That night, the sect's sky looked ordinary.
A silver moon hung high, casting a pale glow over the stone rooftops. Yet the silence that cloaked this land was anything but ordinary.
No chirping insects.
No whisper of wind.
As if the world itself was holding its breath.
Yan Zhi sat cross-legged within his private cultivation chamber. His breathing was steady, spiritual energy circulating through the pattern of the Devourer Vein. And yet, each time his eyes opened, something felt wrong.
The shadows on the walls… there were more than there should be.
He glanced around. Four stone pillars in this room—there should only be four shadows.
He counted seven.
His heartbeat spiked. "Again…" he muttered under his breath.
The spiritual lamp in the corner flickered, dimming as though suffocated, before reluctantly flaring back to life. The air had turned cold, sharp against his skin.
---
By morning, whispers had begun to spread.
"Did you hear that voice last night?" a disciple whispered in the corridor.
"I… I heard my name called when I was alone," another replied, face pale as paper.
Yan Zhi watched them from a distance. Their movements were awkward, their eyes faintly gleaming whenever they passed through shadow.
One disciple walked barefoot, eyes closed, heading toward the back hall. Yan Zhi followed silently—until the hallway ended at a solid stone wall. The boy stopped, stood motionless before the wall… and then turned back, as if nothing had happened.
Later, Yan Zhi sought out one of the elders he trusted.
"Master, something's wrong in the sect. The disciples are hearing voices. There's a corridor—"
The elder stared at him, lips moving sluggishly before words emerged:
"Corridor? Our sect has no corridors like that, Yan Zhi…"
His tone was flat. His gaze, empty.
And when he turned away, for the briefest moment, his shadow moved first.
---
On the third dawn, panic erupted.
Yan Zhi arrived at the scene—a senior elder lay stiff before the central temple. His eyes were wide open, frozen in terror, staring at a black fissure carved into the temple wall.
A fissure that had never been there before.
"What… is that?" a disciple whispered.
The crack resembled a narrow corridor, leading into nothing but darkness. From within, a cold draft seeped out, carrying the stench of iron and damp soil.
Beneath the elder's corpse, a black smear remained—not blood, but shadow, clinging to the stone like tar.
Some disciples screamed.
But far more of them… simply walked past, faces blank, refusing to see.
Yan Zhi's jaw tightened. It's no longer confined to me.
---
That night, alone in the main hall, Yan Zhi stood before the wall that once seemed unyielding.
Now it… pulsed.
A fracture curled open across the stone, like a mouth slowly smiling.
He reached out, fingertips brushing the surface.
Throb… Throb…
The wall felt alive.
A whisper slithered into his ears, clearer than ever:
"The fifth fracture… their world will learn fear."
Yan Zhi staggered back, breath caught in his throat. He knew now—this could not be hidden any longer.
If this is only the fifth…
I don't want to know what happens when the seventh opens.
---