"And... Madam Claret, the Raven Bride—she must be the ink-robed ghost standing beside Krogh," Lordi realized, his thoughts momentarily freezing as the memory of her spectral visage clawed its way back into his mind.
The first time he had seen her, she had been an apparition of such terrifying magnificence that his breath had stilled in his chest, his pulse hammering like a trapped beast. She loomed in the darkness. Her height was unnatural, her presence imposing. Her hair, black as a abyss void, spilled over her shoulders in cursing pitch, framing a face of chilling perfection. High, sharp cheekbones accentuated the cruel elegance of her features, and her eyes were like shards of fractured ice, pale and endless, piercing through him with a gaze that felt like fingers clentching against his soul.
Her gown clung tightly, a cascading shroud of midnight lace. The fabric, delicate yet suffocating, traced the sinful curves of her body—the swell of her bosom, ripe and commanding, rising with each phantom breath; the cruel cinch of her corset, exaggerating the sinful dip of her waist before flaring into the decadent sweep of her hips. She moved with a predator's grace, her bare feet barely touching the ground, as if the earth itself recoiled from her touch.
Yet it was not just her beauty that struck terror into him. There was something wrong about her, something that made the air thicken and the shadows writhe like living things. Her lips, red as a slit throat, curled into a smile that promised both rapture and ruin. When she spoke, her voice slithered into his skull, a phantom caress that left frost in its wake. Lordi had stood paralyzed, torn between the primal urge to flee and the horrifying desire to kneel before her—for she was a nightmare draped in divine splendor, a goddess of the grave.
"Captain Valdez," Lordi managed, his voice tight as he fought to steady his breathing, "so… you know of them?" The memory of the ghostly beings still clung to him like frosting cobwebs, but he forced himself to focus, his curiosity burning brighter than his fear.
Donovan's expression softened slightly, his weathered face creasing into a knowing look. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Well, I've heard tales of Krogh Hanz's deeds in the Infinite Insurmountable Sea of Vermithys. The man carved his name in blood, slaughtering countless prodigies from rival sects to claim the Hundred-Year Souleater Wood Heart. As for Madam Claret…" He paused, his tone heavy with grim significance. "She was his Dao Spouse."
"Dao Spouse?!"
Lordi's frown deepened, his mind reeling. "Then why does she appear as though she's been dead for centuries?" The image of her hollow, depthless eyes and ethereal form flashed before him again—her very existence defied reason.
If she was Krogh's Dao Spouse, then what unhallowed fate had befallen her?
And why did she linger now as a specter of such terrifying grandeur?
Donovan scanned the dim surroundings like a wary hound before leaning so close that Lordi caught the scent of ironwood smoke on his robes. "Listen sharp, Payne Bro," he rasped, voice gravelly with grim. "Rumor whispers that when Krogh Hanz was still green in we holy Abyss Pit Sect as swamp moss, he blundered into the Shrieking Catacombs. Place where even Core Formation Stage elders fear to tread. Should've been minced into demon-fodder, but that slippery man survived.How? By sweet-talking the realm's mistress—Madam Claret herself. Played her like a damned lute, spun pretty lies until she pledged her soul to him. Walked out with her devotion and his skin intact while the realm crumbled behind 'em."
A chuckle escaped Donovan as he continued. "Ah, but here's the point, they said Madam Claret was no doe-eyed maiden. She was a rogue cultivator—wild, untamed, richer than a dragon's hoard. Had vaults bursting with Spirit $tones, rare herbs, and artifacts plucked from deity corpses. Krogh? Back then, he was just a blacksmith's prodigy sweating over forge-fires in the Outer Sect's Artifact Peak."
His eyes gleamed with reluctant admiration. "Clever fucker, eh? In his early years within the holy sect, Krogh Hanz poured his formidable energy into mastering the Artifact Forging Skill. His innate gift for shaping metal and channeling soul power into Artifact was undeniable. Years sequestered on the echoing Artifact Peak honed his talent to a razor's edge. So profound was his skill that by his mere breach to the Seventh Layer Qi Refinement Stage, Krogh was already a respected figure, deemed qualified to lecture on Forging Techniques to the Outer Sect disciples among holy mountain peaks."
