Chapter 12
The temple bells tolled one last time as dusk swallowed the mountains.
Nyxen's robes were torn, soaked in blood — his own and the abomination's. The scent of burnt incense and iron mixed in the air, and his heartbeat echoed faintly in his ears like a dying drum.
Lianhua lay motionless beside him, her pulse faint but alive. Her face, once serene like still water, was pale as porcelain, lips trembling between breath and silence.
Nyxen stared down at her — that innocent monk woman who had looked at him not with suspicion but with quiet faith.
Faith he never deserved.
He coughed blood, crimson droplets staining the stone floor.
"This is it," he muttered weakly. "If I stay, I'll bring ruin to everything she protects."
The corrupted monks would come. The temple elders who smelled his false aura would follow. The Blood Palace hunters were surely on his trail already. His disguise was fraying — the false monk Qi no longer masked his chaotic core.
He dragged his body across the floor, fingers trembling as he reached for a broken incense stand. The golden base reflected his cracked face, half-covered in ash, eyes dim yet burning faintly red beneath the monk's calm facade.
He carved words onto the stone slab beside her:
> "For the purity of the heart, one must burn the impure self."
— Monk Nyxen, fallen in penance.
He smiled bitterly at the irony. A fake monk writing his own epitaph.
A fake death for a man who never truly lived.
He wrapped his prayer beads around her wrist — his last mark, his silent goodbye.
"Live on, Lianhua," he whispered. "Don't follow me into the dark."
Outside, the temple was collapsing — walls cracked, banners burned, chants faded into screams.
Nyxen lifted his staff one final time and struck the ground. A barrier of golden Qi flared around the unconscious Lianhua, sealing her within a cocoon of protection.
Then he walked into the fire.
Through the smoke, he stepped like a ghost, every breath a fight against oblivion. His spiritual veins were shredded; his Dao energy flickered violently, unstable as lightning in a storm.
He reached the mountain path that overlooked the valley — the Holy Bell City glowed below, unaware of the silent tragedy above.
He turned back once, gazing at the temple.
The golden spire collapsed, sending sparks into the heavens.
He whispered, almost to himself,
> "Let the world think the monk is dead."
A faint laugh escaped his lips — soft, bitter, almost peaceful.
Then he leapt into the mist below.
Days later, the monks found only ashes and blood.
A single prayer bead chain remained, half-melted by flame.
The elders mourned the "pure monk" who had fallen protecting Lianhua and the temple.
They named him The Saint of False Purity.
Far below the mountain, by the riverbank shrouded in fog, Nyxen awoke.
His body was broken but alive.
He coughed and laughed weakly, tasting both blood and irony.
"Fake death… worked again."
He tore off the burnt robe, revealing his scarred body and faint demonic sigils beneath the flesh.
His disguise was gone now. The mask of holiness had burned away.
"Good," he whispered. "Monk or demon… what difference does it make anymore?"
He looked toward the mountain peak one last time.
He could almost feel her faint Qi pulse from afar — alive, safe, believing he was gone.
That was enough.
He turned away, walking barefoot into the mist, his shadow stretching long behind him.
Each step echoed softly with the bells that only he could hear — the requiem of a false monk who buried himself to protect what little purity the world had left.
And in that silence, a vow formed within his mind:
> "If love brings impurity, then let me be the sinner of all love."