"You think you can escape from us?!"
"You have to die!!"
"You deserve nothing but pain!!"
"Go to hell!!"
" We'll never forget such a devilish Dao like you!! "
" You'll burn in our hate forever!! "
"Evils can never be pure!!!"
Those voices—raw with fury and hatred—pierced the air like a rain of blades, carving through the still-breathing remnants of the battlefield. Their venom lingered like smoke, staining every word with something deeper than anger. This was no longer war. It was massacre.
Beneath that sky, where crimson bled into gray clouds like an open wound in heaven, the battlefield lay soaked in blood—more blood than rain. The ground, once sacred and rich with spring's fragrance, now drowned in iron and rot. Corpses, both nameless and known, young and yet barely grown, sprawled across the terrain like fallen blossoms stripped by a storm. Broken blades jutted out of bodies. Limbs scattered like discarded dolls. The scent of death, heavy and metallic, hung in the air with every breath.
The red-stained soil had forgotten peace.
Some of the dead wore robes of red, others of white, black, or blue—each marked with the emblems of their once-proud sects. Velvet red diamonds bled over white robes. Curling cloud symbols on black were smudged beyond recognition. Blue robes bearing the crescent moon were pierced by arrows, trampled, burnt. The storm above wept not for any of them. If heaven had once cared, it had turned its face away now.
Amid the carnage, only the red-and-black robed victors remained standing—dripping with blood, some of it their own, most not. They grinned like demons unmasked. Their eyes glowed with madness. Not a battle—they celebrated a purge. Their hands did not shake as they buried blades into the corpses again, and again, and again.
"Make sure he doesn't open his eyes again!" one barked, voice cracked from laughter.
Further away, not far yet not near enough, three youths stood frozen.
Two wore white robes. One wore blue. They looked no older than twenty, yet their eyes had already aged—filled with a pain too vast for such short lives. They stood paralyzed, not from fear, but from grief that screamed too loudly inside to leave room for motion.
The one in blue—long bluish-gray hair drenched by mist and tears—gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly that blood welled in his palm. His eyes—light violet, wide and wild—trembled with something far beyond despair. He tried to step forward, to scream, to rush forward and tear the world apart.
But two hands held him back.
Twins. One with dark brown hair, the other with light. Brothers in everything except fate. They clung to him with all their strength, though they themselves were breaking.
The darker-haired twin was bleeding from the mouth, his robe torn and stained red. His grip on the sword-arm was steady—but only just. His knees threatened to buckle, but he didn't dare fall.
The lighter-haired twin stared blankly ahead, one of his eyes swollen shut, as though he'd either cried too long or been struck too hard. His lips parted soundlessly, quivering. He had no voice left to scream.
None of them did.
Their robes were no longer white. They were soaked—blood, rain, ash. It dripped from their sleeves. It clung to their skin. It stung their eyes, filled their lungs, and carved into their memories. They were alive—but barely.
And in front of them—
A boy. No, a corpse.
A male figure lay on the ground, surrounded by the killers. His body twisted, half-turned. Red soaked into the earth beneath him, and his long white hair—stained crimson now—was fanned around his face like silk soaked in ink.
They stabbed him again.
And again.
And again.
Steel pierced flesh with wet, sickening squelches. It wasn't about ending his life—it was about desecration. His chest, once heaving with breath and fire, had been split open like an offering. His velvet-red eyes—dulled, barely open—still tried to look forward. He couldn't see clearly. But he tried. Even at the edge of death, he searched for something… someone. His pupils barely moved, as if memorizing one last image before letting go.
Once, he might have looked angelic. But now—
"Don't stare at us with those dirty eyes, son of a whore!" snarled one of the black-robed men. His boot slammed into the dying man's face, turning his head roughly to the side.
One more breath.
One more heartbeat.
Just one.
And even that, they stole.
But before his soul could slip away entirely, his dimming gaze locked—just for a moment—on a figure lifeless..laying near the edge of the cliff.
Someone in robes of white and red. Dark hair tied back with a pale ribbon, still as stone...but for himself , it was Like a pause of the whole world..
And then—
Darkness.
His thoughts did not fade peacefully. No. His death was not quiet. The words continued to echo in the hollow of his dying mind.
"Evils can never be pure."
To which something inside him whispered, painfully, desperately:
"But… why? I wasn't… evil… really..."
One of the black-robed men crouched beside the corpse and lifted the boy's blood-matted head by his hair. His fingers dug into the tangled strands like claws. He leaned in close, his breath reeking of rot and self-righteous hatred.
"Does it hurt?" he whispered mockingly. "You shouldn't have disobeyed us, white-head. Look at you now—broken like an old guqin. At least broken guqins can be repaired. You? You're worse than trash. Your mother should've killed you before you even learned to walk."
The boy with violet eyes tried to speak.
He couldn't.
His lips trembled, but the air refused to leave his lungs. His throat had forgotten how to scream. His entire being rebelled against sound—because what words could ever express this?
The black-robed man didn't stop.
With a final sneer, he plunged his hand deep into the corpse's open chest and pulled something out—something red, raw, and no longer beating.
The heart.
He threw it to the ground like garbage.
Then stepped on it.
The sound it made was... quiet. Wet. Soft.
Unforgivable.
"Throw those two into the valley," another voice ordered coolly. "They don't deserve a grave."
"Yes, yes! That's a wise choice!" another laughed.
They grabbed the corpse by the hair and dragged it across the blood-drenched earth toward the cliff's edge. Another figure followed with the second body..some one the white haired guy was looking at before fading away—no less mangled, no less hated. Their robes clung to them like shrouds.
Rain began to fall harder, as though the sky itself mourned too late.
The cliff's edge greeted them like an open mouth. Below: nothing but trees and a furious river.
"Everything's ready, right?" one of the black-robed men muttered. "People light lanterns in victory... and we drop corpses into the valley. Strange, isn't it?"
"Strange and perfect!" another cackled.
And they let go.
Two bodies fell.
One disappeared through the forest canopy—branches breaking, vanishing.
The other crashed into the river, his blood blooming like a red lotus before dissolving into the cold current.
Above, laughter echoed.
"Yes!! We did it!"
"They're finally dead!"
"Justice has been served! Justice has been served!!"
"That's why I said it—Evils can never be pure!!"
"Of course, Master!"
They shouted and celebrated, their faces twisted with self-righteous joy, unaware—or uncaring—that something far from justice had just taken place.
Far from the battlefield—across the mountains, in a silent chamber steeped in dusk—
Someone gasped.
A boy lay tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. His chest rose violently, breath caught halfway between scream and sob. Golden eyes wide. Haunted.
"No…" he choked out. "No…!"
He stared at the ceiling, pulse racing, the echo of screams still ringing in his ears.
His hands trembled.
His heart pounded against the cage of his ribs.
He did not know where he was. Only that something inside him had died—again..