The stone beneath Lei Ze's boots was not just cold; it was a dead, leaching frost that seemed to suck the very heat from his marrow. His throat felt like it had been scrubbed with raw salt. The scream he had hurled at Yáng Zhàn still vibrated in the hollow of his chest, a jagged, physical ache that made every breath a stuttering chore. Betrayal wasn't a concept anymore. It was a weight, a thick, greasy layer of soot coating his lungs.
He lunged. It wasn't the graceful, fluid motion of a Sect disciple. It was a desperate, stumbling trip forward. His lead foot caught on a protruded slab of masonry—cracked by years of neglect and the weight of the Pagoda—and he nearly went down. His hip joint popped, a sharp, dull click that sent a spark of irritation up his spine. He didn't care. He needed to grab the air Yáng Zhàn moved through. He needed to anchor the man to this earth until the rot in his own head stopped spinning.
"Where do you think you are going!"
The words tore out of him, ragged and high-pitched, breaking at the end like a dry stick. He sounded like a child. The realization bit at his ego, a stinging splash of acid. He hated the sound of his own voice—thin, desperate, trembling with a fragility he couldn't suppress.
Yáng Zhàn stopped. He didn't turn with the gravity of a master. He tilted his head, a slow, predatory adjustment that suggested he was listening to a bothersome insect buzzing near his ear. The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the wet, rhythmic slap of water dripping from the shattered roof onto the tiles somewhere behind them. Plink. Plink. Plink. Every drop felt like a hammer hitting an anvil inside Lei Ze's skull.
"To attend to matters far more significant than a lost artifact, boy."
The indifference in the voice was a physical blow. Lei Ze's hands shook. He looked down at them, seeing the grime packed under his fingernails, the dark crescents of dirt and dried monster blood. His knuckles were white, the skin stretched so tight it looked ready to split.
"My mother!" Lei Ze's voice cracked again. He swallowed hard, trying to force down the lump of grief that felt like a jagged stone in his gulit. "You told me the man who killed her is in the Northern Lands! You will tell me more!"
He was sweating despite the chill. The moisture ran down his neck, itching, tickling the skin right where his collar rubbed raw. He wanted to scratch it. He wanted to scream. He wanted to wake up in the straw loft of the Green Pine Sect and realize this was all a fever dream brought on by bad grain.
Yáng Zhàn finally turned. His face was a mask of bored cruelty. "The Pagoda is gone. The balance of power shifts. Your mother's death is ancient history. We deal in the future, Lei Ze."
Ancient history. To Yáng Zhàn, it was a footnote. To Lei Ze, it was the smell of burning wood and the sound of a woman's breath catching one last time in a throat filled with blood. The memory surged up—not as a vision, but as a sickening phantom taste of copper on his tongue. He felt like he might vomit. His stomach cramped, a sharp, twisting knot that made him hunch forward.
Mò Zhàn stepped in then. The air in the hall grew thick, pressurized, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. It pushed against Lei Ze's eardrums, making them throb with a dull, rhythmic ache. Mò Zhàn was a mountain of meat and arrogance. He smelled of expensive oils and the metallic tang of high-grade spiritual energy.
"Listen to the Sect Master," Mò Zhàn growled. The sound wasn't just a voice; it was a vibration that rattled the loose teeth in Lei Ze's jaw. "The artifact is claimed. You are insignificant now. If you dare raise your voice to my father again, I will personally crush you, Pagoda or no Pagoda."
Lei Ze felt the pressure trying to buckle his knees. His tendons strained, humming like over-tightened wires. He dug his heels into the grit on the floor. He focused on a single, jagged crack in the stone between his feet. If he looked up, he might break. If he stayed focused on the dirt, he could survive. He clutched the Jade Sun Pagoda within his core—it wasn't a "power-up"; it was a hot, throbbing coal buried in his gut that made his intestines feel like they were being rearranged by a blind surgeon.
"You can threaten me, Mò Zhàn," Lei Ze said. He had to force the words out through clenched teeth. His jaw ached. "But you cannot take what I have claimed through destiny. And I will not rest until I know the full truth about my mother and this Dark Lord, Yǒng Yè."
The name felt heavy. Yǒng Yè. It tasted like ash.
Yáng Zhàn's eyes narrowed. He looked at Lei Ze differently now—the way a carpenter looks at a piece of wood with a hidden knot. Calculating. Cold. "Very well, Lei Ze," he said, waving Mò Zhàn back with a flick of his wrist. "You are clearly too unstable to think logically. But understand this: Yǒng Yè is a powerful enemy, far beyond your current comprehension. His dark energy is what faintly taints you, the very thing the Pagoda suppressed. If you seek the Northern Lands now, you seek your own demise."
He stepped closer. The smell of the man was overwhelming—dry parchment and old incense. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a needle sliding into Lei Ze's ear.
"However, the world is vast, and masters of forbidden arts leave traces. If you truly wish to track Yǒng Yè, perhaps an elder with deep knowledge of Dark Arts and powerful artifacts might know how to find him. An elder like... Gāo Fēng, for instance."
