The third night after Lianyin left the ruins of the Mo estate, he arrived at the outskirts of a place many refused to speak of—the Temple of Whispers, a forgotten sanctuary deep in the forest, hidden by mists and legends.
They said the temple once housed monks who worshipped a silent god, a deity who only spoke through suffering and sacrifice. Now, only spirits roamed its grounds. But Lianyin, drenched in silence and ghosted by betrayal, felt drawn to it like a shadow to dusk.
He stepped through the crumbling gate.
The cold was heavier here. Not just the bite of the wind or the chill of stone under bare feet, but the kind that seeped into bone and memory. The temple halls were lined with statues whose eyes seemed to follow him. Broken incense sticks littered the ground like the bones of prayers no one answered.
Lianyin stopped before the largest statue in the inner sanctum—a figure cloaked in robes, mouth sewn shut with golden threads, palms upturned, black tears carved from its eyes.
He stared. "Is silence what you demand, too?"
His voice cracked. It had been days since he'd spoken aloud.
He fell to his knees before the statue, not in worship—but collapse. "I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know where to go."
No answer.
Only the slow sound of wind dragging across the stone, like a breath too old to be human.
He closed his eyes.
And in that silence, something ancient stirred.
A low hum resonated through the floor. The statue's eyes flickered. One of the black tears shimmered with silver. A voice, soft and broken like cracked porcelain, echoed inside his mind.
> "Seven hearts… seven fates… seven betrayals… only the moon may bind them."
Lianyin's eyes flew open. The temple around him blurred and warped like heatwaves in midwinter. The statue began to bleed silver, pooling at its feet, snaking toward him.
He scrambled back—but the moment the liquid touched his skin, his world turned inside out.
Memories that were not his flashed through his mind. A girl with fire for hair, screaming as her village burned. A boy chained in a crystal prison beneath the sea. A masked cultivator stabbing his own brother with a blade that cried. Seven scenes, seven lives, seven betrayals.
And in all of them… he saw his face. Or something like it.
He was every one of them.
Or perhaps he would be.
When the visions ended, he found himself outside the temple, the gates shut behind him. In his palm lay a single silver bead, glowing faintly. Etched onto it was a symbol he recognized from ancient texts—the sigil of the First Forbidden Art: Soul Echo.
The first of seven.
The temple had chosen him.
---
The next morning, Lianyin walked with new weight in his steps and something deeper in his chest—fear, maybe. Or purpose. He wasn't sure yet.
He knew only one person who might understand what had just happened.
Master Zhu Liang, an exiled historian who once served the Jade Court. He had been stripped of his title for writing forbidden truths about the cultivation realms—truths too close to dangerous.
Finding Zhu Liang would not be easy. He lived in the ruins of the old Lantern Province, a place buried in mist and myth since the dragon clans vanished.
But Lianyin didn't hesitate. He began the journey.
The moon that night was a red crescent.
It watched him.
---
Far away, in a golden palace atop floating clouds, the Celestial Council convened. Robed elders muttered ancient chants. A basin of moonlight rippled before them, revealing the boy with the silver bead in his palm.
"Mo Lianyin," one elder spat. "He survived."
Another leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "The Temple awakened."
"Then it has begun again."
"The Seven Arts… they must not reunite."
A final voice, quiet and older than the others, spoke from the shadows: "Then send the hounds. Let no shadow escape."
---
Meanwhile, in the deep woods, Lianyin walked alone—unaware that eyes now followed him. That his destiny had been stirred, and forces too old to name were watching.
He only knew the silence was no longer quiet.
It was waiting.
And beneath the moon's shadow… something had begun to beat again.