The world had gone darker. The sky above the Yanli Continent was an unsettling canvas of black and crimson, red veins stretching through the heavens like the cracks of a shattered mirror. Every few breaths, thunder rumbled—not with the clear ring of stormlight, but with a muffled, dragging growl, as though the sky itself was breathing through smoke. The air shimmered faintly with an unnatural hue, and at the horizon, where the jagged mountains clawed into the clouds, lightning rippled and slithered like silver serpents seeking escape.
Yet for the people of Yanli, this was no omen. It was ordinary. Life thrived beneath this bleeding sky as though nothing were amiss. Marketplaces bustled in the distance, where vendors called out their prices with throats roughened by dust and smoke. Children ran barefoot past crumbling temples, their laughter mingling with the hiss of forges and the clang of metal. Beyond the city's edge, a long chain of black-stoned fortresses cut across the land, marking the territories of each faction that made up this fractured realm.
This was the Continent of Yanli, or Yanli Continent, as outsiders would call it—a realm of divided loyalties and eternal dusk.
It was said that long ago, when the heavens still looked upon this land with mercy, a man named Hong Yanli descended from the Celestial Peaks. A ruler of unmatched discipline and power, his name became both the title of the land and the symbol of its law. Ruthless but not unjust, he carved order into chaos. His decree:
> "Those who break Heaven's balance shall live beneath Heaven's silence."
Under his iron rule, chaos found structure. But even the strongest hand cannot hold darkness forever.
The continent was now split into three dominions:
The Merchants — who filled the cities with silk, jade, medicine, and artifacts. They controlled trade routes, supplied every province, and even the temples of Heaven sometimes relied on their craft. But behind gilded ledgers and honeyed words, many dealt in forbidden goods—demonic pills, spirit ashes, cursed weapons. Their gold glittered brighter than their conscience.
The Fugitives — outlaws and exiled cultivators. They hid in the mountain ridges and ruined valleys, bound by neither faith nor code. These were men and women who once sought power, now hunted for it. They traded lives for survival, loyalty for breath.
And lastly, The Soulless Demons — the lowest tier. Banished from the demon realm, stripped of spirit, they lingered like husks. Yet unlike the others, they were silent, obedient, and faithful. They worked in the shadows, building, healing, and serving. Among them were those who remembered a time when this land still had light.
In this fragile balance of obedience and decay, order and betrayal, one name still echoed across the lands like the whisper of a storm: Hong Yanli, the Founder. His absence was a mystery; his will, unquestioned. His silence, however, had become dangerous.
For beneath that silence, the continent festered.
Merchants whispered of secret trades under the blood sky. Fugitives plotted rebellion. Even among the Soulless, there were murmurs—of a light once promised, and never fulfilled. And it was here, amidst the echo of sin and the scent of ash, that the Heavenly Emperor made his decree.
He sent down Lady Cangyin, Saintess of the Lotus Star Palace.
---
Draped in silver-white robes embroidered with threads of blue lotus, Lady Cangyin stepped through the veil of clouds. Her feet touched the ground of her homeland for the first time in a hundred years. Around her, the land exhaled heat and dust. The red light painted her veil in shades of blood and gold. Her hair, bound by a pale jade pin, trembled in the wind like a dark waterfall beneath her hood.
The air smelled faintly of rain and iron—metallic, dense. She could hear the distant murmur of prayer bells, their tone crooked and mournful. Once, these bells rang for the heavens. Now, they rang for trade and sin.
She stood on the cliff overlooking Luohua City, the central domain of the Merchants. Its skyline shimmered with pale blue flames from the alchemists' towers. Markets stretched endlessly, glinting with the movement of spirit-forged tools and golden fabrics. From this height, one could see the outline of ships flying across the red clouds—merchant vessels with demon-silk sails, glowing softly in the twilight.
Lady Cangyin's lips curved into a faint, wistful smile. Her voice, soft as a prayer, drifted into the wind.
"Mother," she whispered, "your daughter has returned."
She had once walked these streets barefoot, when her name had still been Tu An, the daughter of a corrupt merchant and a grieving woman. Her father had been known as Tu Cheng, a man whose greed could rival mountains. Though law forbade anyone from surpassing the Founder's wealth, Tu Cheng's arrogance grew with each successful trade. He bought silence, bribed officials, and dealt with demons under the moonlight. His riches built towers that touched the blood sky—and his pride sealed his doom.
Her mother, gentle as the moon, had watched him descend into corruption. Every night, she waited by the window, lamp dimming with her hope, until one day the flame went out for good. Her death had been quiet, unspoken, as all tragedies of powerless women were. Tu An had stood by her bed then, promising vengeance—but what vengeance could a girl of seven bring against the rot of men?
Now she returned as Lady Cangyin, Saintess of the Lotus Star Palace—an emissary of Heaven, clothed in sanctity, but still a daughter of this crimson land.
Her white sleeves fluttered as she descended from the cliff and stepped into the outer path of the city. The ground trembled faintly beneath her feet. Every sound—the hiss of spirit forges, the chatter of peddlers, the distant howl of beasts—seemed to fold into her silence. People glanced her way but said nothing. In a place like Yanli, holiness was just another kind of illusion.
