Silence.
The third layer of the Veil, once crawling with whispers, had fallen dead still. Only the sound of blood dripping from Yan Zhi's fingers onto the fractured, glass-like ground remained.
"Lian…" His voice cracked, barely audible. The woman was gone—swallowed by the Veil itself—leaving behind only a writhing, animalistic shadow on the ground.
But that shadow… wasn't hers. It was his own.
All around him, the fractures in the air began to glow a deep, sickening red—like wounds forced open. The shadow convulsed, then shattered, scattering into hundreds of black fragments that hovered midair.
Yan Zhi stumbled back. "What… what are you doing?" he whispered to no one.
The fragments quivered. Then, one by one, they grew faces—faces of those who had betrayed him. His father from his past life. His fellow sect disciples. Lian. All of them, smiling.
"You really trusted them, didn't you?"
"How pitiful, Yan Zhi."
"But now… we can never leave you again."
He clutched his head. "Shut up!" he screamed, but the voices didn't stop—because they weren't coming from outside. They were blooming inside his mind.
The fragments drew together, forming a humanoid silhouette of liquid shadow before him. Its face was featureless, yet unmistakably his.
"I am your rejection."
"You need no one anymore."
Then, with a sound like breaking glass, the figure lunged into him.
Everything went black.
When Yan Zhi opened his eyes again, the third layer was gone—reduced to dust and drifting shadow. He stood at its center, veins of glowing black cracks crawling up his arms, across his chest.
His hand rose on its own, and at his fingertip spun a razor-thin blade of shadow, alive, hunting for a target.
A smile touched his lips—thin, cold, merciless.
"No one can betray me anymore," he whispered.
But deep in his chest, the voice purred, soft and sweet as poison:
"Can't they? Not even… me?"
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