The golden hall, once loud with blood and defiance, was now silent.
Ling Xuanye dangled in the air like a broken marionette, one hand still clenched on the hilt of his sword, the other limp at his side. His throat trembled beneath the cold fingers of Mèi Xuán, the Blood Serpent Empress.
Her eyes gleamed with lust and cruelty.
"Young master..." she whispered again, brushing her lips close to his ear.
With a soft laugh, she raised her other hand.
Adorned on her finger was a curved, golden doplinger—a blood-jewel ring forged from the souls of slaughtered cultivators. Its tip shimmered with ominous light, a divine artifact steeped in ancient malice.
She aimed it toward his throat.
"No!" Su Feilí, barely standing, screamed.
Feng Ruo hurled a ball of chaotic fire. Yue Chányīn's sword blazed with frost. Shui Lin activated a flurry of water-mirrored blades. Huo Shan lunged forward with all his might.
None reached her.
A pressure—immovable, choking—held them at bay.
A soft pierce. Not deep.
Just a drop.
A single bead of blood rolled down Xuanye's neck, staining the Empress's finger. His breath caught, and his eyes dimmed faintly.
Tears streamed down Yue Chányīn's face. Cold, proud Yue, who had never wept even during punishment.
"Xuanye…" she whispered.
The others wept openly. Each of them broken, helpless.
And then—time shattered.
The light in the room twisted.
All movement ceased.
Not paused. Not slowed. Frozen.
Flames hung mid-air. Qi ripples became like painted waves. Even breath, even thoughts, were stilled.
All… but two.
Mèi Xuán.
And the figure now standing in the center of the hall, as if he had always been there.
Shrouded in black mist, shape undefined, limbs shifting between smoke and shadow. His eyes burned through the darkness like two fractured stars.
His face could not be seen. Only a twisted grin that widened unnaturally, split from cheek to cheek.
And then he laughed.
Not with joy. Not with rage.
But madness.
The kind that bends reality. The kind that silences gods.
Mèi Xuán turned slowly, her face pale.
She knelt immediately, not from force—but reverence.
"尊上…" (My Lord...) she whispered, her voice trembling.
She knew.
This creature—this thing—was beyond her.
The shadow laughed again. A low, broken sound, like a thousand voices speaking through cracked stone.
He looked at Xuanye, still bleeding slightly.
His voice echoed—not human, not demonic.
"滚." (Get lost.)
The word hit the air like a mountain falling.
Mèi Xuán flinched, but did not move.
She shook her head slowly. "Please… He—he's different. He has the scent. The power. I must—"
He raised a finger.
"跪下." (On your knees.)
The floor beneath her cracked.
Mèi Xuán fell flat, her hands spread wide, her forehead touching the ground. Her pride, her fury—all drowned beneath the weight of that single command.
Still, her finger twitched.
She pushed the doplinger slightly deeper into Xuanye's neck.
The shadow stopped laughing.
He moved faster than sight.
One palm to her chest.
A pulse.
She was hurled across the entire chamber, crashing into a pillar of bone. Blood sprayed from her lips. Her spiritual energy sputtered like a dying flame.
She lay there, unmoving, pain clear in her eyes—but she did not retaliate.
"Forgive me…" she whispered. "尊上… I only—wanted to remember..."
But he ignored her.
The shadow man turned to Xuanye.
One hand extended.
His fingertips glowed briefly—not with evil, but healing light.
It entered Xuanye's throat, sealing the wound. His body, cracked and battered, began to mend.
After healing Xuanye, he began to laugh. Continuously. Madly.
Not with joy, not with cruelty, but with something even stranger—a twisted sense of pleasure, like a madman reunited with a long-lost toy.
He circled Xuanye's body, muttering incomprehensible words. His speech was distorted, broken, layered—glitching like a cracked puppet voice:
"Ha-ha… mine... no-no-not yet… yes yes yes no... mine again mine again again—"
He touched Xuanye's cheeks. His jaw. His neck. He poked his shoulder, traced his ribs, gently tapped along his legs like an artisan examining the joints of a sacred statue.
He caressed his chest, as if checking for a heartbeat—not to measure life, but to feel rhythm.
Each move was obsessive, twitching between gentleness and insanity.
He giggled. Then cackled. Then moaned softly—"Too early… too beautiful… too broken… no... not now..."
The entire hall echoed with his voice, bouncing across the walls like a curse. It sounded joyful. But it was anything but sane.
Mèi Xuán, still on her knees, didn't move.
She couldn't understand a word.
Not a gesture. Not a single emotion from this being.
And yet, she knew something with certainty:
She would never disobey him again.
And still—time did not move.
To be continued...