Hansha woke with a scream trapped in his throat.
Not loud—never loud—but clenched behind clenched teeth, like always. His body was drenched in cold sweat despite the warmth of the meditation chamber. Moonlight bled through paper-thin jade windows carved with serpentine script: *"Let go of self to become whole."* He knew those words by heart. They were whispered at dawn prayers, inked into scroll margins, tattooed on the souls of disciples who "ascended."
But Hansha hadn't ascended.
He remembered dreaming—not thoughts or visions this time—but sensations. A rope burning his wrists. A stone altar beneath bare knees that weren't his own. And a voice—not spoken aloud but etched into bone:
"They are not gods… only jailers."
He sat up too fast and gasped as pain lanced through his temples—a familiar punishment for remembering what he wasn't supposed to know.
Outside the chamber door stood Elder Meilan like an ornament made flesh—calm eyes hidden under silver brows, hands folded inside silk sleeves embroidered with lotus threads that pulsed faintly when touched by moonlight energy.
"You dreamed again," she said flatly—an observation disguised as concern.
Hansha wiped sweat from his neck and forced a smile both obedient and hollow—one he'd perfected after seven lifetimes of practice without knowing it yet himself.
"I apologize," he murmured softly while scanning her face for cracks beneath serenity.* Was it suspicion? Or mere pity?*
"No need to apologize for dreams," Elder Meilan replied gently as if rehearsed across centuries,* "unless they disturb your path toward clarity."
Clarity—the sacred goal every disciple chased within Xuanyuan Sect walls atop Mount Tianshi—a jagged peak piercing clouds so high even birds dared not fly near its summit lest they be struck down for disturbing enlightenment winds (or perhaps silenced witnesses).
To outsiders below—in villages clinging to mountain foothills—the Xuanyuan Sect was divine light amidst chaos.* Their adepts healed plagues,* raised dead crops from drought,* guided grieving families back into peace.*
And all it cost them?
One memory.*
Just one small part handed over during initiation ritual called *"The Unbinding."*
*"Surrender what binds you,"* went the chant.* "And walk free among stars."*
Only no one ever came back changed—not really.* Faces older,* voices deeper,—but souls flattened like scrolls pressed under stone weights until nothing remained except devotion... blank obedience… quiet smiles masking voids where names used to live.*
But Hansha felt heavier than empty should feel.
As child,he had drawn things before memory rites:** towers made of black glass,**men chained underground,**a symbol shaped like two moons devouring each other's tails—he couldn't explain why but always scratched them onto cave walls using crushed gemstone pigments stolen from alchemist chambers.*
Once caught,
Elder Jin had looked at drawing—and trembled slightly before burning sketchbook without meeting eyes*. Later that night**,the same symbol appeared painted inside inner sanctum dome above master throne room—even though entrance required blood-key seals only elders possessed*. When asked how art got there,Jin declared miracle:"Proof Heaven speaks through chosen ones."**
Chosen ones...
Yes.Hansha almost laughed now sitting cross-legged on cold floorboards watching Elder Meilan step forward slowly placing hand upon forehead.Not healing touch—but scanning probe masked as blessing.Her fingers glowed gold-green.And somewhere deep inside,a lock clicked open.Something warm began slipping out...
Not thought.Not feeling.But identity itself draining slowly backward—as sand flows upward against gravity pulling him toward sleep...
Then dark came—
—but not silence…
A whisper surged upward from nowhere:
*"Seventh time reborn...You remember us..."*
*"They kill you each life...erase everything..."*
*"But YOU STILL WAKE UP SCREAMING!"*
*"...because we never died…"*
When consciousness returned,Hansha blinked groggily.Elder Meilan stood composed,saying calmly,
"Bad dream purged.Dreamfire cleansed.You may rest now.Your clarity awaits tomorrow."
She bowed slightly before exiting,closing door behind her.No sound followed.No creak,no footstep,nada.Just absence—as if she ceased existing when beyond sight.His breath steadied.Was that real?
Then,his gaze dropped—to right palm.Tightly clenched since waking.Now relaxed.He turned it over…
There,in center,faint red line ran diagonal across lifeline.Like burn scar.Maybe old cut.Or something else entirely…
He stared at line long enough that shape shifted.Finally became clear—
Two crescents biting each other