The night was unfolding slowly beneath a sky carved with ritual sigils.
Ancient symbols were burning faintly among the clouds, their pale crimson light bleeding through the darkness like open wounds. The wind was moving in deliberate currents, as if guided by unseen hands, carrying the scent of incense, iron, and old blood across the ceremonial plaza of the Lónghuán Dynasty.
Xuán Yèmíng was standing at the edge of the stone platform, his hands hidden within the sleeves of his plain ceremonial robe. He was remaining silent, obedient, invisible—exactly as someone of his status was expected to be.
Around him, the nobility of the dynasty was gathering in layered robes of jade and gold. Elders were standing at precise intervals, their expressions calm, their eyes reflecting centuries of practiced detachment. This ritual was not a celebration. It was a necessity. That much, everyone here understood.
Xuán Yèmíng was sixteen.
He was old enough to recognize fear, yet young enough to believe it still followed rules.
The plaza itself was ancient, older than the dynasty that claimed ownership of it. Stone pillars were rising in a perfect circle, each engraved with seals that had been renewed countless times. At the center, a massive altar was carved directly into the bedrock, its surface stained permanently dark no matter how often it was cleansed.
The Black Oath array was being activated.
Xuán Yèmíng had learned the name only a few days earlier, overhearing a whispered conversation between two inner elders who had assumed he was too insignificant to matter. The Black Oath was not spoken of openly. It was not recorded in public archives. It existed beneath official doctrine, beneath even sect law.
It was a solution reserved for crises.
He had not understood, at the time, why his chest had tightened when he heard the name.
Now, as the sigils in the sky were growing brighter, understanding was slowly, painfully forming.
The Patriarch of the Lónghuán Dynasty, Lóng Zhāotiān, was standing at the head of the altar. His presence was composed, almost benevolent. His long hair was bound in a ceremonial crown, and his gaze carried the weight of divine authority.
When he raised his hand, the entire plaza fell silent.
"The balance of the world," Lóng Zhāotiān said calmly, his voice resonating through the array, "has begun to fracture."
The elders nodded.
"The ancient seals weaken. The old powers stir. If we hesitate, chaos will consume the lower realms."
Xuán Yèmíng was watching his father kneeling among the outer family members. His father's shoulders were rigid, his back straight, his expression controlled. He was a man who had served the dynasty his entire life, believing loyalty would be repaid with protection.
His mother was kneeling beside him, her hands trembling slightly as she clasped them together.
Xuán Yèmíng noticed it then.
The positioning.
The outer families were arranged too close to the altar.
Too close.
A subtle pressure was forming in the air. The sigils overhead shifted, their patterns tightening. The wind stopped moving altogether.
Lóng Zhāotiān continued speaking.
"The Black Oath demands impurity," he said. "It demands blood that does not belong to the sacred lineage."
The words struck Xuán Yèmíng with physical force.
He turned his head sharply, his breath catching.
Impurity.
He had heard that term his entire life. It was used to describe families without ancient contracts, without celestial favor. Families like his own.
Before he could move, the array activated.
Chains of crimson light erupted from the altar, moving with unnatural precision. They wrapped around the kneeling outer families, binding them where they sat. Gasps turned into screams as the energy tightened, lifting bodies from the ground.
Xuán Yèmíng's father looked up for the first time.
Their eyes met.
In that instant, Xuán Yèmíng understood everything.
There was no mistake. No misunderstanding. This was not a test.
It was an execution.
"Father—!"
His voice broke as he lunged forward, but a barrier flared into existence the moment he moved. He slammed against it hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. The impact sent him sprawling across the stone floor.
No one intervened.
The elders were watching with practiced calm. Some looked away, not out of mercy, but disinterest.
Xuán Yèmíng's mother screamed as the chains pierced her flesh, anchoring her to the altar. Blood flowed freely, soaking into the engraved channels carved for that exact purpose.
