Chapter 3
The road curled along the city's outer ring, rising toward the mountains. From here, Holy Bell City revealed its true face.
At first glance, it was breathtaking—dozens of pagodas layered across the hills, golden rooftops blazing beneath the sun, vast monasteries seated upon cliffs like guardians of heaven. The air rang with bells, each note steady, eternal, as though time itself bowed before the faith of this place.
But Nyxen's eyes did not linger on the gold.
He saw the shadows.
Beggars knelt at the temple gates, starving, while robed monks stepped past them with eyes closed, muttering chants. Merchants sold "holy blessings" written on slips of paper, charging silver for each prayer. Behind a shrine, he glimpsed two monks in hushed argument, hands passing a pouch of coins.
This was not devotion. It was theatre.
Nyxen's lips curved faintly, though there was no mirth. "A city of saints… rotting from the inside."
Beside him, Lianhua walked in silence. Her gray-black braid shifted with each step, her expression unreadable.
Finally, she said softly:
"You see it too."
Nyxen raised a brow beneath the brim of his bamboo hat. "You don't deny it?"
"No." She shook her head. "Faith draws both the sincere and the corrupt. Some seek enlightenment… others seek shelter from their sins. The lotus blooms from the mud. To reject the mud is to reject the lotus."
Her words were calm, but Nyxen heard the edge of pain in them.
"You speak as though you've known both mud and lotus."
Lianhua glanced at him. "And you speak as though you despise both."
Nyxen didn't answer. She wasn't wrong.
They passed through a smaller courtyard where monks practiced meditation. Each sat cross-legged, palms raised, chanting verses of purity. Their auras shimmered with golden light, so refined that common pilgrims fell to their knees in awe.
But Nyxen saw deeper. He felt the subtle flickers in their qi—fragments of greed, pride, suppressed lust. They coated themselves in purity, but their hearts… were no cleaner than his.
"Pure heart," he muttered under his breath. "What a lie."
Lianhua stopped walking. She turned, her eyes piercing him—not harsh, but searching.
"Do you truly believe purity is a lie?" she asked.
Nyxen met her gaze. "I've seen men with blood on their hands pray louder than priests. I've seen women who killed for coin weep before shrines. Everyone wears masks of purity, but their souls reek the same. Purity isn't truth. It's… denial."
Lianhua's hands tightened into her sleeves. For a moment, her innocence faltered—something conflicted, almost sorrowful, passed through her eyes.
"Then why walk the monk's path at all?" she whispered.
Nyxen turned away, pulling his hat lower. "…Because if I don't, I'll have no path left."
They continued walking until they reached a narrow bridge strung between cliffs. Beneath it, waterfalls plunged into a dark gorge, the roar deafening. Prayer flags hung across the ropes, flapping violently in the wind.
Halfway across, Nyxen paused. He felt it before he saw it—the faint ripple of killing intent.
Lianhua felt it too. Her step slowed, her voice low. "Do not draw attention."
A group of monks appeared from the far side of the bridge. Their robes bore the sigil of the Golden Abbot Sect, one of the city's ruling temples. At first glance, they looked serene. But their eyes told another story.
Hungry. Cold. Watching.
One stepped forward, hands folded. "Travelers. Donations are required for safe passage to the mountain monasteries. Surely two devoted wanderers would not withhold charity?"
Nyxen almost laughed. Bandits in monk's robes.
Before he could speak, Lianhua bowed respectfully. "Forgive us. We have little silver, but I can offer prayer."
The monk sneered. "Prayer does not feed us." His gaze lingered on her braid, her face, her innocence. "…Perhaps there are other offerings you could give."
Nyxen's blood chilled. His fingers twitched beneath his sleeve.
Lianhua's head lifted, her calm eyes steady. "A monk does not stain his vows with such words. Step aside."
The man smirked. "And if we do not?"
The wind howled across the gorge. For a moment, the bells of the city seemed far away.
Nyxen exhaled slowly. He could feel the sword intent coiling within him, restless. His disguise was fragile—but he would not watch this play out.
He stepped forward, his voice quiet but sharp as steel.
"Then I'll stain the bridge with your bodies, and we'll see whose vows remain pure."
The monks froze. Lianhua's eyes widened—not in fear, but in recognition. She hadn't misjudged him. Beneath his calm, there was a storm.
The silence broke. The "holy" monks dropped their masks, snarling as they drew hidden blades from their sleeves.
The bells of Holy Bell City tolled again—soft, distant.
But here, on the bridge between purity and corruption, blood was about to ring louder.