The night screamed with steel and fire.
The Blood Envoy did not walk—he drifted forward, his crimson robes whispering over the snow without leaving footprints. The bone palanquin dissolved into black smoke behind him, and the soul-bound soldiers moved to form a living wall at his back.
Mo Lianyin tightened his grip on his sword, the black flames along the blade guttering like a restless storm. The Fifth Forbidden Art pulsed through his veins, and with every heartbeat, it whispered the same question:
> How much of yourself will you burn away to win?
---
The Envoy tilted his iron mask. "You've only begun to scratch its surface," he said. "Let me show you what true mastery costs."
His hands rose slowly, fingers curling as if plucking invisible strings.
The air around Lianyin shimmered—and then, the snow beneath him cracked. From the fractures, pale hands burst through the ground, clawing at his legs. They weren't corpses. They were souls—torn, screaming, half-formed shadows bound in crimson light.
Each touch drained warmth from his body. His vision swam.
---
The Fifth Forbidden Art reacted violently, surging in answer to the soul-grasp. Threads of silver light erupted from Lianyin's arms, slicing through the bindings with a sound like shattering glass.
The freed spirits dissolved into snowflakes, but the backlash sent agony through his chest, as if part of him had been torn away with them.
---
The Envoy chuckled. "Yes… I see it now. That power loves you. Which means it will devour you more slowly than most."
The words scraped against Lianyin's mind. He charged without thinking, sword raised high.
Steel met bone. Sparks exploded. The Envoy caught the blade with a skeletal gauntlet, the black flames licking harmlessly at his armor.
"You're fast," the Envoy said, twisting the blade aside. "But you're still fighting like a man. That Art is not meant for mortals—it is meant for executioners of the soul."
---
Pain flared in Lianyin's side—he hadn't even seen the strike. The Envoy's free hand had cut him with a dagger of pure crimson light.
The wound burned cold, as if frost were eating through his blood.
The Fifth Forbidden Art roared in protest, flooding his senses with impossible clarity. He could see the flow of the Envoy's soul force now—every movement, every tether, every shadow.
---
And in that instant, Lianyin understood.
This was not about matching the Envoy's speed or strength.
It was about cutting the right thread.
---
The next exchange was different. Lianyin didn't block the incoming slash—he let it pass just close enough to split his cloak. His blade swept low, carving through the crimson thread that connected the Envoy's chest to the puppet army.
Half the soldiers collapsed at once, their bodies falling into heaps of lifeless armor.
The Envoy staggered, only for a moment, but it was enough.
Lianyin pressed the attack, his blade singing with the Fifth Forbidden Art's energy. Each strike left faint silver burns in the air, like scars on reality itself.
---
But the cost was mounting.
With every thread he cut, something inside him unraveled. His heartbeat was irregular now, his hands trembling between blows. He knew—he could feel—that some part of his soul was being spent like coin at a gambler's table.
And he didn't know if he could win before he ran out.
---
The Envoy's mask tilted. "Yes… burn yourself for them. Just as your master did."
Lianyin froze for the briefest moment. "What did you say?"
"Ah," the Envoy's voice turned almost gentle. "You didn't know. The man who taught you the Fourth Art—he paid the same price. And when the Fifth rose in him, it ate him alive."
---
Rage surged through Lianyin's veins—but underneath it was fear. He could feel the Fifth Forbidden Art listening, waiting for him to yield completely.
If he did… it would be stronger than ever.
But it would also own him.
---
The Envoy lunged, the dagger of crimson light aimed straight for Lianyin's throat.
In the heartbeat before the strike, Lianyin let the Fifth Forbidden Art consume him—not fully, but enough. His body blurred into shadow and silver flame, the blade in his hands no longer metal but a fragment of the night itself.
He didn't just cut the dagger aside—he cut the Envoy's soul-thread in half.
---
The iron mask split down the middle with a soft chime. Behind it, the Envoy's eyes were not human—twin voids rimmed in faint, dying light.
For the first time, the Blood Envoy took a step back.
"You've… inherited it," he whispered, almost reverently.
Then his form dissolved into smoke, retreating into the darkness beyond the walls.
---
Lianyin staggered, his sword clattering to the ground. His vision narrowed, the silver threads in the air fading until only darkness remained.
He was still alive. The city still stood.
But his hands were cold, his breath shallow—and somewhere deep inside, the Fifth Forbidden Art coiled like a predator that had tasted blood… and was patient enough to wait for more.