The air still reeked of iron—lingering traces of the battle Yan Zhi had waged against his own rejection. But the silence didn't last.
His body trembled, not from wounds of flesh, but from something far deeper: the voice was still there, whispering inside him.
"Do you think they'll ever accept you again… after this?"
Yan Zhi clenched his teeth, fury warring with the fear gnawing at his mind. Every time the voice stirred, old betrayals ripped open like fresh cuts.
He glanced at his hands. Black cracks webbed across his skin, pulsing like veins of living shadow. No matter how tightly he clenched his fists, the cold never left.
From the drifting haze of the Veil, faint figures emerged—disciples from other sects trapped in the same layer. Their eyes brimmed with fear and suspicion as they stared.
"He's the one who broke this layer…" one whispered.
"No… look at him. That's no human anymore," another murmured, trembling.
They weren't wrong. The darkness spilling from his body was impossible to hide.
But Yan Zhi also knew this: if he didn't seize control now, it wouldn't just destroy them—it would devour him.
He shut his eyes and drew in a long breath. For the first time, he didn't resist the voice. He listened.
And beneath the venom, beneath the lies, he found something else: a quiet, cold core, like a shadow that never dies.
"I am not your slave," he whispered, voice trembling. "But I am not your victim either. You are part of me… and you will obey."
The ground trembled. Shadows burst wildly from his body, thrashing like a beast in chains. The voice laughed, mocking.
Yan Zhi didn't falter. He pressed his hands to his chest, forcing his energy inward. The spreading cracks of shadow blazed with light—then slowly drew back, merging with his flesh.
A shriek echoed inside his skull—the cry of something desperate to break free.
But he held it down, crushed it, until the sound diminished, locked away in the deepest corner of his soul.
Silence. For the first time in so long, there was only him.
When he opened his eyes, silver-black gleams flickered in them—the mark of one who had bent a piece of darkness to his will, though not yet mastered it.
The sect disciples who had been watching backed away, pale with fear. Yan Zhi looked at them, but said nothing. He simply walked forward, the shadow now moving with him, part of him.
Yet inside, he knew the truth: the wound of betrayal never really healed. He had only covered it… with shadow.
And deep within the silence of his soul, the voice still laughed—soft, distant, but never gone.
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