The manor's dining hall still trembled faintly from the last toll of the Mirror Bell. Lanterns swayed, casting quivering shadows that danced like restless spirits. Outside, the storm had thickened into a blackened tempest, jagged lightning slashing across the sky, thunder rolling like the steps of a giant. Each bolt illuminated the mansion in fleeting, silver-white bursts, revealing walls slick with rain and the pale, anxious faces of those inside.
Tiān Lán's chopsticks hovered midair, the lotus nectar cake forgotten. The world around him slowed, the echoes of the bell thrumming through his chest. Slowly, deliberately, he rose. The half-eaten dessert sat abandoned like an artifact of a past life, forgotten in the presence of something far greater.
"Tiān Lán… where are you going?" Lady Ruo Yin's voice trembled, soft yet tinged with worry.
He did not answer. Only a faint nod, imperceptible but decisive. His gaze swept the table—the indifferent smirk of Lei Xuan, the calculating cool of Lei Feng, and the unwavering, iron-clad eyes of Duke Zhenhai—but none could anchor him.
The air around him thickened. The storm outside seemed to answer his movement, gusts of wind curling into the hall as though drawn by his will. Shadows shifted and bent, yielding a path before him. And then, with a movement so swift it was almost invisible, Tiān Lán was gone.
---
He moved through the inner corridors like a phantom. Roof beams became bridges, halls mere whispers beneath his steps. The bell's call pulled at him, rhythmic and eternal, an echo from a lifetime lost. Past jade bridges slick with rain, past the quiet gardens and stone lanterns… he ascended the narrow stairwell carved deep into the mountain's heart.
At the peak, lightning often kissed the jagged stones, etching silver scars into the black rock. There, shrouded in storm and shadow, stood the ancient chamber of the Mirror Bell. Seven feet tall, cracked and worn from centuries of silence, its bronze surface glimmered faintly. Swirling clouds etched into its sides twisted around nine sacred beast seals, each pulse of the storm illuminating their ancient power.
Tiān Lán stepped inside. Alone. The chamber seemed to inhale, recognizing him. The bell's bronze surface glowed faintly blue under his touch, responding to his presence, quivering like a heartbeat.
He pressed a hand against it. The cold bit through his glove, but he did not flinch. Instead, a shiver ran up his spine—not from chill, but from the memory that surged in his mind.
A mountain of corpses, friends turned traitors, laughter dripping with betrayal. The woman he had once loved, eyes averted, blade through his heart. The rain weeping with him. The thunder mourning his fall.
A voice, deep and resonant, echoed from the bell itself:
> "Rain Lotus… only you… can break the seal…"
The floor trembled. A hidden panel slid open, revealing a staircase coiled like a serpent, descending into sapphire light. Symbols pulsed along the walls, alive with ancient energy. At the center, a crystal tablet floated, locked in a cage of crackling thunder.
Engraved upon it—his true name.
夜天霜 — Yè Tíanshuāng.
Night Sky Frost.
His body staggered, a cold that was not of the air crawling along his veins. Memories erupted in torrents:
The moment of death, as the blade kissed his chest.
The woman's whisper, soft yet final, as life left him.
The laughter of sworn brothers as he fell from the Divine Sky Platform.
Thunder weeping, lightning refusing to strike.
And from the crystal tablet, a whisper of his own voice, like ice threading through fire:
> "Let the world forget my kindness.
Let them remember my frost."
The storm inside the chamber spiraled, an eye of chaos forming around him. The Mirror Bell rang once—soft, yet deafening, shaking the mountain to its core. The name Yè Tíanshuāng blazed across the tablet, light rippling like liquid sapphire, casting shadows that danced like ancient spirits awakened.
Outside, Xiao Yu stumbled as pressure rolled over the mountain, wind lashing, trees bowing beneath the storm. Far away, hidden in a hermitage untouched for fifty years, the Sect's Grand Elder opened his eyes, frail hands clutching the robes of a lifetime spent in waiting.
"He has returned…" he whispered, voice trembling as if the mountain itself carried it.
The storm intensified, answering the call of one man—one soul reborn, vengeance smoldering in his veins, power awakening that even Heaven would soon fear.