Lei Ze's mind stuttered. Gāo Fēng. The name brought a fresh wave of friction. His thoughts felt like gears grinding together without oil. Was this a trap? A way to point him at an internal enemy and watch them both burn? His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm. Thump-thump... thump. He felt a bead of sweat roll into his eye, stinging, blurring his vision. He didn't wipe it away.
"Why would you tell me this?"
"We both want different things, but we both hate the Green Pine Sect's deception," Yáng Zhàn smiled. It wasn't a kind expression. It was the way a wound gapes open. "You have the Pagoda; I want my son to dominate the Eastern Lands. If you distract the Elders and expose their secrets, it benefits me. Think about it: the man who supposedly saved you, Jìng Xū, is the reason your mother died. Go home. Ask him."
The words were poison. They seeped into the cracks of Lei Ze's resolve. Jìng Xū. The old monk who had given him the Relic Bead, who had spoken of peace while his hands were stained with the collateral blood of a mother's life. Lei Ze felt a sudden, violent urge to strike out at nothing. To break something until his hands were as shattered as his trust.
Yáng Zhàn grabbed Mò Zhàn and Měi Lín. They ascended, their forms blurring as they ripped through the jagged hole in the roof. Dust drifted down in their wake, settling on Lei Ze's hair, coating his tongue with the taste of pulverized lime.
He was alone. The silence of the hall was worse than the shouting. It was a vacuum that pulled at his skin. He looked down at the stick he still held—the piece of wood he'd used against a centipede. It was pathetic. A splintered, dead thing. Just like him.
He took a breath, trying to steady the shaking in his limbs. But the air didn't reach his lungs.
A sudden, violent spasm wracked his midsection. It wasn't a "pulse" of energy; it was a physical seizure. His back arched, his spine popping like a string of firecrackers. He hit the stone floor hard, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. The pain was sharp, a white-hot spike driven into the joint.
Inside, the Jade Sun Pagoda—that burning coal—was being smothered.
Something black, something oily and ancient, was rising up his throat. He tried to cough, but only a dry, rattling sound came out. His vision fractured. The hall didn't just blur; it tore into strips of red and black.
'Seek the Halberd. Seek and claim my power, or face oblivion.'
The voice didn't sound like words. It sounded like the grinding of tectonic plates. It was the sound of a mountain screaming.
Lei Ze's fingers clawed at the stone, tearing his nails until they bled, leaving dark, jagged streaks on the floor. He wasn't in control anymore. He felt his consciousness being shoved into a small, dark corner of his own skull, forced to watch through his own eyes as his body stood up with a jerky, unnatural grace.
"I must have my weapon back! Hahahaha!"
The laugh didn't belong in a human throat. It tore the vocal cords, leaving a raw, bloody vibration in the air.
He—it—turned. The body that used to belong to Lei Ze moved with a terrifying, mechanical efficiency. It didn't walk; it surged. It ignored the warnings of the Pagoda, ignoring the golden light that tried to sear the darkness from his veins. The darkness won. It moved toward the left path, the forbidden path.
The air in the mausoleum they entered was stagnant, tasting of rot and ancient dust. It felt thick in the throat, like swallowing cobwebs. The possessed Lei Ze didn't hesitate. He navigated the gloom with a wide, predatory grin that stretched the skin of his face until it felt like it would tear at the corners.
They reached the volcano. The heat was a physical wall. It didn't "shimmer"—it burned the air out of the lungs. The hair on Lei Ze's arms curled and scorched, the smell of burnt protein filling his nostrils. But the dark shield around him held, a shivering, oily membrane that vibrated with every step.
Four figures stood at the edge of the caldera. The Soul Devourers. They weren't majestic; they were husks, their skin the color of wet ash, their eyes pits of violet fire.
"What is your purpose here? Withdraw at once."
Kūn Zhān, using Lei Ze's lungs, laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound. He folded Lei Ze's arms across a chest that felt like it was full of hot lead.
"I believe you are guarding something that is rightfully mine. I'm simply here to retrieve it, so step aside."
The Devourers moved. They didn't glide; they shifted through space with a sickening, stuttering motion. They surrounded him. Their hands reached out—long, tapering fingers that looked like charred bone.
"No mortal seeks the forbidden dark weapon. Not even the owner."
Kūn Zhān's smile widened. Lei Ze felt his own lips cracking, a thin line of blood trickling down his chin. He was a passenger in a dying machine.
"Stop this nonsense," the voice hissed. "The rightful owner is standing right in front of you, and you address him so rudely. Let's make a simple arrangement so no one gets hurt."
The entity inhabiting him paused, looking down at Lei Ze's filthy, broken fingernails with a mock concern. "The arrangement is this: hand over the Halberd, and I promise not to cause a mess."
The Soul Devourers lunged. The air screamed as they began to pull. Lei Ze felt his very marrow being tugged toward them, a sickening, hollow sensation that made his vision swim. He was being hollowed out. And all he could do was watch as his own mouth began to laugh again, a sound that drowned out the roar of the lava below.