"The man's life shifted irrevocably upon his Dao Spouse marriage with Madam Claret. Her considerable wealth and cultivation resources became his lung power, freeing him entirely from the mundane demands of sect tasks and resource hunting. No longer needing to venture beyond the Outer Sect's protective wards, Krogh turned his singular focus inward, dedicating every breath to the relentless pursuit of his Sword Path."
The Mister First Dominator continued speaking, "Long before whispers of the legendary Cosmic Path Foundation Establishment Technique began to swirl from Vermithys, Krogh Hanz had already carved his name deep into the Outer Sect's consciousness. His self-created Abyss Tide Sword Art was a thing of chilling ferocity, its power overwhelming. With it, he dominated the Outer Sect peaks, his reputation casting a long, formidable shadow. He stood unchallenged, far outshining even the nascent brilliance of future stars like the newly ascended Bloodline Lords, Miu Tyanh and Kinson Wexford. In that era, Krogh Hanz was the benchmark against which all other Outer Sect geniuses were measured."
Lordi's blood crystallized.
Kinson Wexford?!
The name he'd tossed to distract and deceive Krogh Hanz. His throat clenched as if throttled by icy ghostly hair.
Oh, fuck... thank the abyss.
The relief that flooded Lordi's veins was sweet, a fleeting reprieve from the crushing terror that had gripped him moments before. Krogh Hanz hadn't recognized him.
But even as the thought settled, a new wave of nausea dread rolled through him.
What if it wasn't luck?
What if it was something far worse?
The kind of mercy a butcher shows the lamb before the knife falls.
His fingers twitched at his sides, clammy with cold sweat, his pulse hammering so loud he feared the unknown monster in this haunted estate could hear it.
Wait… no. No, no, no.
A jagged thought tore through his mind, sharp as broken glass.
Kinson Wexford—that arrogant Senior Brother—had never shut his mouth bragging about his kin ties to Fairy Lith, the Sect Successor. It was common knowledge, whispered in the mountains, spat in envy between Outer Sect disciples. There was no way Krogh Hanz, a Senior Brother steeped in the Sect's bloody politics, wouldn't have known.
The realization slithered into Lordi's skull, coiling tight around his sanity.
If Krogh knew… then why hadn't he reacted?
Why hadn't he torn me apart for the lie?
The answer came like a blade between the ribs.
Krogh Hanz didn't care.
The indifference in those disdain eyes wasn't patience—it was the cold, dispassionate gaze of a predator watching prey stumble into a snare.
Names meant nothing. Talents meant nothing. Lordi's entire existence was as insignificant as a speck of dust beneath the heel of this cruel senior. And then the final, gut-wrenching realization seized him, ice flooding his veins.
Krogh Hanz had never seen him as a sect comrade or some Dao genius.
Just… culivation material.
Flesh to be rendered, blood to be spilled, essence to be devoured by that devil artifact, Sword of Red Run when the time came.
The man's apathy wasn't tolerance—it was the calm of a high realm king eyeing petty livestock. Lordi's back prickled, sweat bleeding through his robes as the truth carved itself into his mind. He was about to dead. He just didn't know when the blade would fall.
The two men lingered under the dim twilight, the weight of the dangerous task pressing between them like a coiled serpent.
Lordi meticulously recounted every detail of his earlier encounter with the heir of the cursed estate.
Donovan, in turn, offered his own observations, his voice low and measured, ensuring no scrap of insight was overlooked.
They dissected each moment, each unspoken threat, until the air itself felt thick with the gravity of their findings. Only when both were certain they had wrung every drop of meaning from the encounter did they finally step apart—Donovan toward the yawning darkness of the Ancient Stone Well, Lordi toward the suffocating silence of the Hanz Clan Ancestral Shrine.
