Chapter 11
The mountains of Zhenhai stretched endlessly—gray stone veined with gold, peaks cutting through the clouds like frozen waves.
Somewhere among them lay the Mountain of Flowing Prayer, a place where monks believed the heavens wept for the sins of mortals.
Nyxen and Lianhua climbed in silence.
The smell of ash from Holy Bell Temple still clung to their robes.
Each step was heavy—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of what they had lost.
Lianhua carried her staff like a pilgrim's cross.
Her lips moved soundlessly in prayer.
Nyxen glanced at her. The purity that once defined her aura was fractured.
It flickered, like a candle fighting against the wind.
"You're blaming yourself," he said quietly.
"I was taught that faith purifies," she answered, eyes fixed ahead. "But I saw the Abbot's eyes when he fell. There was no purity left in them. Only fear."
Nyxen nodded. "Faith and fear look the same when you close your eyes long enough."
She looked at him sharply, almost angry—but then softened.
"You speak like a man who's already seen the end of everything."
He gave a faint smile.
"I have."
As they reached the upper ridges, snow began to fall—slow, quiet, endless.
It clung to Nyxen's lashes, turning his crimson eyes pale.
He could barely feel the cold anymore; his soul burned hotter than his body.
Lianhua's steps slowed. "Why do you still hide your name?"
"I'm no one worth remembering," he said.
"You fought to save those monks who cursed you. You could have run."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he stopped walking, raising his head slightly.
"Something's here."
The wind shifted. The snow began to spiral unnaturally, forming a faint circle around them.
From above, a voice spoke—deep, echoing, drenched in malice.
"So… the heretic lives."
Lianhua turned sharply.
A shape emerged from the mist—a monk's corpse draped in rotting robes, golden prayer beads glowing faintly around its neck.
Its chest was hollow, ribs cracked open, heart missing.
"The Abbot," Nyxen whispered.
The corpse's empty mouth smiled.
"You burned my temple, wanderer. Now I'll burn your soul."
The ground split.
Flames of corrupted qi burst from beneath, forming rings of molten lotus petals.
Lianhua's eyes widened. "He turned his own spirit into a curse—!"
"Stay back!" Nyxen snapped, pushing her aside just as the creature's staff slammed into the ground.
The shockwave threw snow and rock in all directions.
Nyxen slid backward, blocking with his forearm.
The impact burned through his robe, searing the skin beneath.
The Abbot's voice echoed from all directions.
"You walk with desire. You touched the forbidden duality. You think sorrow can grant purity?"
Nyxen spat blood.
"No. But it can make me remember why I fight."
They clashed again.
Blade and prayer, flame and frost.
Every strike from Nyxen left trails of black-and-white light—his dual Dao struggling to remain stable.
Each chant from the Abbot twisted into madness, filling the sky with phantom monks screaming in agony.
Lianhua tried to join in, but her wounds from the temple still weakened her.
She stumbled, blood staining the snow.
"Lianhua!" Nyxen shouted.
She forced a smile. "Don't stop. I'll—ah!"
Before she could finish, a spectral hand impaled her from behind—formed of pure curse energy.
Her body convulsed.
"NO!"
Nyxen's vision turned red.
He caught her before she fell completely, holding her trembling form in his arms.
Her lips moved, blood staining her teeth.
"Don't… stop…"
"Shut up," he whispered harshly, but his voice cracked.
"Save your strength."
Her hand brushed his cheek—cold, gentle.
"I finally… understand… the smell of beauty…"
And then her eyes rolled back as she fell unconscious.
Nyxen's mind went silent.
The snow around them stopped falling.
Something inside him—something bound and caged since the end of Arc 1—broke.
He stood, setting her gently against a stone.
Then, closing his eyes, he raised his right hand.
The Abbot sneered. "You think that broken Dao of yours can harm me?"
Nyxen smiled faintly.
"No. But this can."
The air cracked.
From his fingertip, light began to condense—a river made of sword intent, flowing upward into the sky.
It shimmered with duality: one half white as divinity, one half black as night.
The Finger of the Flowriver Sword.
A technique he'd sworn never to use again.
The Abbot roared, striking first, but the river split his attack in half.
Nyxen's hand moved slowly, deliberately—like writing fate itself.
Each gesture carved lines of light across the air.
Each line became a current, forming a massive, spiraling river around the mountain peak.
"Your sin…" the Abbot bellowed. "…will drown you!"
"Then I'll drown smiling."
He thrust his finger forward.
The Flowriver surged, swallowing the abomination in blinding light.
The sky split open.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then came the scream—shattering, endless, fading into nothing.
When the storm cleared, the mountain was quiet again.
Snow fell gently through the holes in the clouds.
The crater where the Abbot had stood glowed faintly with molten gold and black ash.
Nyxen fell to one knee, gasping, his hand trembling violently.
Half his body had turned gray, his veins glowing silver.
He looked toward Lianhua.
She was still breathing—faintly—but alive.
"Good," he whispered. "You'll live."
He smiled weakly, then looked toward the mountain's peak.
The snow reflected his own reflection—hollow eyes, soul nearly burned out.
"Guess I'm done pretending."
He reached for a stone slab nearby and carved words into it with his finger:
> Here lies the wanderer who sought beauty in sorrow.
May his blindness see beyond heaven.
Then he closed his eyes, pressing his hand against his chest.
His aura flickered—and vanished.
Hours later, Lianhua awoke.
Her vision was blurry, her body cold.
"Nyxen…?"
Only silence.
Only the mountain wind and the faint sound of dripping water.
She saw the inscription, half-buried by snow.
Her knees gave way.
Tears she didn't understand spilled down her face.
"He… he really…"
Her hand touched the carved words, trembling.
And as her tears fell onto the frozen stone, the snowflakes around her began to glow faintly.
The sorrow in her heart cracked something deeper—something that had always been sealed.
She knelt there, eyes closed, as the mountain wind wrapped around her.
The lotus tattoo on her wrist shimmered, glowing faint gold.
The ground pulsed.
The sky seemed to breathe.
A serene light enveloped her body, lifting her hair, her robes, her tears.
And from her lips came a whisper—one of love, grief, and awakening:
"May you find the beauty you sought… even if I must never see it."
Her aura exploded upward.
The heavens trembled.
Stage Three — The Heart Lotus Ascension.
Far below the mountain, a man in tattered robes walked through the snowstorm.
His eyes were closed, his breath shallow.
Each step left faint traces of light behind him.
He turned once, faintly sensing the explosion of energy from above.
A small, broken smile appeared on his lips.
"So… she made it."
Then he looked forward again, disappearing into the white void.
"Maybe there's still beauty left in this world after all."