The labyrinthine tunnels nestled deep within the Three-Horned Mountains were livelier than usual tonight. A small group of internal disciples darted through the dimly lit passageways, their footsteps echoing off the cold stone. One among them stood out—not for his speed, but for his appearance.
He wore pristine white robes, though they were marred by bloodstains and ash. A sigil burned into his belt marked him as one of the inner circle—proof of status, and torment. His left sleeve flapped limply with every stride. No arm supported it. That part of him had been pulverized to mush—bones crushed, muscle ruined—by his Master's hand. Only ruined skin and a sticky, dark pulp remained. He'd been forced to slice the rest off.
His name was Chén Dé, once heir to a minor regional clan. Raised for greatness, groomed for ascension. That future ended on the day of his succession ceremony. His younger brother, Chén Huá, had brought back a wandering Taoist from a pilgrimage. It wasn't unusual; many Taoists wandered the lands. Naturally, the Chén clan hosted the man with courtesy.
But that "guest" was a beast. A sick, laughing butcher.
He slaughtered them all.
Every woman. Every child. Every elder and man. When the screams faded, he took what remained—including Chén Dé—as spoils.
Now, Chén Dé ran alongside a handful of others—disciples who'd also survived that monster. Tonight, they would escape. The Master, locked in seclusion, was busy absorbing a rare elixir into his dominant beast-will. It was the only window they'd ever get.
"S-Senior Brother Chén Dé," one of the disciples said between gulps of breath, "Brother Jin Woin went to get Junior Brother Tang Wei. They said we'd meet at the Second Pavilion... then head down the Twenty-Second Worldly Steps. That should lead us out."
Chén Dé nodded, his breath ragged. "Good. Stick to the plan. No deviations."
They pressed forward, racing through stone corridors lit only by flickering torches wedged into the walls. The air was dry and heavy with dust. Turning a sharp corner, they halted—someone stood in their path.
A boy. No older than thirteen.
His robes were roughspun brown, clearly altered from standard issue. His black hair clung to his damp skin, tangled and grimy. His bare feet trembled slightly on the stone floor. His eyes, though wide, didn't show fear. Only understanding.
Chén Dé recognized him instantly—the Second Phantasmael. The very one who had, indirectly, cost him his arm. Yet Chén Dé couldn't bring himself to blame the boy. The true fault lay with their lunatic Master.
"Phantasmael," Chén Dé called out, voice dry and slightly hoarse. "We're not here to harm you. Join us. We're leaving tonight."
The boy stood still for a moment, then bowed. One fist clenched, the other hand flat beneath it, palm facing skyward—a respectful but informal gesture.
"Senior," the Phantasmael said softly, "I appreciate the offer. But I can't abandon the others. I doubt you have the strength to carry what remains. My apologies."
Chén Dé scoffed. "Yeah, yeah... you suicidal bastard. Listen well, boy. I'm no 'senior' of yours—you're not a cultivator. And next time you bow near the Master, keep your palm down. Unless you enjoy losing your head."
Without another word, he and his small band continued running, leaving the boy behind in silence.
I thought for sure he'd punish me, the Phantasmael mused. But I suppose it's good they're running. Not that I think they'll get far. No one leaves unless the Master can't follow.
Still, this might be an opportunity.
They came from the right-side tunnel... which means their quarters are likely down that path. Maybe there's something useful left behind.
Turning toward the sloping passage, he began the climb. The incline was sharp, each step harder than the last. After what felt like an hour of walking—by his internal clock—the tunnel finally opened up.
A faint draft kissed his face. Above him stretched the star-speckled sky.
A flight of stone stairs curved upward toward a solitary structure perched along the mountain's inner ridge.
The Second Pavilion.
It was built in the traditional style—an elegant Chinese design with a curved, sweeping roof covered in dark green tiles. The building's structure was of aged, dark wood—rich in scent and character. Moss crept between the lower stones, and old vines wrapped around a support beam like dried veins.
The doors were wide open, swaying gently with the mountain wind. So were the rooms inside, as if the place had been left in haste.
He stepped through the threshold.
The ground floor was cluttered with necessities. A pantry filled with stale bread, hardened meats, and preserved herbs. Storage rooms held spare weapons—mostly swords and spears—along with folded white robes. Toward the rear, an old-style kitchen sat quiet, its fire pits cold. Iron pots hung from blackened hooks. The whole place smelled of oil, steel, and dampness.
Climbing to the second floor, he found sleeping quarters. The rooms were small and tightly packed, each with a wooden frame bed and folded straw mats. Everything had been abandoned in a rush. Footsteps, dust, and half-emptied trunks told the story clearly.
Finally, he ascended to the third floor.
The wood beneath his feet creaked with age. Dust hung thick in the air, catching moonlight like fine mist. This was a study or storage floor. Shelves lined the walls, filled with scrolls, books, and bamboo slips.
Most of it was useless—poetry, empty scriptures, dogma.
But one book stood out.
Its cover was cracked leather, dark and ancient. Far older than the building. Maybe even older than the tunnels themselves.
He opened it carefully.
The yellowed pages crackled like dried leaves.
Chinese characters greeted him in archaic ink, trembling under his breathless gaze.
The heavens have fallen...