The Weeping Ballad.
The first sound that announced their arrival was never footsteps. It was a bell.
A single chime rang through the village, thin and hollow, trembling in the night air like a wound that refused to close. The tone lingered long after the strike, vibrating against the wooden walls of houses and the brittle branches of winter trees. No one ever saw who rang it. But everyone heard it. The bell always came first. Then came the silence.
Even the wind seemed to hesitate when that bell echoed across the village. Dogs stopped barking. Lantern flames flickered nervously as if sensing a presence pressing against the edges of the world. The villagers knew what followed.
Midnight.
When the final stroke of the hour echoed from the distant temple tower, the night itself changed. Darkness thickened.
Fog rolled in from the surrounding hills—not slowly, not naturally, but with a deliberate weight, spilling through narrow alleys and across courtyards like a living creature creeping into the heart of the settlement.
Within minutes, the entire village was swallowed.
The fog was dense. Not ordinary mist.
It clung to skin and cloth like damp breath, turning the air cold and heavy. Lanterns dimmed within it, their light swallowed before it could travel even five meters ahead.
A person standing across the street became nothing more than a vague shadow. And that was when they appeared. Shapes moved within the fog. At first they seemed like wandering silhouettes—figures strolling through the village without urgency, as though taking an evening walk through familiar streets.
But the villagers knew better. They were not travelers. They were not spirits. And they were certainly not saviors.They called themselves 'The Aibiter' A ridiculous name, if one cared to examine it too closely.
Self-proclaimed arbiters of peace. Guardians of balance. Protectors of the innocent. Yet every villager understood the truth behind those claims.
They were neither divine nor demonic.
Their bodies carried no sacred aura. No heavenly blessing. No infernal corruption.
They were something worse. Humans who had given up too much. Sacrificed too much. Until nothing human remained except the shell.
Their robes marked their arrival before their faces ever could.
Long cloaks that covered them entirely from head to toe, the fabric shifting colors depending on where they walked. In this village, beneath the dim lantern light and the suffocating fog, their garments shimmered with a deep orange hue—like dying embers smoldering beneath ash. The cloth concealed everything: Faces, hands, even the shapes of their bodies. Only their eyes betrayed them. Scarlet!
Not bright red—but darker, flowing like slow-moving rivers of blood beneath shadowed brows. The color seemed to pulse faintly, glowing through the thin slits of their veils as they moved through the village streets. They did not hurry. They just strolled leisurely like they were sunbathing in a beautiful weather. As though not in this densed place.
As if inspecting property they already owned. Doors creaked shut behind trembling villagers who dared not meet those red gazes. Curtains were drawn tight. Candles extinguished. Children were pulled close to their mothers' chests. Everyone knew better than to watch. Because once you were seen watching—You became part of the ceremony.
They called their nightly procession The Weeping Ballad. The name sounded poetic.
Tragic, almost beautiful.
But in truth, it was something far more grotesque. Once the fog thickened and the orange-robed figures gathered in the village square, the bells began again. Not temple bells. Smaller ones. Handheld.
Each member of the Aibiter carried one.
They rang them slowly, deliberately, creating a strange melody that echoed through the fog like a funeral hymn sung for the living rather than the dead. And then they wept.
Soft at first. Low, mournful sobs drifting across the square.
But as the minutes passed, the sound grew louder—dozens of voices crying in unison as though mourning some unimaginable loss.
Yet no tears ever fell. It was performance.
Ritual. The villagers had witnessed it countless times. They called it mourning.
But everyone knew it was mockery.
The Aibiter claimed they performed the Ballad to absorb the sorrow of the world. That their weeping cleansed villages of misfortune.
What truly happened was something else entirely.
After the weeping came the sacrifices.
Every cities they visited carried its own stories. Old temples dedicated to forgotten spirits. Ancestral altars left behind by long-dead clans. And inevitably—Three names.
Names that never faded no matter how many years passed. Names that they were also known for.
Cult of Zinglong. Lingjin's Forebears and Fengdo of the nine bloods.
The villagers whispered them with dread.
Officially, the Aibiter are known as the Weeping Ballad but they also claimed that they are doing humanity good by weeping at midnight for dead souls.
But the villagers call them :he Cult of Zinglong.Others whispered Forebear of Lingjin. And the most feared among them spoke reverently of Fengdo of the Nine Bloods.
Three groups Three founders.
Three men who had once lived among ordinary people before transforming themselves into something far more disturbing. They were dead. Everyone knew that. Yet their presence lingered in every ritual the Aibiter performed. Offerings were placed before statues carved in their likeness.
Incense burned through the night.
And sometimes—If the fog was thick enough—Villagers swore they could see silhouettes standing behind the orange-robed figures.Tall shapes watching the ceremony unfold. Smiling.
The worst part was the smiles.
The statues in the temple wore them. Cold.
Patient.
As if the dead founders were still pleased with what their followers had become.
Hypocrites.
Every villager knew it. The Aibiter preached peace while terrorizing entire settlements.
They claimed to protect the weak while demanding sacrifices from those same people. They sang mourning songs while smiling behind their veils.Two-faced. Cruel.
But untouchable.
Anyone who dared oppose them learned quickly how vicious they truly were. Houses burned overnight. Families vanished.
And the fog carried their screams far beyond the village walls.
Yet no one ever fought back. Because the Aibiter had one belief they repeated endlessly. A twisted proverb passed down from their founders. "Blood is thicker than blood."
A meaningless phrase to outsiders. But within their order, it meant something terrifying. Once you joined them—
Your loyalty surpassed even family.
