Dawn in Yunqiu was pale and brittle, the kind of light that broke apart before it could warm anything. The storm had left the streets in ruin—broken tiles, drifting debris, pools of water reflecting a fragile sun.
Mo Lianyin sat with his back against the inn's wall, watching Qingxue sleep. The arrow wound in her shoulder was clean now, bound in white silk. He had worked through the night to keep her fever down, but it wasn't her body he worried about.
It was her eyes.
The moment she had looked at him after the fight—the fear there had cut deeper than any blade.
---
She stirred when the light touched her face, her brows knitting. "How long have I been out?"
"Since last night," he said quietly.
She pushed herself up, wincing. "What happened to them? The assassins."
"They're gone."
"Gone?" Her voice sharpened. "Gone how, Lianyin?"
He didn't answer.
Qingxue's hand tightened around the blanket. "It wasn't the Seventh Art. I've seen you use it. This was… different."
Mo Lianyin met her gaze, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Does it matter?"
"It does if it's changing you."
---
He stood abruptly, moving to the window. Outside, the city's market square was already bustling again, as if last night's violence had never happened. But under the noise, he could hear it—faint, almost imperceptible.
The bell.
Its slow toll rolled through his bones, steady and patient. Every strike made his chest ache, like something inside him was answering.
> One more step, the voice whispered from the shadows of his mind.
You've already begun to taste it.
He shut his eyes. In that darkness, he saw again the moment the assassins fell—not from his blade, but from his will alone. No resistance. No mercy.
And the worst part wasn't the power.
It was how good it had felt.
---
That afternoon, while Qingxue rested, he stepped into the alley behind the inn. His hands trembled slightly as he held them up, remembering the sensation of reaching into the Eighth Path.
The memory was enough.
A rat scurried across the stones—and without thinking, he willed it to stop.
It froze mid-step.
Its tiny heartbeat thundered in his ears. He could feel it like a string he could pull at any moment.
And then he pulled.
The rat collapsed, lifeless.
---
His breath came fast. His hands shook—not in guilt, but in hunger.
The voice purred.
> This is mercy. Without it, the weak will always suffer. With it, you decide who breathes and who doesn't. Isn't that justice?
---
That night, he returned to Qingxue's side. She watched him silently, her eyes searching his face for something she couldn't name.
"You've changed," she said finally.
He smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "We all have."
---
Elsewhere – The Crystal Hall
Zeiyan stood before the Mirror of Fates, its surface rippling with the image of Mo Lianyin in the alley.
The eldest elder's voice was grim. "The Eighth Art feeds on him now. He cannot stop."
Zeiyan's lips curved. "Good. The more he uses it, the faster the heavens will mark him for destruction."
---
But in a far older place, something else was watching.
And it was not the heavens.