Beyond the bamboo, beyond the mist, beyond time itself… a soul long thought lost stirs once more. Lou Lóng Wēi has returned, and the forest will tremble.
A low murmur rippled through the stillness of night.
Far beyond lanterns and torchlight, a cold forest held its breath. Bamboo stalks twisted like ancient bones, leaves rustling—not with wind, but with warning. From the depths came a faint, broken guqin melody, haunting, unfamiliar, yet striking terror into those who heard it.
A group of cloaked figures stood in shadows, black hanfu swaying like shadows themselves, golden flame-shaped symbols emblazoned on their foreheads. The Lánjīng Sect (蓝景宗): masters of shadow and fire, skilled, patient, and deadly. Their long sleeves reached like ghostly hands for something unseen, something they barely dared name.
Owls cried. Crows laughed. Yet none dared speak.
Then—a scream.
Sharp. High-pitched. Inhuman. It tore through the night like claws scraping a soul.
One man collapsed, clutching his ears as blood seeped between his fingers.
"That sound… it's awakening," he whispered, voice trembling.
Another stepped back, wide-eyed.
"No… not it. The Garden… the one ranked second… is stirring!"
Fear spread faster than shadows.
"This isn't a mere curse anymore. It's evolving—forgetting what it was, becoming something… else."
The wind laughed cruelly through bamboo.
Beneath earth, beneath flesh, beneath time itself, something that should have died clawed upward. Not as it was. Not fully formed. But alive. And hungry.
At the center of it all—Lou Lóng Wēi.
A soul never meant to return, yet breathing, moving, poised to claim his shadowed destiny.
He tiptoed through the mist, bare feet brushing dew, robe floating behind him like smoke. Little demons inside my chest giggle, giggle… will they scream, will they fall? I wonder… I wonder… His lips curled. A childish thrill, sharp as broken glass. Each heartbeat a drum, each step a predator's whisper: they don't know yet… they cannot know… but soon, oh soon.
After a restless journey through mist, Lóng Wēi arrived at the ceremonial grove. The haunting music of guqin and bamboo flute swirled, hypnotic, ritualistic, deadly.
The grove was sparsely adorned: red silk banners fluttered from bamboo branches, faded fox masks swung eerily, crimson lanterns quivered, their dim flames dancing like warning spirits. This was no celebration—this was a ritual, a call to something unholy.
Lóng Wēi observed silently, hooded white hanfu and black-trimmed robe concealing a lithe form honed for mischief. The black dragon mark coiled along his arm, tail entwined with a crimson spider lily. Crystal at his temple captured moonlight like a shard of soul, pulsing faintly with his predatory energy.
The humans trembled—middle-aged and elderly, faces pale, hearts hammering. Lóng Wēi's gaze swept over them, calculating, playful, deadly. Their fear smelled sweet… like sugar for ants. They think me fragile, little children, little mice… I will show them…
At the center stood the Fox Yao King—Xuě Jìng (雪镜 / Snow Mirror), silver curls glimmering under moonlight, white fox ears peeking through, twin tails edged in red swaying softly. His hanfu shimmered like drifting smoke; golden wind symbols embroidered across silk, black pearl chains decorating his waist.
Lóng Wēi's lips curved. Fragile… yet dangerous. That throne—more than killing, more than gold. I want it. I want it, I want it… oh, I will dance on it, spin on it, chew on it like candy…
A table bore ripe dragon fruits. Lóng Wēi nibbled slowly, eyes sharp, body taut with anticipation.
The guqin and bamboo flute floated unaided through the air. A voice—ethereal, sharp, almost otherworldly—echoed:
你点亮了死者的火焰
nǐ diǎn liàng le sǐ zhě de huǒ yàn
You lit the fire of the dead,
但他们却为了我而来
dàn tā men què wèi le wǒ ér lái
But they came for me instead.
那不是很悲哀吗?
nà bù shì hěn bēi āi ma?
Isn't that… sad?
你祈求怜悯
nǐ qí qiú lián mǐn
You prayed for mercy,
但怜悯没有肤色
dàn lián mǐn méi yǒu fū sè
But mercy wears no skin.
我戴着灵魂之眼
wǒ dài zhe líng hún zhī yǎn
I wear eyes of soul.
你难道不愿迎接这新的罪恶吗?
nǐ nán dào bù yuàn yíng jiē zhè xīn de zuì è ma?
Won't you welcome this new sin?
Lóng Wēi's robe swirled; hair flowed like ink over moonlight. The humans froze, hearts hammering like drumbeats in a storm. How they squeak… how they squirm… like bugs under glass. I could eat them for fun… oh but patience, patience…
Suddenly—a scream shredded the night.
A woman's head tore from her body, flying like cruel silk before striking a tree with a sickening thud. Lóng Wēi's lips curled in dark amusement. Not my first kill tonight… and not my last.
Xuě Jìng's eyes widened. His heart raced, trying to comprehend the audacity, the horror, the unreadable, untouchable power before him. What is this child-demon… this creature… this…
No Yao could suppress energy this perfectly. No curse leave itself so undetectable. Yet here stood one different—untouchable, untamed.
Lóng Wēi danced through chaos, playful, predatory, intoxicating. Whispers of his tongue, flicking like twin dragons:
你的王冠闪耀黄金
nǐ de wáng guàn shǎn yào huáng jīn
Your crown glows gold,
但黄金比血更快融化
dàn huáng jīn bǐ xuě gèng kuài róng huà
But gold melts faster than blood burns.
Invisible wind blades sliced the night, separating screams, panic, and chaos into a deadly symphony. Women shrieked, men panicked, yet Lou Lóng Wēi's grin never faltered. They never see it coming… oh, they never see it…
Every spin, every flutter of his robe, every deliberate step whispered danger, allure, and the promise of annihilation.
When the music ceased, silence fell. The grove's human heads vanished, leaving only Xuě Jìng and those of his fellow Yao standing, hearts pounding, minds trembling. So… small… so delicate… so very, very tasty…
Lóng Wēi's lips glistened with dragon fruit juice, faint streaks of blood—grin calm, electric with the thrill of inevitable conquest. He tilted his head, forehead brushing lightly against the faint pulse of mist curling at the center of the ceremonial grounds—a shadow poised, playful, deadly. The rise of Lou Lóng Wēi had begun.
And yet… the forest whispered. The wind carried warnings. And somewhere beyond the grove, something darker still waited, watching, hungry, patient.