He took me through the mountain at dawn.
No chains.
No guards.
Just silence between us — thick, unbroken, like ice over a grave.
We walked through a tunnel lined with skull-lanterns — hollowed bones lit from within by ghost-fire. Their light was pale, cold, flickering with whispers I almost recognized.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"The Azure Archives," Murong Yan said. "Not the one above. The true one.
Where we keep the names of the dead…
and the secrets of the erased."
I didn't flinch.
But my blood turned to poison.
Because I already knew what I'd find.
The chamber was circular, buried deep beneath the sect's main temple.
No windows.
No doors.
Only a single ring of black stone — the Wall of Names.
Thousands of names carved into obsidian.
Some ancient.
Some fresh.
All marked with a single symbol:
🜄 — the mark of Final Erasure.
Murong Yan stepped forward, pressed his palm to the wall.
It breathed.
The carvings glowed — one by one — like embers reigniting.
And then, I saw it.
Not at the top.
Not at the bottom.
In the center.
Carved seven times.
Lin Xiyue
Erased: 1st Rebirth
Lin Xiyue
Erased: 2nd Rebirth
Lin Xiyue
Erased: 3rd Rebirth
…
Lin Xiyue
Erased: 6th Rebirth
And below, in fresh, unweathered script:
Lin Xiyue
Seventh Rebirth. Final Warning.
Do not rise again.
I stared.
Not at the names.
Not at the threat.
At the handwriting.
It wasn't official.
Wasn't mechanical.
It was familiar.
Strong strokes.
A slight tilt to the right.
The way the "Y" curled like a serpent's tail.
My handwriting.
But I'd never carved this.
Unless…
"Who wrote this?" I whispered.
Murong Yan didn't answer.
I turned.
"Who wrote this?!"
He looked at me — not with pity.
Not with anger.
With grief.
Then he reached into his robe.
Pulled out a black quill — made from a demon crow's feather.
Dipped it into a vial of ink that shimmered like blood.
And carved one more line beneath my name.
"If she returns…
I will not erase her again."
— Murong Yan
I froze.
The chamber was silent.
Even the skull-lanterns dimmed.
"You…" I said, voice breaking. "You wrote this before I was reborn?"
He didn't look at me.
"I've written it six times.
After each of your deaths.
As a vow.
As a curse."
He set the quill down.
"And now… you're here.
The seventh.
The one they say cannot survive."
I stepped forward.
"Then why bring me here? To show me my own grave?"
"To show you the truth," he said.
"The Azure Sect doesn't fear you because you're strong.
They fear you because you remember.
Because each time you die, you take a piece of their lies with you.
And each time you return…
the world trembles."
I laughed — sharp, broken.
"So you're not the executioner.
You're the witness."
"I am the one who buried you," he said.
"And the one who couldn't forget your face."
His voice dropped.
"Even when I was ordered to."
Silence.
Then — a whisper from the wall.
Not from him.
From her.
"He loved the third.
He wept at the fifth.
And when the sixth died in his arms,
he whispered her real name — the one only lovers know.
He will say it again.
And this time… you must decide:
Can you love the man who killed you six times?"
Mei Lianhua.
Her voice, like ash in the wind.
I turned to Murong Yan.
"You knew about her? About the voices?"
"I knew," he said. "And I did nothing."
His pale eye met mine.
"Until now."
That night, I didn't dream of death.
I dreamed of a garden.
White lotuses.
A silver moon.
A man without a blindfold, holding my hand.
We didn't speak.
We didn't kiss.
We just stood — two ghosts who refused to vanish.
When I woke, my cheeks were wet.
Murong Yan was gone.
But on the floor, where he had stood, was a single item:
A silver locket — old, tarnished, sealed shut.
I opened it.
Inside — a lock of hair.
Black.
Familiar.
And a note in tiny script:
"From the sixth.
She told me to give it to you…
if you ever made it this far."
— M.Y.
I closed the locket.
Held it to my chest.
And for the first time in seven lives…
I didn't think of revenge.
I thought of what it would cost.
Because if I destroyed the Azure Sect,
I'd have to destroy him.
And if I loved him…
I'd have to betray every version of myself who had died hating him.
Author Note:
They say vengeance is a fire.
But what if the fire starts melting your own bones?
What if the man who buried you…
is the only one who ever saw you as alive?
— Gopalakrishna