Twin Peak Hill, Rear Mountain.
The great tree stood alone upon the hill, an ancient sentinel beneath the vast, starless void of the night sky. Centuries had gnawed at its bark, carving deep, winding furrows into its trunk, each groove a silent chronicle of forgotten storms and seasons long withered into dust. Its branches, thick as the pillars of some ruined temple, stretched outward in a sprawling, skeletal embrace, their leaves trembling with hushed murmurs whenever the wind deigned to pass through. The air here was thick with the scent of damp earth and old wood, a fragrance that spoke of age beyond reckoning.
At the base of the tree, half-swallowed by creeping moss and tangled roots, lay the ancient stone well.
Pale moonlight seeped through the overcast heavens, spilling silver across the hill in a shimmering wash. The silence here was not mere absence of sound, but something heavier, deeper. To stand beneath that tree was to stand at the threshold of something older than memory, a place where time itself seemed to slow, where the weight of ages pressed down with the quiet insistence of a whispered warning.
Beneath the shadow of the small hill, where the ancient stone well loomed like a forgotten tombstone, Donovan kept his distance from the sprawling giant of a tree. Its verdant branches swayed gently, their rustling leaves weaving an illusion of harmony—sweet, serene, a picture of untouched peace. But Donovan was not fooled. He had seen too much, knew too well the deceptive allure of this haunted estate. The air might hum with the pretense of tranquility, but beneath it thrummed something far darker, something that set his nerves alight with quiet, crawling dread.
The Mister First Dominator stood wary at the base of the hill, his gaze fixed upon the ancient tree with the wary stillness of a man who knew better than to trust beauty. The gnarled trunk rose before him like the twisted spine of some long-dead leviathan, its bark blackened by centuries of unseen storms. Moonlight bled through the canopy in fractured silver streaks, casting shifting patterns across the roots—roots that seemed to coil and uncoil at the edge of vision, like serpents stirring in shallow sleep.
His fingers twitched, restless. Every instinct in him whispered that this place was wrong. The air was too still, too thick—not with silence, but with the hush of something holding its breath. Like what Lordi did in the Ancestral Shrine, he would not step closer.
Instead, he planted his feet and raised his voice.
"I am Donovan Valdez of Ghost Palm Peak, an Outer Sect disciple of holy Abyss Pit Sect." The words rang clear. "I come by the word of Sword Born, seeking the real Senior Brother Krogh Hanz."
A pause. The wind did not stir. The leaves did not rustle.
"But remember this well—if any harm befalls me here in the Rear Mountain, the Sword of Red Run will know. And the mighty Sword Born will mark this place for where The Ju-On's lair locates. The evil will not remain hidden. No evil escapes the real Krogh Hanz's righteous vengeance forever."
The moment Donovan set foot beneath that hill, the air turned thick—a cloying, unnatural stillness that pressed against his skin like the touch of unseen fingers. His breath came slow, measured, each inhalation tasting of damp earth and something older. Above him, the ancient well loomed, its stone mouth gaping like a wound in the earth, and from its depths, a black mist seeped forth in languid, sinuous tendrils.
His pulse spiked, but he forced it down, his grip tightening on the hilt of his blade.
Illusion? A trap?
The mist twisted, coiling upon itself in grotesque undulations, and for a heartbeat, Donovan could almost believe it was merely some trick of the moonlight. But then it thickened, darkened—and he saw it.
Hair.
Not just strands, but a writhing mass of it, black as pitch and slick with some unnameable filth, spilling from the well in a ceaseless, choking flood. It pulsed as if alive, knotting and unknotting itself in a grotesque dance, and Donovan's stomach turned.
This isn't mist. This is something that was once part of a body. His mind recoiled at the thought, but his eyes refused to look away. The hair twisted, convulsed—and then, with a shuddering ripple, it began to weave itself.
Like threads pulled by invisible hands, the strands knotted together, forming limbs, a torso, the suggestion of a neck. A cocoon of rotting black silk took shape, pulsing as though something inside strained to break free. Then—crack—a sound like splintering bone, and the cocoon split apart, peeling away in jagged strips to reveal—
A face.
Pale. Perfect. A beauty carved from ice and malice, her skin unblemished, her lips dark as a bruise. Her eyes, though—those were wrong. Empty. Gleaming with a hatred so deep it had outlasted death itself.
Donovan's breath caught.
Madam Claret. The Raven Bride.
She rose, unfolding like a nightmare given form—taller than any mortal woman had a right to be, her body a sinuous contradiction of lethal grace and impossible curves. Her robes clung to her like smoke, shifting with every motion, revealing glimpses of stunning pale white thighs that seemed to glow against the consuming dark. Her hair, thick as shadow, cascaded over her shoulders in wild, silken waves, framing a face that was at once breathtaking and utterly lifeless.
And then she spoke.
"My master bids you enter for discourse."
The words were hollow, devoid of warmth, her voice the whisper of a tomb's opening.
Master?
The title confused Donovan. Why does Krogh Hanz's Dao Spouse call him master? Since when does a Foundation Stage being speak like a servant? The wrongness of it coiled in his gut, a serpent of unease. This wasn't the proud, venomous woman he'd heard tales of.
But before he could dwell on it, she moved—turning with eerie, weightless grace—and plunged into the well.
The night swallowed her whole.
Donovan hesitated, his sanity urged him to flee. But he had come too far to turn back now. Teeth gritted, he stepped forward, fingers scraping against the moss-slick rim of the well—and then he followed.
The fall was endless.
