The crimson net of flame still trembled in the night sky, like a burning veil frayed by the wind. What had once surged across half the courtyard as an overwhelming tide now stalled and flickered. Its edges dimmed, strokes of fire unraveling one by one, scattering into ash that drifted away in the cold air.
Shen Jin's fingers dug into shattered tiles until blood seeped out between his nails. His chest rose and fell like a bellows ready to tear, yet still he forced the Seal's whispering hand from inscribing that fatal stroke. His eyes glowed red, fire straining to break free, but he held it back, locking the blaze within his body. The net of flame shuddered and waned, as though trapped in a cage of bone.
And the moment the suppression became clear, killing intent surged back from every side.
Elder Shang Luhan of the Taiqing Sect barked a cold laugh. Three jade talismans leapt from his sleeve, bursting into beams of sword-light as sharp as frozen rivers. The blades tore down through the air, splitting the remnant web of flame into ragged halves.
From the Kulian Temple, Mingjue Master pressed his palms together. Behind him rose the vast golden shadow of a thousand-armed Buddha, each hand weaving mudras. The thunder of his chant crashed down like temple bells, shaking the roof tiles into dust, pressing the air flat toward Shen Jin.
Song Shuangyi of Miaoji Tower had already scattered her star-disc into shards of light. Each mote of starlight turned into a miniature mirror, a web of a thousand eyes weaving a lattice that cut off every path of escape.
Wu Dulu of the Nanhuang Sect grinned, tongue sliding across his lips. His bone staff cracked against the ground, boiling up a tide of green smoke. Out of the fog swarmed countless spectral insects, surging toward the shrinking net.
And all around, disciples of the Eight Sects leapt into motion. Talismans flared in their hands, banners unfurled, sword formations aligned. Their voices rose in shouts, iron clashing, the courtyard drowned in a roar of killing intent.
Beside Shen Jin, Luo Qinghan stood unmoving, her sleeves scorched black, her paper mirror cracked and sagging like a dying shield. She said nothing. Her gaze clung to Shen Jin's face, unwavering, even as sword-light and Buddha-voice pressed her a step backward. Her lips trembled, but not with words.
In the midst of the storm—wind stilled.
A shadow of gray drifted into the courtyard, light as tattered cloth carried by an invisible hand.
The gray-robed elder.
His robe was the color of forgotten hemp, his frame stooped, his face obscured beneath his hood. He walked without sound, yet each step pressed on the hearts of every cultivator present.
He raised no hand, but all light froze. Sword-beams halted mid-arc, chants strangled in silence, star mirrors cracked apart without a sound. Even the embers falling through the air stopped midway, hanging suspended.
From his sleeve slipped a single scrap of gray talisman, tossed gently upward.
No fire, no glow.
Yet the courtyard gasped. One voice stammered, "Gray… Law…"
Indeed—the instant the talisman fluttered, the sealing net of the Law Court collapsed like rotted rope. Black-gold warrant sigils dropped lifeless to the ground. Chains of law dissolved into nothing, their threads unraveled.
Silence pressed down.
The gray-robed elder turned his head, and the abyss of his gaze fell upon Shen Jin.
"I have given you two chances already,"
His voice rasped, a sound as if dragged over ancient stone.
"The laws of this world will never hold you. Only through the Grayland's Mirror Gate can your path be decided anew."
From his sleeve drifted another talisman, falling onto the broken tiles before Shen Jin. Gray as weathered wood, surface cracked and lifeless. Yet in its depth, if one looked closely, countless faint, dying scripts writhed like corpses in the dark.
Shen Jin's breath hitched. His blood dripped, staining the stone beside it. In his ears, the Monument's whisper still scraped across his skull: —Write my name.
The cultivators of the Five Orders and Eight Sects all fixed their eyes on the talisman, greedy as wolves circling a wounded stag. Some clenched weapons so hard their veins bulged, but none dared take a step. The gray-robed elder alone was enough to smother every will to move.
And then—another voice of fury broke the silence.
The first to feel the crushing weight had been the Lingyuan Council itself. Their grand sealing formation, layered through the courtyard, disintegrated the moment the gray talisman pulsed. Black-gold sigils fell like dying stars. Chains once solid as steel unraveled like cobwebs in fire.
The escorts gasped, faces pale. Some clutched broken talismans, sweat pouring as they tried to reconnect the law-lines—only to find every channel cut, every command silenced.
"How… how can this be? Even the net of law is severed!" one stammered.
Ling Wanzhou, the commander, stood still amid the chaos, his hands clasped behind his back. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed, veins straining at his temples. The suffocating silence of gray pressed even his aura into nothing. He raised his eyes to the elder, cold hatred burning beneath the shadow of his brow.
"Gray Law…"
He ground the words between his teeth, the bones of his hand whitening as his sleeve crackled and shattered with useless talismans.
His men looked at him, despair flickering in their eyes. One whispered,
"Commander… this power does not belong within the world's bounds."
Ling Wanzhou's laugh was cold and sharp, but empty of mirth. His gaze cut toward Shen Jin like a blade. His lips parted, each syllable an oath:
"Shen Jin… if you step through that path, Lingyuan will never let you draw breath beneath heaven."
The words struck like iron in the dead air.
Luo Qinghan stood where firelight met shadow, her face carved from pale stone. The torn sleeve fluttered, her hair plastered to her cheek. The fragments of her paper mirror had already dissolved, yet she did not rebuild them. She simply looked at Shen Jin, her eyes carrying a question she did not speak.
Shen Jin's breath faltered, like a fish drowning on dry land. His eyes wavered. Sweat traced through the dust on his cheeks. He made no sound. Within him, the Seal's whisper clashed against the gray elder's command, two tides battering his skull, threatening to tear his mind apart.
Then Luo Qinghan moved. She stepped forward. Fire-sparks split around her, the edge of her robe slicing the air. Her hand rose—and closed around Shen Jin's wrist.
Her palm was cold, but steady.
No words passed between them. That one gesture was enough.
Shen Jin's gaze shook. His fingers curled. Slowly, as if every joint had turned to stone, he reached down—and closed his hand around the Gray Talisman.
The world cracked.
From his palm surged a ripple of gray, expanding outward. The remnants of sword-light, Buddha-voice, starlit mirrors, and swarming insects—everything—collapsed like extinguished candles. Even the sound of the wind vanished.
The gray-robed elder's laugh was low, dry, like branches breaking in a graveyard breeze.
"The path is open. Go."
He flicked his sleeve. At the western edge of the courtyard, space split with a groan. From the wound in the night unfurled a long gray road, mist curling over its stones. It stretched away into shadow, ancient and endless.
The restraints lifted. The cultivators roared and surged at once. Sword-light streaked, talismans blazed, curses thundered. But every strike crashed against the wall of gray mist, raising only ripples before vanishing into its depth. None could pierce it.
Shen Jin met Luo Qinghan's eyes. Neither spoke. Her grip tightened on his hand.
With a hoarse breath, he drew her with him.
Their first step onto the gray stones echoed in silence. And in that instant, the Seal's whisper in his mind fell quiet. Then—came a laugh, soft and cutting:
—Finally, you hold the pen.
The mist folded closed. The courtyard fell into emptiness.
Only the cultivators remained, their fury echoing uselessly against the sealed veil of gray.