The cold wind tugged at Mo Lianyin's robes as he stood before the edge of the broken bridge. The silver moon above cast its gaze through tattered clouds, illuminating the cracked stone beneath his feet. It was here, decades ago, that his father had fallen.
Lianyin's fingers trembled as he knelt and brushed his hand over the moss-covered carvings etched into the remaining stones—ancient glyphs that sang of bravery, sacrifice, and betrayal. He closed his eyes, letting the silence pull him backward in time.
His memory opened like an old scroll, revealing the day the sect had fallen.
He had been only seven. The sky was red, thick with smoke and fire. Screams rang out like bells of judgment. He had clung to his mother's robes as they fled through the burning bamboo forest, blood spattering the green leaves. His father's voice had shouted something over the roar of flames—Lianyin had never heard what it was. Then came the final sound: a sword piercing flesh. Silence followed.
He never saw his parents again.
Now, years later, that moment still haunted him.
A quiet rustle snapped him from his reverie. From the shadowed trees beyond the bridge, a figure stepped forth—robes black as ink, with golden thread tracing the edges like veins of fire. The man was tall, and though his face was hidden beneath a woven bamboo hat, his presence rippled through the air like a storm on the horizon.
"You've returned," the stranger said. His voice was low, slightly rough, like wind scraping across stone. "I wondered when the last heir of the Mo clan would come seeking ghosts."
Lianyin straightened slowly, one hand already slipping to the dagger at his waist. "Who are you?"
The man tilted his head. "No one worth remembering. Only a witness. I was there when your father died."
Lianyin's eyes widened, hand tightening around the hilt. "You saw him fall?"
"I saw him fight." The man stepped forward, slow and deliberate. "He wielded the Crimson Lotus Blade and faced twelve cultivators of the Sky River Sect alone. He could have escaped. But he turned back—to protect his wife and son."
Lianyin's heart thudded against his ribs. "And you… you did nothing?"
The stranger shrugged. "I was ordered to observe. Nothing more. But I remember how he looked when he died. Proud. Unyielding. A fool."
The last word struck like a whip. Lianyin's blade was halfway out before the man raised a hand.
"If you wish to strike, do so. But know that blade in your hand is not even a shadow of the power your father carried."
Lianyin's arm trembled, the weight of years pressing down on his shoulders. He sheathed the dagger slowly. "Why are you telling me this?"
The man was silent for a moment, before tossing something toward him. A petal.
It floated through the air like a glowing ember, and as it touched Lianyin's palm, a vision sparked in his mind—his father, wounded, panting, leaning on his sword as flames roared around him.
"Memory petal," the man said, voice quiet. "One of the last pieces of your past. I've kept it all these years. Now it's yours."
Lianyin stared at the petal. It pulsed faintly with warm light. He had no words.
"I kept another for myself," the man added, turning away. "In case you ever returned. You are not the only one with ghosts."
"Wait," Lianyin said suddenly. "What was his name? My father's real name?"
The man paused at the edge of the forest. "Mo Xuanyan. They called him the Crimson Lotus. He burned brightly—and died beautifully."
Then he disappeared into the trees.
Lianyin stood there for a long time, the petal still glowing in his palm. The wind had quieted, and the moon above looked down like a weeping eye. He closed his fist around the memory.
---
Later that night, he built a fire in a small cave along the mountainside. The flames crackled softly, casting flickers of light on the jagged walls. Lianyin placed the petal in front of him and sat cross-legged, breathing slowly.
He had to see it again. All of it.
He pressed two fingers to the petal, whispering an activation charm. It flared to life.
The memory surged through him like lightning.
His father stood beneath the burning sky, eyes fierce and wild, his robes torn and stained red. Around him, enemies circled like wolves, yet none dared move. The Crimson Lotus Blade in his hands blazed with red light.
"You will not touch my son," Xuanyan growled.
One of the Sky River cultivators laughed. "You think you can protect him alone?"
Xuanyan smiled sadly. "Not alone. But long enough."
And then he moved—faster than sight, his blade carving arcs of crimson through the night. Lianyin felt his heart rise and shatter with each motion. His father didn't fight like a man seeking victory—he fought like a father begging the heavens for just a few more breaths for his child.
And then the blade cracked. His knees buckled. They surrounded him.
The final image: Mo Xuanyan smiling through the blood on his lips as he whispered his son's name.
The memory faded.
Lianyin fell forward, gasping, tears trailing down his face.
The fire crackled quietly beside him, unaware of the weight it illuminated.
---
By dawn, he had made a decision.
No more running. No more hiding. If he was to reclaim the honor of his clan—if he was to master the Seven Forbidden Arts—they would begin here.
At the grave of his father.