The wind whispered through the towering azure pines of the Verdant Mist Range, each gust carrying the faint scent of iron and pine resin. The forest floor was soft with moss, but the silence here was unnatural—no birdsong, no rustle of animals, just a stillness that made even the trees seem to hold their breath.
Li Shenhai stood on the edge of a broken cliff path, his tattered grey robe fluttering in the breeze. The rusted sword on his back hummed faintly, as if it too felt the unease that shrouded this place.
His eyes—deep, storm-gray—were fixed on the ancient stone gate that had revealed itself only moments ago from beneath an illusionary formation. The carvings on the gate bore a sigil he'd seen only once before—in the sealed scroll his father had left behind. A seven-petaled lotus engulfed in flame, the symbol of the long-extinct sect known only in whispers: the Crimson Moon Sect.
"So it begins again…" he murmured.
Behind him, a voice broke the stillness.
"You shouldn't be here alone, Shenhai."
He turned slightly. It was Xiao Lan, the rogue disciple of the North Wind Sword School, her raven hair tied in a loose braid, eyes sharp as drawn steel. She had been following him ever since they left the merchant city of Lingzhou, insisting she had her own reasons for chasing ghosts.
"I thought you didn't believe in cursed sects and ghost gates," Shenhai said flatly.
"I don't," she replied, stepping beside him. "But I believe in that sword you carry. And I've seen what happens when you draw it."
He didn't answer. Instead, his gaze returned to the stone gate. Blood would be spilled before the day was done—he could feel it in his bones, in the way the sword trembled faintly against his back.
Suddenly, a chill swept through the trees. The sky above darkened, as if a cloud had passed the sun—except no cloud moved. From the shadows beneath the trees, a low chant began to echo.
"Under the crimson moon, debts are paid in blood…"
Xiao Lan's hand shot to her blade.
Shenhai drew his sword slowly. The rust on its edge flaked away like falling ash, revealing glimmers of ancient runes pulsing with faint red light. The chant grew louder. Figures emerged from the mist—masked, robed in dark crimson, their movements silent and coordinated.
The Crimson Moon Sect was not extinct.
Not yet.