Yet before they separated, Donovan's hand clamped onto Lordi's shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. His voice heavy. "Listen, Payne Brother," he murmured, eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his brow. "That lady Emma Dawon? Her heart's sewn tight to Rodney Luther's sleeve. Don't fool yourself into her pretty appearance. She won't hesitate to sink fangs into your throat if given the chance. If you cross paths again with her, keep your blade close and your wits sharper—what do you think?"
His gaze lingered, searching Lordi's face for any flicker of misplaced mercy, any hint of the soft-hearted fool's hope that had gotten lesser men gutted before their time.
Lordi didn't need the warning. The memory of his sexual assault on Emma was still fresh—the way her robes had torn under his grasp, the choked silence of the crowd as she fainted nearly naked before them. There had been no scream, no outburst since then. Just the slow, venomous simmer of her hatred, a poison distilled into silence. She would not forget. She would not forgive.
He met Donovan's gaze steadily, his own eyes as unreadable as polished stone. "Aye, Senior Brother," he replied, voice firm. "I'll stay vigilant."
Donovan studied him for a heartbeat longer, then gave a slow, approving nod. There was no trace of foolish empathy in Lordi's expression—no misguided belief in redemption or second chances. Just the cold, pragmatic understanding of a man who knew the stakes.
Satisfied, Donovan released his shoulder with a final clap. "Good. Then may the abyss watch your steps, Payne Brother."
With that, Donovan turned, his silhouette swallowed swiftly by the gloom as he strode toward his own grim task.
——
With practiced precision, Lordi channeled the Blood Spectre Footwork Art, his body slicing through the night. The left summit of the Twin Peak Hill loomed before him, its silhouette jagged against the moon's pallid glow. His crimson form flickered like a dying ember, swift yet silent, as he ascended toward the Ancestral Shrine.
The shrine crouched atop the mountain like a slumbering ghost, its presence oppressive even from a distance. The night had swallowed it whole, leaving only a shadowed outline against the starless sky. The path leading upward was treacherous—stone steps, cracked and slick with moss, disappeared into a creeping mist that writhed like living breath. At the summit stood the torii gate, its once-vibrant vermilion now a sickly, peeling red, the paint curling away like strips of flayed flesh. In the darkness, it no longer resembled a sacred threshold. Instead, it seemed a maw—something ancient and ravenous, waiting.
The ceremonial ground beyond the gate was a graveyard of forgotten reverence. Gravel crunched beneath his boots, the sound unnaturally loud, as if the earth itself sought to announce his intrusion. The purification fountain, once a symbol of cleansing, now stood as a monument to decay—its bamboo pipe split open, the water long since vanished, replaced by a stagnant pool of rot. Blackened koi corpses floated belly-up, their milky eyes staring vacantly at the sky, their stench thick enough to coat the tongue. Lordi's nose wrinkled, but he did not falter. The air was heavy, not just with the reek of death, but with something else—something watching.
The courtyard's edges whispered with movement, though no living thing stirred. The trees were skeletal, their branches weighed down not by leaves but by the remnants of desperate prayers. Wooden ema plaques swayed like hanged men, their inscribed wishes long since erased by time. Tattered prayer ribbons, once bright red, had frayed into spectral threads that curled and beckoned with each gust of wind. Shredded paper fortunes littered the ground, their promises reduced to meaningless scraps. The wind carried no solace here—only echoes, faint and mocking.
The main hall dominated the space, its three-tiered roof clawing at the sky. The doors were slightly ajar, as if something had slipped inside—or worse, escaped. A trace of incense lingered, cloying and too sweet, a feeble mask for the corruption beneath. Lordi's every instinct screamed at him to turn back, but duty was a chain he could not break. Steeling himself, he stepped forward.
The interior was a disaster given form. Tatami mats had been gutted, their straw innards spilled across the floor like viscera. Offerings lay shattered—ceramic cups overturned, rice grains scattered like vermin droppings. The Hanz ancestor tablets, standing in solemn rows in his previous visit, had been toppled, some snapped in half, their sacred names defaced with deliberate malice. Only the bead curtain remained untouched, its strands glimmering faintly in the gloom, obscuring whatever watched from the darkness beyond.