The silence of the Third Layer was gone. Now, there was always a whisper.
Yan Zhi sat cross-legged on the fractured ground, shadows coiling around him like thick smoke. He tried to focus on the rhythm of his breathing, but the voice kept threading through his thoughts, sly and relentless.
"Inhale. Exhale. As if that will silence me."
His eyes snapped open. "Get out of my head."
The air before him rippled. From the darkness pooled at his feet, something rose—a figure, almost human, but wrong. Its limbs were too long, bending in impossible angles; its surface was liquid black, shifting, never still. Faces surfaced from its body—faces of those he once trusted—smiling, whispering.
"Out of your head? Yan Zhi… I am your head."
He stood, a blade of shadow materializing in his hand. "Then I'll cut you out."
The creature tilted what might have been its head. Then, in Lian's gentle voice, it said:
"Cut me… like you cut me apart?"
His hand trembled.
Rage surged through him, and with a roar, he slashed forward. The blade met nothing—the figure dissolved into black mist.
A tendril of shadow lashed out from behind, wrapping around his arm and hurling him across the ground. He landed hard, blood spilling from his lips.
"You're strong, Yan Zhi. But strength built on trust… is weakness."
Another tendril struck. This time, he caught it with his blade, severing it. The severed end writhed, crawling back toward him like a snake.
"Use me. Let me fight for you. Stop pretending you can win without me."
He froze. He could feel it—the raw, endless power—calling to him. With it, his enemies would crumble like dry leaves.
But as he reached for it, the tendrils wrapped around him, cradling him almost tenderly. The faceless void hovered inches from his own.
"They will betray you. All of them. They always do. Why not betray them first?"
The words pierced deep—his father's abandonment, the sect's betrayal, Lian's smile as she drove the blade into his back.
His grip on the blade faltered. The tendrils seeped into his skin like ink, and power flooded him—terrifying, intoxicating.
He rose, transformed. Shadows moved with his every thought now—hungry, eager.
The Whispering Shadow coiled within him, its voice sweet and poisonous:
"Good. Now… let us see how many more must die before you realize you never needed them."
Yan Zhi smiled—a cold, alien smile that no longer felt like his own.
And somewhere deep inside, a small voice—his true voice—screamed, unheard.
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