Betrayal was answered with brutality. Mercy did not exist.
And so the Weeping Ballad continued.
Village after village. Night after night. The bell rang. The fog came.
The orange-robed figures wept their hollow tears.
And beneath it all, the shadows of Zinglong, Lingjin, and Fengdo seemed to smile from beyond death itself—three scoundrels whose hypocrisy had grown so vast that even the grave could not bury it. The villagers feared demons. They prayed to gods. But deep in their hearts, they knew a far more uncomfortable truth. Demons devoured bodies. Gods judged souls.
The Aibiter—They devoured hope.
____
This ritual had spread far beyond one place or one era. Even though the Weeping Ballad did not originate in the Yanli Continent, its reach stretched across countless lands, from remote villages hidden in mountains to forgotten towns barely marked on maps.
No settlement was too small. No life too insignificant. And tonight, the fog had swallowed one such town.
—
The streets were nearly invisible now.
The fog rolled through every alley like pale smoke poured from unseen cracks in the earth. Lanterns hung outside shops flickered weakly, their light diffusing into ghostly halos that barely reached the ground.
Shadows moved through the mist.
Orange-robed silhouettes strolling slowly, bells chiming softly with every step.
The Weeping Ballad had begun.
It was at the edge of this suffocating scene that Xing Yue collided—quite literally—with someone stepping out of the fog.
The impact was light, but enough to make her pause.
Standing before her was a young man with sharp features and dark hair loosely tied behind his back. His clothes were travel-worn but clean, and there was a quiet alertness in his eyes, as though he had learned long ago not to trust unfamiliar places.
Hong Tian Luo.
The so-called stepbrother of Lady Cangyin.
Though at this moment, neither of them had spoken their names. And neither of them knew each other, Xing Yue could still recognize history when seen. If she has read about them, she's sure to know them by heart. The fact that was in rebuttable was the fact that he has a mole right in the middle of the nose. Not the usual black moles. But this one is as golden. Multen gold that seems to carry divinity and corruption at large.
Before either could say anything, hurried footsteps slapped against the stone road.
A small girl ran toward them, clutching a basket of herbs to her chest. Her hair was tied in two uneven braids, and her face carried the kind of seriousness only children raised in difficult places possessed.
She stopped abruptly in front of them.
"Hurry up and get inside!" she hissed urgently, glancing over her shoulder toward the fog-choked street. "Those people are bad news. You shouldn't let them see you!"
Her voice trembled—not with weakness, but with frustration that the two strangers seemed completely unaware of the danger surrounding them.
Xing Yue blinked.
Her gaze drifted past the girl toward the slowly moving shadows in the mist. So those were the Aibiters.
Interesting.
But the girl's warning raised a practical question. Where exactly were they supposed to go?
One of them had just left his continent.
The other had arrived in a place either by crook or by cranny. And most importantly, strange. Because, though it was Yanli Continent, it still cannot be called that from where they were. A land that was technically the Yanli Continent, yet somehow… not entirely the same.
They had no house. No refuge. No place that could be called safe.
Xing Yue crouched slightly and smiled gently at the girl.
"Why?" she asked lightly. "What's there? Is it bad if we go there?"
The girl stared at her as though she had just heard the most ridiculous question imaginable.
Her brows knitted together in a fierce frown.
"Do you want to die?" she snapped. "If you're tired of living, go jump into a fire yourself! Don't drag me along with you!"
Xing Yue blinked again.
Oh! Young, but very bad-tempered.
What an unfortunate day.
Before she could respond, Hong Tian Luo stepped forward. His tone was calm—almost apologetic.
"What this lady means," he said smoothly, "is that we don't actually have anywhere to run." Wow! They don't even know each other, yet conversing like they were the people who journeyed together into this fog coated village. That's wonderful. At least that's what Xing Yue thinks.
The girl crossed her arms suspiciously.
"So?"
"So…" he continued patiently, "would you be willing to shelter us for a little while?"
The girl's eyes narrowed. She looked at Xing Yue. Then at Hong Tian Luo. Then back at the fog creeping through the streets.
For several seconds she said nothing, clearly weighing the risk of helping two strangers against the danger of leaving them outside.
Finally, she sighed dramatically.
"Fine."
But she raised a finger sharply.
"If you make any sound," she warned, "I'll throw you out myself."
Xing Yue almost laughed internally. This really wouldn't do.
She had endured Jiang Yunxian's carefree nonsense for long enough—did she really need to deal with a hot-tempered child on top of everything else?
But circumstances rarely asked for permission.
So she simply nodded and followed.
The girl led them quickly through a narrow side alley, pushing open the wooden door of a modest house half-hidden behind stacks of firewood.
Inside, the air was warm and dim.
A small oil lamp flickered on a low table, casting trembling shadows against the clay walls. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, filling the room with a faint medicinal scent.
The girl shut the door quietly and pressed her ear against it for a moment.
Outside, the bells continued to chime. Soft. Persistent.
The Weeping Ballad had fully begun.
"Don't talk," she whispered, turning back to them with an impatient glare. "Just stay quiet."
Xing Yue folded her hands behind her back and leaned casually against the wall.
Through the small window, she could see the fog swirling thickly through the streets.
Strange.
Why was it only this place swallowed in mist?
Even in other cursed lands, fog rarely behaved this unnaturally. Her eyes narrowed slightly. I'll check it out when it clears tomorrow, she thought.
For now, patience would have to suffice.
Outside, the bells rang again.
And somewhere within the fog, the red eyes of the Aibiters moved slowly through the sleeping town—singing their sorrowful Ballad for another village that had no choice but to endure it.