The hall quivered as if the stones themselves felt fear.
Blue flames wavered violently, their shapes stretching like screaming shadows. The ritual circle splintered under the crushing weight of Lin Moun's presence. Her sword glimmered with a cold radiance, every edge whispering inevitability—death itself had descended into the chamber.
The Young Master, robed in black and crimson, did not flinch. His staff rose higher, the crystal upon its crown throbbing like a heart torn from the chest of some giant beast. Scarlet light spilled into the air, painting the chamber with the stench of iron and decay.
A cruel smile played on his lips.
"So it is true," he said softly, voice echoing like broken bells. "You despise the path of corruption. You drape yourself in virtue, but your hands drip with blood. Hypocrite."
Lin Moun's eyes narrowed.
"Blood belongs to the living," she said, voice calm yet cutting. "Corruption eats the soul itself. Between death and decay, I choose death."
The Young Master laughed. His laughter rolled too long, too sharp, stretching unnaturally until the walls themselves seemed to shake. Then the staff struck the ground.
The remnants of the sacrificial circle roared to life, a sudden conflagration of crimson sigils. Blood-chains erupted, lashing outward like serpents eager to devour. Their tips ended in gnashing maws, dripping venomous ichor as they shot toward Lin Moun.
She moved a single step forward.
The world froze.
Air stiffened into glass, fire bent sideways as though bowing, and time itself staggered. Her sword tilted up—just slightly, a gesture more delicate than breath. Yet in that instant, the blood-chains split apart, shorn cleanly into fragments that dissolved into red mist.
Zhou Tian's chest tightened as though pressed beneath a mountain. His lungs screamed for air, his vision blurred. He was no cultivator, no immortal. And yet he felt it—each motion, each collision of intent was vaster than empires, heavier than armies.
This is the true gulf between man and cultivator, his thoughts scattered. A single step from them can crush the world of mortals.
The Young Master's gaze sharpened. Crimson fire danced in his eyes. With a guttural chant, he raised his staff high. The crystal pulsed violently, veins of black webbing across its surface.
From the chains poured faces—distorted visages, their mouths locked in endless screams. Half-formed arms clawed desperately, shadows of souls long since consumed. They surged forward, a tide of wailing dead that filled the chamber in choking despair.
Lin Moun's gaze never wavered.
Her sword descended.
It was not merely steel. It was thunder. Silver light cleaved the shadows, burning phantoms into ash, shredding chains into strands thinner than rotted silk. The shrieks ended in silence, leaving only drifting motes of gray dust.
"Enough," she said. Her tone carried no anger, no warmth—only finality.
She stepped forward once more.
At that instant, her presence swelled. The sword blurred, becoming a streak of lightning, a white scar tearing across the chamber. For one heartbeat, Zhou Tian swore he glimpsed a heaven-sundering storm behind her, clouds swirling, thunder roaring, judgment itself descending.
The Young Master snarled. He hurled the staff up, forcing the crystal to intercept.
Steel met crystal.
The impact shook the palace foundations. Blue flames exploded, shattering torches. The ground cracked open as walls trembled, dust falling like rain. Zhou Tian was hurled backward by the storm, his ears ringing, his body battered by invisible waves of force.
Through blurred vision, he saw the impossible:
The Young Master staggered. His lips split, coughing blood that shone faintly with a violet shimmer—the blood of one who had tampered too far with forbidden paths.
Lin Moun's blade rested against his throat.
"You speak of hypocrisy," she said, voice as calm as winter frost.
He spat crimson, smiling with defiance. "And yet… you and I are the same. Killers. Our hands paint the earth red. You cannot deny it."
Her eyes flickered. Not with emotion, but with clarity.
"Perhaps. But of us two, only one has chosen rot."
The blade flared.
A streak of cold light.
The Young Master's head toppled, rolling across the fractured stones. His eyes remained open, fixed in fury, in denial, in unwillingness to yield.
Silence followed. The ritual flames extinguished, leaving only the stench of blood and the faint drip of severed life.
Two attendants, robed and trembling, froze. Their bodies shook violently. For a heartbeat, Zhou Tian thought they might strike in vengeance. But when Lin Moun's gaze passed over them, colder than death itself, they collapsed to their knees.
"We dare not offend!" they cried, foreheads pressing to stone.
Lin Moun did not reply. With one fluid motion, her blade carved through the ritual circle. The runes shattered like glass. The chains dissolving freed Zhou Tian.
His knees buckled. He fell to the ground, breath ragged, his body drenched in sweat. Moments ago, he had stood on the knife's edge of death, ready to be consumed. And now—freedom.
He looked at her, the woman who had cut down gods and devils in a single breath.
But she did not look back. She cleaned her blade with precise grace, turned, and walked away. No words, no explanations, not even acknowledgment. Her steps were silent, her figure unyielding as stone.
Zhou Tian swallowed hard. His heart screamed to call out, to demand why. Why had she saved him? Why had she intervened at all?
But something deeper, colder, whispered the truth. She had not saved him. His survival was nothing more than a byproduct, an accident of circumstance.
Still…
Why did he feel as if some invisible thread of fate had wound them together in this moment? Why did he feel destiny itself had turned a corner?
His thoughts were cut short.
The palace shook once more.
From the ruins beneath came a sound—low, guttural, a rumble that clawed at the marrow of bones. The floor split, stones buckling upward. Torches snapped and fell as shadows deepened.
Then the roar came.
It was not a sound. It was an apocalypse.
Zhou Tian clutched his ears, but it was useless. The cry tore through flesh, through bone, vibrating in the soul itself. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, cracks spread like spiderwebs across the dome.
And from the abyss below, colossal figures emerged.
Dragons.
Their scales shimmered like molten metal, each plate glowing with inner fire. Their eyes blazed with ancient fury, sparks falling with every blink. As they unfurled wings vast enough to scrape the walls, the very air seemed to ignite. Their breaths carried embers that burned holes into the floor, scorching stone as if it were parchment.
The attendants screamed, fleeing into the shadows.
Zhou Tian collapsed, paralyzed. His body was nothing before their presence. He could not move, could not breathe, could not even beg for mercy. These were not mere beasts—they were primeval judges, guardians of forgotten ages.
Lin Moun turned slowly. Her face remained unchanged, expressionless, yet her sword arm rose once more.
"So," she murmured, voice a whisper against the storm. "This ritual woke the guardians."
The dragons roared again, the palace quaking beneath their fury. Their eyes locked upon her, burning with killing intent.
And then—they struck.