His sister—
He twisted his head, searching desperately.
She was being dragged away by figures cloaked in sect insignia he recognized but did not understand. Her mouth was covered. Her eyes were wide with terror as she was pulled into the shadows beyond the plaza.
Lóng Zhāotiān raised his hand again.
"Proceed."
The ritual began.
The sky darkened further as the sigils ignited fully. The altar drank deeply, glowing brighter with every heartbeat. Screams echoed across the plaza, raw and unrestrained, until one by one they were cut short.
Xuán Yèmíng was pounding against the barrier until his hands were slick with blood.
"Stop it! Stop—!"
No one listened.
When it was over, the altar fell silent.
The outer families were gone.
Only blood remained.
Xuán Yèmíng collapsed to his knees, his vision blurring as something inside him shattered beyond repair. He did not cry. The sound refused to come. His chest felt hollow, as if something essential had been carved out and discarded.
Lóng Zhāotiān turned his gaze toward him.
For the first time that night, the Patriarch looked directly at Xuán Yèmíng.
"There is one remaining," he said evenly.
Xuán Yèmíng looked up, his face streaked with blood and dust.
Before he could speak, the ground beneath him gave way.
The stone fractured, opening into a vertical abyss lined with glowing runes. He fell without warning, his scream swallowed by the depths as the chasm sealed above him.
Darkness consumed him.
He was falling for a long time.
The air grew colder, heavier, pressing against his body as gravity seemed to distort. His consciousness flickered, fragments of memory flashing and dissolving—his father's eyes, his mother's scream, his sister's outstretched hand.
Then the fall stopped.
He struck something solid, but there was no pain.
Xuán Yèmíng lay motionless, his breath shallow, his body trembling as he tried to understand where he was.
The darkness around him was not empty.
It was watching.
A presence stirred, vast and suffocating, filling the space with oppressive intent. The air thickened as a shape began to form—neither fully physical nor entirely abstract.
A voice spoke.
"You survived."
It did not echo. It resonated directly within his mind.
Xuán Yèmíng forced himself to sit up, his vision slowly adjusting. Symbols identical to those in the sky were carved into the surrounding stone, but these were older, deeper, warped by time.
"Who… are you?" he asked hoarsely.
A low, distorted sound followed—something between a laugh and a sigh.
"I am what remains," the voice replied. "What was erased. What they feared enough to bury."
The presence moved closer. Xuán Yèmíng felt pressure against his soul, probing, dissecting.
"You carry hatred," the voice continued. "Clean. Absolute. Undiluted by hope."
Xuán Yèmíng clenched his fists.
"They killed them," he said. "All of them."
"Yes."
"They took my sister."
"Yes."
"They called it balance."
The presence stilled.
"Would you break that balance?" it asked.
Xuán Yèmíng did not hesitate.
"Yes."
The darkness surged.
"Then accept the Black Oath," the voice said. "Accept power born of transgression. Accept dominion over vows and blood."
Images flooded his mind—worlds collapsing, dynasties burning, oaths twisting into chains.
"And know this," the voice continued, colder now. "Each oath you forge will hasten the end. The world will rot so that you may rise."
Xuán Yèmíng's expression did not change.
"Good," he said quietly. "Let it rot."
The symbols ignited.
Pain unlike anything he had ever known tore through his body as the Black Oath carved itself into his flesh, into his soul. He screamed as darkness poured into him, rewriting something fundamental.
When it was over, he collapsed forward, gasping.
The presence receded.
"Rise, Xuán Yèmíng," it whispered. "The dynasties have made their choice."
Silence returned.
Xuán Yèmíng lay there for a long time, his body slowly adjusting to the new power coursing beneath his skin. When he finally stood, his eyes were calm.
Too calm.
Above him, far beyond stone and seals, the world continued as if nothing had happened.
But somewhere deep within the earth, the Black Oath had awakened.
And vengeance had found its foundation.