"You—"
The word scraped out of him, low and hoarse.
He didn't finish it.
Instead, he flipped back to the previous page.
Read the line again.
The ink had cut deep into the parchment, as if the writer had pressed hard enough to carve the words in.
"Feel my pain."
Riven's jaw tightened.
He turned the page.
The earlier entries were precise. Ordered. Rational.
Notes about how the author's wife's body was slowly collapsing.
About medicines failing.
About meridians deteriorating.
About how he had uncovered a fragment of an incomplete formula—an ancient principle suggesting that a soul could be anchored before death and nurtured within another.
The Dual Fate Seal.
A theory.
If he could bind her fragment to his own soul, sustain it with his essence, then one day—when his cultivation was high enough—he could reconstruct her body.
Let her be reborn.
The ink was steady in these entries.
Measured.
Confident.
He turned another page.
- Soul fragment successfully anchored.
- Seal stable.
- Body's vital signs ceased.
- Have to keep soul alive.
The next entries came closer together.
- Fragment persists.
- Warmth detectable.
Then—
- Unexpected combat power increase.
- Synchronization with seal boosts power.
A pause in the writing.
Then, smaller script in the margin:
- But why?
- That's not the goal.
He flipped again.
The handwriting had grown heavier.
- During battle, projection possible.
- Opponents one minor realm above manageable.
Another line beneath it.
- Miraculous?
Another.
- Congratulations?
The strokes dug deeper.
- Teach me?
Riven's fingers tightened.
Another page.
Ink darker.
Less space between lines.
- Reconstruction attempt failed.
- I was too weak.
- Respond please.
The next sentence trailed.
- She does not speak.
Below it, scratched harder:
- She does not answer.
And then—
- Is it just a combat skill?
Riven's breath slowed.
- But why?
- It shouldn't be.
He kept reading.
- Praise my power?
- Envy the seal?
- You don't see!
The ink smeared in places.
- She is here.
A second later:
- She is not here.
The page beneath had been pressed through.
- Every day I feel her presence.
- Every day I cannot reach her.
The script grew uneven.
- They want my legacy.
- They want the seal.
A jagged line cut across half the page.
- It does not revive.
- It does not restore.
- It steals.
The word was underlined three times.
Silence seemed to thicken in the small chamber.
Riven turned another page.
The handwriting was no longer contained within margins.
It bled sideways.
- You want it?
Another line, larger.
- You want my legacy?
The ink blotched heavily at the bottom.
- Then feel it.
The next line tore into the parchment.
- Feel my pain.
Below that—
- Carry her within you.
- Know she is there.
- Know she will never answer.
The strokes grew violent.
- I should be grateful?
- I surpassed my realm?
- So what?
A long smear dragged downward, as if the brush had slipped.
- She is not coming back.
Again.
- She is not coming back.
The last page was nearly unreadable.
Ink blurred.
Edges wrinkled.
As though water had fallen onto it and dried.
Only a few words remained clear.
- You wanted it.
And beneath that—
- Join me.
Riven's hand trembled.
The leather creaked under his grip.
For a moment, it looked as though he might tear the booklet apart.
His breath grew rough.
His vision burned.
Then—
The trembling stopped.
His shoulders lowered.
His entire body went still.
Too still.
He closed the booklet carefully.
Set it back on the desk.
"You didn't want successors," he said quietly.
A breath escaped him.
"But then why make us grow closer..."
The question lingered in the stale air.
It was bitter.
Tired.
His gaze left the stack of manuscripts.
He turned and walked out of the study.
The passage beyond was narrow, its walls lined with shallow carvings. As he moved forward, his gaze lifted.
Another mural.
The same two figures.
The man standing tall.
The woman beside him.
Between them, carved faintly into stone, a seal.
Riven stopped.
For a long moment, he stared at it.
Then his fist moved.
The impact cracked through the corridor.