Cold rushed up to meet him, but there was no impact, no shattering plunge into water or stone. Instead, the world twisted, warped, as though reality itself had been submerged in black oil. Pressure built behind his eyes, a whispering chorus of voices just beyond hearing, their words indistinct but their malice palpable.
Then—
Light.
He gasped as solid ground met his knees, the sudden sweetness of rose and damp earth flooding his senses. Blinking away the last traces of disorientation, Donovan found himself in a courtyard of impossible beauty.
Red moonlight filtered through the delicate branches of cherry trees, their petals drifting like blood-tinged snow onto polished stone. A lacquered pavilion stood at the center, its silk curtains stirring in a breeze that carried no chill. Stone lanterns lined the path before him, unlit yet glowing with a spectral radiance.
This was not the world above. This was beneath the well. And somewhere in the perfumed shadows, a figure waited.
Krogh Hanz? Or something wearing his face?
Donovan's heart pounding. He would soon find out.
Rose and cherry petals cascaded from trellises in endless innocent pink waterfalls. They drifted onto the surface of the pond like discarded love letters, settling atop water lilies that floated with eerie stillness. The water itself was a mirror too polished, too undisturbed, reflecting not the sky but only the garden's own suffocating beauty.
Donovan's gaze caught the marble screen.
Frigid Sanctum.
The characters were etched deep, their strokes radiating a Sword Will so potent it pressed against his skin like the edge of a blade. Donovan averted his gaze before the intent could carve into his mind, his throat tightening. This isn't just a name. It's a warning. He forced himself to move past it, every muscle coiled with tension, half-expecting the characters to lash out like a trapped wyrm.
The courtyard beyond was a vision of cultivated opulence, draped in silks the color of twilight—deep purples and blues that shimmered like the last breath of dusk. At its center stood an extravagant Eastern-style bed, its sandalwood frame carved with such precision that the wood seemed to ripple like liquid under the phantom moonlight.
At the foot of the bed, a low lacquer table held an incense burner shaped like a phoenix mid-flight. Wisps of sandalwood smoke curled upward.. Nearby, a rosewood bench sat draped in snow-fox pelts, its legs carved into sinuous serpents with ruby eyes.
And there, atop this throne of cultivation luxury, the man meditated.
His posture was effortless, his legs folded in the lotus position, his hands resting upon his knees with the quiet certainty of a master who had never known doubt. His features were sharp—aristocratic, even—but it was his aura that struck Donovan like a physical blow.
This was not the Krogh Hanz of the Ancestral Shrine.
This man radiated the domineering essence of a true sword cultivator, his aura swirling around him in visible currents, each breath drawing in the energy of heaven and earth with terrifying efficiency. His gray hair should have marked him as aged, but his presence was anything but frail—every line of his body spoke of honed lethality, of authority that had been earned through blood and blade.
Donovan's pulse hammered in his throat.
Could this be the real Krogh Hanz?
The thought sent a jolt of wary hope through him, but it was quickly tempered by suspicion.
Where was Ruru Rosa? Lordi had spoken of her presence—so why was she absent now? Had she fallen to this haunted estate's horrors? Or was her disappearance just another layer of the malice illusion?
The meditating man's eyes remained closed, his expression serene, but Donovan knew better than to mistake stillness for peace.
The Captain Dominator kept his head bowed, his posture the picture of deference, but his mind raced with razor-sharp suspicion. This could be the real Krogh Hanz. Or it could be the Ju-On wearing his face like a mask. Neither possibility brought him comfort.
"Mighty Senior Brother Hanz," he began, his words deliberate, "this is Donovan Valdez. Your Soulbound Spirit Sword burns with longing to return to its true master. Yet… the Sword Born is confounded. The Ju-On's deception runs deep, and even an Artifact as wise as Sword of Red Run cannot discern which Krogh Hanz is real."
He paused, letting the weight of the admission hang in the air. "Thus, the Sword Born has sent me to seek the truth."
As he spoke, he dared a fleeting glance upward, studying the man before him. Krogh Hanz had not moved, had not even opened his eyes. But Donovan could feel the pressure of his gaze, like a countless swords resting against his throat.
"Forgive my presumption, Senior Brother," Donovan continued, his tone carefully balanced between reverence and necessity, "but I have pondered long on how to verify your identity. Ordinary methods would be useless—the Ju-On is a master of mimicry, and only the truest, most intimate knowledge could expose it."
He took a slow breath, steeling himself. "The Cosmic Path Foundation Establishment Technique… this is something only you, in your wisdom and years of cultivation, could command with true mastery. The Ju-On may wear your face, but it could never replicate your insights, your understanding of this heaven art."
Another pause. The incense smoke curled between them, a silent witness.
"If you would honor this one with your guidance… if you would share even a fragment of this technique's principles, I could compare them to the claims of the Krogh Hanz in the Ancestral Shrine. Only then can the Sword Born be certain of its true master."
The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension. Donovan kept his posture perfectly deferential, his head bowed just enough to show respect while still allowing his keen gaze to track every minute shift in the atmosphere.
This is my only chance.
The realization already burned through Donovan with cold clarity. Whether the figure before him was the true Krogh Hanz or the Ju-On wearing his face like a well-fitted mask, it didn't matter—neither would hesitate to discard him the moment he outlived his usefulness. The Spirit Sword's allegiance was equally uncertain, its hunger for power a lurking threat beneath its supposed loyalty. Promises meant nothing here. Only strength, only opportunity.
And the Cosmic Path Foundation Establishment Technique—that was the true prize.