The nights in Hanyue Peak had always been silent, but tonight, the silence bore teeth. Each gust of wind clawed at the broken earth, scattering ashes that once belonged to disciples, masters, friends. All of them gone. All except one.
Mo Lianyin stood in the midst of what used to be the cultivation grounds, now reduced to a scorched wasteland. The towering jade pagoda that once housed scriptures now lay in ruin, its sacred scrolls curling into smoke. Beneath his feet, blood had dried into rust-colored stains. The earth reeked of betrayal.
The weight of his master's final words still echoed in his head.
> "Lianyin… don't trust the light. The moon sees all. Remember… the seal… the seventh art…"
He didn't understand what they meant—not yet—but he carried them like broken glass in his chest, each step pressing the shards deeper. His master, Wen Qingxiao, had always been a cryptic man, but never cruel. And now even he was gone, body unrecovered, voice silenced.
"I trusted them," Lianyin whispered, staring at the smoking horizon. "And they left me to burn."
The Sect Elders—the ones who called him "disciple," "child," "hope"—had vanished when the fires rose. There had been no rescue. No sword to his side. Only silence. And in that silence, he heard the truth.
He was never meant to survive.
A faint cough pulled him out of his thoughts. Turning sharply, Lianyin reached for his dagger, only to realize he no longer carried one. His spiritual ring, once gleaming with energy, was dimmed. His cultivation was sealed—bound by the golden curse that still shimmered around his wrists like shackles.
But he wasn't alone.
A small figure stumbled out from the ruins of the eastern hall. A girl—no older than thirteen—dragging a half-burnt scroll and clutching her bleeding arm.
"Senior… Brother…" she whispered, eyes glazed.
"Yue'er!" he rushed forward, catching her just before she collapsed. One of the younger disciples, Xiao Yue, had always followed him around the gardens, calling him her shadow because he always appeared when the sun was too bright.
Lianyin pulled her close, pressing a hand against her wound. "Why are you still here? I told you to run!"
"I—I tried… but the barrier… it wouldn't let me through." Her voice trembled. "Someone locked it from inside."
From inside.
Of course they had.
His body trembled with restrained fury. They had used his sect as bait. As a grave. While they watched from afar.
"The elders," he said, voice flat, "they locked us in."
Yue gave a small nod before going limp, her body succumbing to exhaustion. She wasn't dead—not yet—but he needed to move.
A distant roar thundered from the mountains beyond the valley. A spiritual beast. A high-level one.
"They're sending the clean-up crew already," Lianyin murmured. "To erase the witnesses."
He looked down at Yue. She wouldn't last a battle.
And he had no weapons. No cultivation. No allies.
Only rage.
And the seal.
The golden bands around his wrists shimmered again. They were beautiful, ornate—carved with ancient script, looking like sacred blessings. But they burned like fire. They were chains. Binding his qi. Suppressing the power buried deep within.
He remembered his master's words.
> "The seventh art is not taught. It is felt. In blood, in loss. And once awakened, it cannot be sealed again."
Lianyin reached into his robe and pulled out a small jade talisman—Wen Qingxiao's last gift. It pulsed faintly.
"If I die," he whispered, "then I'll die using what you gave me."
He sliced the talisman against the edge of his palm, drawing blood. The jade cracked.
And the world shifted.
A hum rippled through the air—low, ancient, vibrating through his bones. The golden seals on his wrists flared bright, and then—
They shattered.
The explosion of qi threw ash into the sky like a second fire. His body convulsed, overwhelmed with energy that wasn't his—at least, not before. The seal had been more than a prison. It had been a gate. And he had opened it.
His eyes burned silver.
His veins pulsed with forgotten power.
The seventh forbidden art was not light or fire or swordplay.
It was memory.
Lianyin gasped as visions surged through him—memories not his own. Thousands of years of pain, betrayal, sacrifice. Lives lost and reborn. Warriors broken and rebuilt. Every previous wielder of the seventh art screamed through his mind.
But he didn't scream.
He held on.
For Yue.
For Hanyue Peak.
For himself.
The roar from the mountains drew closer. A shadow crested the hill—a massive spirit beast with molten eyes and iron tusks. It smelled of blood. It smelled of orders.
"They really want me dead," Lianyin muttered, standing slowly, the power crackling around him like thunderclouds.
The beast charged.
He didn't run.
With a single flick of his hand, the earth split open beneath the beast, swallowing it whole. It roared once before silence returned.
Yue stirred. "Senior brother…?"
Lianyin looked down at her, face no longer the gentle smile she remembered. His eyes were colder now. Older. Burned by betrayal.
"We're leaving," he said. "This place… is a grave."
"But… where?"
He paused, then looked toward the north, where the fallen moon's light was dimmest.
"To the ones who sent the flames."