She looked up once more at the sky, where thunder pulsed in slow, rhythmic veins.
> "The heavens have grown darker since I left," she murmured.
"Perhaps they, too, remember."
And as she walked toward the city gates, the bells of the Lotus Star Palace echoed faintly in her mind—a reminder of the mission she carried. The Emperor's voice still lingered like a blade against her throat:
> "Find the source of corruption in Yanli, and cleanse it. No matter the blood it demands."
Her gaze hardened. The land before her, once home, was now her battlefield.
The winds shifted. Somewhere in the city, a woman laughed—a brittle, mocking sound. And high above, a shadow stirred within the veins of the crimson sky.
Lady Cangyin did not look back. She took her first step into Yanli's heart.
---
Lady Cangyin entered Luohua City as twilight deepened into its most haunting hue — that strange hour when crimson light slipped between the narrow alleys, turning shadows into living things. The streets were narrower than she remembered, yet busier. Hawkers lined the sides, their stalls glowing with lanterns that flickered gold and green. The scent of roasted chestnuts mixed with burnt herbs, incense, and the faint rot of rain-soaked wood.
She moved silently through the crowd. Her white robes trailed behind her like moonlight on a battlefield — clean, incongruous, and commanding stares. A child ran past, nearly brushing her sleeve before his mother yanked him back, whispering something that sounded like a warning.
"Don't touch her — she's not one of us."
Not one of us.
The words drifted through her ears like the echo of her past life.
She kept walking.
From the upper balconies of tea houses, women in silken veils peered down, their laughter sharp, their bangles chiming like restless ghosts. Somewhere ahead, a blacksmith hammered iron; every clang resonated through her bones like a heartbeat from long ago. On the corner of the street, she saw a familiar emblem — a lotus sigil carved into a cracked stone plaque. Once, that symbol had belonged to her mother's shop. Now, it was smeared with soot and grime, and over it hung a new board: "Tu's Pavilion of Rarities."
Her heart stilled.
The name Tu remained.
So… her father's legacy still poisoned the soil.
She stepped closer, her hand brushing the weathered plaque. A faint pulse of spiritual residue vibrated beneath her palm — the lingering essence of someone she had once known. Her mother had infused protective energy into that lotus stone when she was alive, to ward off evil. For it to still hold even the faintest flicker of that power after all these years meant only one thing:
Her mother's spirit was not yet at peace.
A shadow stirred behind the wooden door. The latch creaked open, and an old servant shuffled out — back bent, one eye clouded white, the other dim but alert. He carried a tray of dried herbs, muttering under his breath. When his gaze met hers, the herbs slipped from his trembling hands.
"Y-you…" His voice cracked like dry paper. "You look… like her…"
Lady Cangyin lowered her veil slightly, revealing only her eyes — serene, ageless, touched by a cold grace. "Do you remember Tu An?" she asked softly. Her voice, though calm, carried weight enough to silence the street for a moment.
The man's knees almost gave way. "M-Mistress Tu An…? You— you cannot be… She died— she died with the mistress—"
"I did," she said, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. "And yet here I stand. Perhaps Heaven's judgment is slower than your master's sins."
The old man's breath hitched. He looked around, fear pooling in his one good eye. "Please, my lady… do not say such things aloud. The Founder's ears reach farther than the clouds. And the young master—he—"
"The young master?" she interrupted, though her tone stayed measured.
"Your half-brother," he whispered, clutching his tray as if it could protect him. "He rules the Pavilion now. He… he serves the Founder himself. He is not the same boy you knew."
Lady Cangyin's gaze deepened. Beneath her calm, the air grew heavier, rippling faintly with celestial energy. Even the lamps nearby flickered.
"Then fate is kind," she murmured. "I came not to find the same boy — but to meet the man he became."
She turned her gaze upward. Through the slits of a curtained balcony, she caught a glimmer of movement — someone watching her. For the briefest moment, two amber eyes met hers before vanishing behind silk.
The servant saw it too and paled further. "You must go, Saintess. You do not understand — the Pavilion is not what it was. It has dealings with the Merchants' Syndicate now… and with those who trade under the Founder's shadow."
Her expression didn't waver. "I understand perfectly. That is why I came."
Then, she pressed a silver talisman into his trembling hands — shaped like a lotus blooming over water. "Burn this when the moon turns red tonight. Say nothing. I will come for you."
Without another word, she stepped back into the street and disappeared into the moving crowd, her robes merging with the slow rhythm of lantern light and wind.
Above, in the upper chamber of Tu's Pavilion, the man who had watched her lowered his curtain. His lips twisted into a faint smile.
"So," he murmured, voice smooth as wine but cold as night. "The dead do return after all."
Behind him, a servant knelt, trembling. "Young Master Tu… should I send word to the Syndicate?"
He chuckled softly, tracing a finger across the windowpane. "Not yet. Let the her wander. The longer she stays in Yanli, the more this land will remember what it truly is."
He turned toward the altar in the corner, where a statue of the Founder Hong Yanli stood, half-shrouded in incense smoke. His reflection flickered across the founder's stone eyes — one mortal, one something else.