( The next day )
Never speak of misfortune.
To name it is to invite it in.
So preached the Hangwō Sect.
So believed the world.
And so whispered reality itself—far more often than mortal hearts could bear.
Ever since the Tearstone System was sealed, the cultivation world had breathed easier.
The name Hangwō rose like an unyielding mountain, its shadow now longer than that of the once-peerless Hàn Wù Zàn Sect. Its disciples walked with a honor so profound, even the grass beneath their boots seemed to bow with reverence.
They had carved their legacy into history—
not without scars,
not without rivers of blood,
but with a triumph they now guarded more fiercely than their own souls.
Mist clung to the jade steps of the ancestral hall as morning bell-tones shivered across the peaks. Inside, rows of young cultivators knelt in flawless, suffocating silence.
Not a single rustle of silk. Not a stray breath.
The air was thick with sandalwood incense and unspoken dread. Every disciple knew the first rule: Speak little. Observe everything. Their eyes remained locked on the heavy sect-law texts open before them.
The Sect Dàozǔ's voice cut through the haze, calm yet heavy enough to crush stone.
"Remember. The Tearstone System must remain sealed. Even a whisper of its imbalance can make the dead rise and speak."
His gaze swept over the bowed heads, tracking every minuscule twitch of a finger, every flicker of an eyelid—as if a single wrong thought could summon catastrophe.
Then, from the back of the hall, a hand lifted.
Every disciple stilled. Heads turned, not with sound, but with the slow, dread-filled tension of a drawn bowstring.
Light violet eyes.
Quiet. Clear. And burning with a curiosity far too dangerous for this world.
Hàng Wàng Wùji. The youngest heir of the Hangwō.
His father turned. The Dàozǔ's face was a mask of composed authority, but a fissure of disappointment—cold and sharp— flashed in his eyes.
To his left, Wùji's older brother, Hàng Wàng Sūjīn, went rigid. A familiar, cold dread coiled in his gut. Wùji's questions were never just questions; they were cracks in the dam before the flood. And this morning, the air felt thin with impending ruin.
"Speak, Wàngjī," the Dàozǔ commanded, using the boy's courtesy name—a deliberate excision of the intimate "Wù." The tone held the weight of a sovereign, not a father.
Wùji tilted his head, as if listening to a secret only he could hear. His violet eyes glinted.
Then, with terrifying innocence, he let slip the words that shattered the hall's sacred silence."But… what if it does restart?"
The silence didn't break—it shattered.
Eyes widened. Gazes darted in panicked streaks of white. The very flame on the central altar guttered and swayed, as if trying to flee.
Wùji didn't flinch. His eyes simply tracked the wave of terror washing over his peers before settling back on his father. He realized, too late, that he hadn't just asked a question.
He'd torn open a buried coffin.
The Dàozǔ's eyes darkened into bottomless pits. This wasn't anger. It was fear, raw and ancient, masquerading as rage. Wùji felt his blood turn to ice under that stare.
A torrent of hissed whispers erupted around him.
"Has he lost his mind?!"
"To speak of the System awakening…!"
"He's inviting the shadow back!"
Sūjīn shot to his feet, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. "Zūn fù, Wùji only meant—"
"Silence." The Dàozǔ's voice was a blade of winter, cutting off all plea. "Words like these are not questions. They are omens."
The hall plunged into a void of sound. Even the distant birds had ceased their songs.
"Stand, Hàng Wàng Wùji." The use of his full name was a death knell. "And you, Sūjīn—sit. Do not interfere."
Sūjīn sank back, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Not this, he begged silently. Anything but this.
Wùji rose. Pale, but poised. The mistake was made; he would bear its weight.
The sentence fell, cold and final.
"You will guard the Hangwō Forest Temple. From now until dawn. Alone."
A collective gasp ripped through the disciples. The Forest Temple. Forbidden after dusk even to Grand Elders. A place where the sealed coffins of mò and guǐ slept fitfully, where the last echoes of the Tearstone's curse still whispered through the twisted trees.
A place that was said to hunger.
"It's a death sentence…" someone muffled a cry.
"His own son…"
Inside, Wùji's mind reeled. Does he hate me so deeply? Yet, he pressed his lips together. He would not beg. He was Hangwō's second heir. He would wear this punishment like armor.
"Zūn fù!" Sūjīn was on his feet again, shoving the low table aside with a crash. This was beyond protocol. This was madness. "This is too much! For a single question? Are your rules worth more than your son's life?!"
The Dàozǔ's control snapped.
"Punishment must scar the memory, or it is worthless!"
His hand moved in a blur of rage.A sealed scroll flew from his sleeve like a dagger.
Both brothers ducked. The scroll struck a disciple behind them with a sickening thud. The boy cried out—an innocent casualty. A stifled, nervous laugh escaped a few before dying instantly under the Dàozǔ's lethal glare.
Wùji inhaled, steadying the tremor in his core. He bowed, his sleeves sweeping the ground. "As Zūn fù wishes. I accept."
Sūjīn stared, betrayal and horror washing over him. He's walking to his doom, and he's thanking them for it?
Before the tension could snap entirely, a servant rushed in, kneeling with a scroll held high. "An urgent invitation, Dàozǔ."
The scroll was of red-gold silk. The Dàozǔ unsealed it, and a faint, calculated smirk touched his lips. "The Young Dàozǔ Huá Xuán of Yìng Lóu Wàng is to be wed in seven days. Our sect is honored with an invitation."
A wave of excited murmurs passed through the disciples. A wedding of such stature was a rare diversion, a chance for alliances and spectacle.
The Dàozǔ's eyes, cold as ever, slid back to Wùji. Sūjīn's fleeting hope died.
"Do not think this changes your fate," the Dàozǔ said, his voice devoid of mercy. "Your punishment begins now. Go."
Wùji bowed once more. "Yes, Zūn fù."
As he turned to leave, Sūjīn remained, fists clenched at his sides. His nails dug deep into his palms, drawing beads of blood that fell, unseen and uncared for, onto the polished floor.
"Shàng Shén," he whispered, the words torn from the deepest part of his soul.
"Protect my brother.
From the mò.
From the guǐ.
From the Tearstone's shadow…
and from the darkness that waits within his own fate."
The incense flame trembled violently.
Once.
Twice.
As if in answer.
As if in warning.
***