile was thin and sad. "Because the Eighth doesn't let go."
His hollow eyes turned to Mo Lianyin. "It will offer you everything. But it will demand everything. Remember that… if you can."
The ash swirled, and he was gone.
---
That night, when Mo Lianyin closed his eyes, the voice returned.
> "Heir," it whispered, "you've already begun to change. One more step, and the world will kneel."
Mo Lianyin's heart pounded—not in fear, but in hunger.
And somewhere deep inside, a door began to unlock.