Chapter 5
Night draped Holy Bell City in a hush of bells and chants. The golden stupas glimmered under moonlight, each one a fortress of serenity.
But Nyxen could not sleep.
He sat cross-legged in the guest chamber, eyes closed, pretending to meditate. Yet beneath his robes, his qi churned with chaos. The whispers from the Heart Mirror still echoed in his skull.
Without love, without beauty, you will never ascend.
The words refused to leave him.
Across the corridor, Lianhua's chanting voice drifted in the stillness. Clear, soothing, untouchable. The monks adored her. She was already spoken of as the future "Lotus Saint," a beacon of purity to lead the city's faith.
Nyxen listened, and bitterness coiled in his chest. He would never shine like her.
But he didn't need to.
The Hidden Library
He rose when the bells marked midnight. His figure slipped through shadowed halls until he reached the western wing—an ancient library sealed by talismans and guarded by silence.
The monks whispered of it: the Black Sutra Wing. Here were the texts too dangerous to burn, yet too precious to discard. Records of heretics, of monks who had strayed, of gods who had fallen.
Nyxen pressed his hand to the seal. Shadow qi seeped through his veins, slithering into the cracks. The barrier shivered, then parted with a reluctant groan.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and forgotten incense. Scrolls lay like corpses on shelves, their bindings cracked, their ink whispering faintly with power.
And at the center, on a lone pedestal, rested a scroll wrapped in chains of black iron. Its title was etched in words that seemed to crawl across the eye:
The Sutra of Crimson Emotion.
Nyxen reached out. The moment his fingers touched the parchment, a surge of heat shot through him. His breath caught. Images poured into his mind—faces weeping, lovers embracing, gods falling to madness.
A voice slithered into his thoughts.
"Do you seek ascension, child of shadow? Then abandon purity. Embrace what they fear. For power does not bloom in emptiness—it blooms in desire."
Nyxen's lips curled into a trembling smile. At last—he had found it.
Lianhua's Warning
The next morning, sunlight poured into the training grounds.
Nyxen stood opposite Lianhua, sparring with wooden staves under the monks' watchful eyes. Her strikes were swift, elegant, guided by perfect form. His were raw, heavy, almost brutal—but effective.
"You're distracted," she said, catching his stave mid-strike. Her gray-black hair shimmered in the morning light. "Your qi is unsettled."
Nyxen forced a smile. "Perhaps I simply lack your grace, Saintess."
Her gaze lingered on him longer than necessary. There was concern in it—gentle, piercing. "The Heart Mirror showed you something, didn't it?"
He froze for a moment, then deflected with a laugh. "It showed me that I am no saint."
Lianhua's grip tightened on her stave. Her voice dropped low. "Nyxen… there are other paths. Dangerous ones. The Forbidden Scriptures are not sealed without reason."
His pulse quickened. Did she suspect?
"You think I would stoop to heresy?" he asked, lips twisting into mockery.
Her eyes softened. "No. But I fear you will."
Nyxen turned away before she could see the shadow in his smile.
The Whispering Night
That night, he returned to the library.
The Sutra of Crimson Emotion unraveled before him like a living serpent, its verses burning into his mind:
> "Emotion is the marrow of existence. Love, grief, wrath, desire—these are the flames that bind flesh to soul. To cut them is to hollow the self. To embrace them is to transcend the self."
He read until his hands shook. Every line resonated with a hunger buried deep within him.
But with each verse came whispers—soft, alluring, venomous. They promised him power beyond purity, but at a cost he could not yet see.
As dawn neared, Nyxen shut the scroll, sweat beading his brow. His heart beat too fast, his veins alive with fire.
And from across the courtyard, through a lattice window, he glimpsed Lianhua praying before the bell tower, her silhouette framed in gold light.
For the first time, Nyxen felt something stir in his chest—not just hunger, not just ambition. Something fragile. Something dangerous.
He clenched his fists.
So this is what the Sutra means.
Emotion. The very thing the monks denied. The very thing that might kill him.
But also—the only path left to him.