The night was thunderous. Lightning carved scars across the heavens, and the roar of thunder shook the desolate mountain like the wrath of gods. Clouds pressed low, heavy and suffocating, while rain threatened to break loose.
At the peak of that remote mountain, a small hut clung stubbornly against the storm. Through its cracked window, one could glimpse a family of three—husband, wife, and an five year old child . Inside, peace still lingered. The boy slept soundly, a faint smile on his lips, untouched by the chaos outside. His parents sat quietly, watching him, as if trying to carve his face into their memory forever.
But peace was only a mask.
The man jolted awake, sweat beading on his scarred forehead. His chest rose and fell sharply, his hand instinctively reaching for something hidden beneath the earth. Though he wore the guise of a farmer, his body betrayed him—the faint scars of countless battles whispered of bloodshed long past.
The woman beside him was already awake. A sword gleamed faintly in her hand, her eyes hard, her expression calm but determined.
"Have they come," she said at last, her voice low but steady, cutting through the storm louder than thunder.
The man closed his eyes for a breath, then drew his buried blade. Its cold edge seemed to answer the night."They have," he replied grimly. "I have never seen men so eager for their own graves."
He stepped closer, pulling her into his arms. Despite the steel in his gaze, warmth flickered there."Then we should not keep them waiting, my dear."
She leaned against him for a heartbeat, her lips brushing his. A bitter smile curved her face."Yes… we should not."
Outside, the storm raged. Inside, two killers who had long forgotten how to fear felt their hearts soften—because of the boy. What cut them deeper than blades was not death, but the cruel truth: they would not live to watch him grow, to see him cry, laugh, stumble, and rise again.
The woman looked once more at her son's sleeping face, her grip on the sword trembling for the first time in years.
"But… him…" she whispered.
"Black Heaven Sect," the man cut her off, his tone like iron. "It's the only path we prepared for him."
Her lips trembled. "But—"
"No buts," he growled softly. "You know as well as I do. It's the only chance."
The rare bird, Lei, waited silently outside the hut. Its feathers shimmered faintly, dark as midnight with streaks of silver lightning dancing across its wings. Even the beast's eyes glistened with sorrow—it knew this was farewell.
The couple placed the boy gently upon its back, their hands lingering far too long. The woman slipped a locket around her son's neck, her tears spilling freely. Words were carved into the pendant, glowing faintly in the storm's light: "arya."
"Go," the man ordered. His voice cracked despite himself. "Take him to Black Heaven Sect. Hurry."
With a mournful cry, Lei spread its mighty wings. Thunder chased it through the skies, bolts striking dangerously close, as if heaven itself sought the child's life. Each strike missed by mere breaths, yet the bird never faltered. Behind, the distance grew… and with it, the parents' hearts froze colder and colder.
They had cut away their last weakness.
Meanwhile, from the shadows of the mountain, black figures approached. Dozens at first, then hundreds. Their leader's voice was sharp."Sir, why has the entire strength of our order been summoned for this single mission?"
The cloaked figure at the front did not turn. "Do not ask questions that will shorten your life."His tone dropped lower. "We are not the only ones pursuing them."
A ripple of dread passed through the group. If all the great powers of the world converged here tonight, then what secret did that child carry?
Atop the peak, the couple stood side by side, waiting. The storm howled around them, but neither bent nor trembled. When the first group emerged, silence gripped the air.
"You both know why we are here," the enemy leader said, his voice carrying like poison. "Hand over the child, and perhaps we will grant you mercy."
The man laughed coldly. "Mercy? Old fox, you sure know how to dream"
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Why waste words, husband? Look at them—afraid to strike, despite drowning us with numbers."
The old fox's lips curled. "Do not test my patience. My hand alone restrains them. If I release it, you'll be shredded to dust."
The man smirked, blade gleaming in the stormlight. "Then release it. Let us see if your threats are sharper than your tongue."
The second elder, an old man with a long white beard, stepped forward. "Fools. They will not yield. End this."
The husband raised his sword, its aura tearing at the storm. "My blade has thirsted too long. Tonight, I'll repay you all—with death."
The mountain erupted into chaos. Blades clashed, qi flared, thunder mingled with screams. Each strike split the earth, each clash drowned in rain and fire. Bodies piled, blood soaked the soil, yet still the couple fought—two storms against an army.
Hour after hour, their swords carved death. But even storms exhaust. Their breaths grew heavy, wounds tore deep, blood mingled with rain. Still, they stood.
Then, two shadowy figures tore through the void itself.
"We've lost the child," one hissed.
The other's eyes flared with rage. "Find him—or face the consequences." His gaze turned cold. "I will finish these two myself."
The couple, broken and bleeding, lifted their heads. The man spat blood and sneered."So, the real rat shows himself at last."
"I will be your end," the void-walker declared.
The woman laughed, her voice hoarse but defiant. "The last man who said that lies six feet under."
Their blades flared one last time. With the last of their strength, they shattered his barrier, and in a single instant, the man's sword pierced his foe's throat while the woman's strike carved his back open. Blood burst like rain.
But victory was hollow. Their knees buckled, bodies collapsing together. Side by side, they gazed one final time at each other, and smiled.
"Even in death… together," she whispered.
Their hands clasped, their eyes closed, and their breathing ceased.
The storm passed. Silence claimed the mountain.
But blood had already painted the stone red. So much was spilled that not even time would wash it away. From that night forward, the world would remember this place by a single name:
The Crimson Mountain.