Stone fractured beneath his knuckles. Pain shot up his arm as skin split and bone protested.
He didn't flinch.
Blood smeared across the carved face of the man.
He withdrew his hand slowly.
The man's face couldn't be seen anymore.
He turned away.
Continued down the passage.
At the end stood a door.
Plain.
Unremarkable.
Beyond its threshold—nothing but darkness.
He did not hesitate.
He wanted out of here.
Far away from this madman's tomb.
He stepped forward.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then—
Light ignited.
And his eyes opened to a familiar place.
Cold air.
Stone.
He stood at the entrance beneath the lake.
The first chamber.
The place where it had begun.
Behind him, there was no door. No trace of the dark threshold he had crossed. Only solid rock where it should have been.
In front of him—
The carved stone door he and Yue Lin had pushed open together.
The entrance to that place.
Riven stared at it.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Then he turned.
On the other side was the exit that led to the pond they'd initially come from.
The surface of the black water outside the cave remained unnaturally calm. It did not spill inward. It did not seep across the threshold. It simply stopped at the edge, just like it did before.
He looked up.
An illuminating stone was embedded in the ceiling above, casting its pale, steady glow.
Without hesitation, he touched the ring at his chest.
A flicker of soul force.
Yue Lin's dagger slid into his hand.
The weight was familiar.
He bent his knees slightly and jumped.
The blade struck stone beside the glowing crystal. Once. Twice.
Cracks spread.
On the third strike, the illuminating stone loosened.
He caught it before it fell, dismissing the knife into the ring to have space to catch it.
The light bathed his blood-marked knuckles in pale white.
Riven landed softly and looked at the stone in his hand.
That madman won't need it.
It was a gruff thought.
Full of unspoken hostility.
His hand clenched, almost cracking the illuminating stone.
The he turned and walked slowly toward the tunnel leading out.
As he moved, he paused beneath each embedded crystal.
Jumped.
Struck.
Collected.
One by one.
The ceiling dimmed behind him.
The path back grew darker with every step.
He did not look back.
When he reached the edge of the cave, the black water waited beyond the threshold.
He held one illuminating stone in his hand.
Kept the others stored.
Without ceremony, he stepped forward.
The water closed around him.
Cold.
Silent.
For a moment, he expected pressure.
Resistance.
But the lake did not push against him.
It felt… ordinary.
Like stepping into any body of water.
His clothes shifted gently with the current. The illuminating stone in his hand cast a soft white glow, pushing back the darkness in a small circle around him.
He took a step.
Then another.
The pond floor was visible beneath him—silt, smooth stones, strands of wavering aquatic plants. Nothing unnatural.
If he didn't know better, he wouldn't connect this place to wherever he had just been.
He flexed his legs slightly.
He could swim up whenever he wanted.
The surface shouldn't be too far.
Just a few strokes.
He took two more steps forward, wanting to see a little more first, the light drifting across the lakebed.
Then—
Something shifted at the edge of his vision.
A darker shape against the dark.
He stilled.
Slowly turned his head.
The light drifted outward.
Cloth.
Black.
Submerged but unmoving.
A sleeve.
And woven into it—
A faint pattern.
Spiderweb.
His breath stopped.
Or at least that would have been his reaction if wasn't already holding his breath.
…Is that—?
He moved closer.
Slowly.
The silt stirred faintly around his feet.
The light slid across the shape fully now.
Black robes.
Collapsed in on themselves.
His pupils dilated.
A broad frame lay half-turned against the lakebed, one arm outstretched as if he had been reaching upward.
Thick fur matted dark along the forearm.
Clawed fingers, still curled.
The faintest glint of gold caught the light as the illuminating stone shifted.
Not reflection.
Eyes.
Open.
Unmoving.
The bulk of the body did not belong to a drowned wanderer.
It belonged to someone who had fought more battles than most men survived.
Riven did not move.
The water felt colder now.
And heavier.