The night air was thick with smoke and whispers. Mo Lianyin knelt on the cold stone of the ruined altar, his robes stained with soot, his hands trembling—not from fear, but from power. A power that now pulsed beneath his skin like wildfire.
He had done it. The Fifth Forbidden Art.
A pact sealed in silence, with blood and breath and the bones of the old gods. The stone altar had once belonged to the Sect of Pure Light, long since abandoned—its once-sacred halls reduced to rubble by wars waged in the name of righteousness. Fitting, he thought, that something once so holy would now serve the darkness he embraced.
"You should rest," Aochan said quietly, stepping from the shadows. The young cultivator's voice was soft but firm. Loyal, to a fault.
Mo Lianyin didn't lift his head. His voice came like ice scraping over steel. "I cannot rest. Not while I still bleed."
Aochan approached slowly, setting a cloth and a gourd of healing elixir beside him. "You bled for something worth fighting for."
"Did I?" Lianyin's voice was hollow. "I've become everything the sect warned us about. They called this magic heresy. They were right."
Aochan crouched beside him. "You were left with no choice. They betrayed you first."
Mo Lianyin didn't answer, but the scar on his palm—freshly carved from the ritual—throbbed like it remembered. His betrayal hadn't started when he turned to forbidden cultivation. No. It began the day he watched the elders banish his name from the scrolls, watched his master turn away from him without a word.
And most of all, it began the day she died.
The image of his little sister—Lanmei—flashed before his eyes again. Her laughter, her bare feet racing across the stone courtyard, the red string bracelet she had made him with clumsy fingers. That red string now wrapped around his wrist, frayed and faded, yet the only thread tying him to what little warmth he had left in this world.
"I'll complete the Sixth Art by the lunar eclipse," Mo Lianyin said quietly. "The elders are gathering for the Celestial Accord. That's when I'll strike."
Aochan flinched. "You plan to face the Grand Circle? All twelve sects?"
"They will not see me coming."
Silence followed.
The moonlight filtered in through the broken roof, casting Lianyin's face in pale light. His eyes no longer held the innocence of youth. They were sharper now—like forged blades. Beautiful, but dangerous.
Aochan looked at him with concern. "You once said vengeance was a fire that consumes its wielder."
"It still is." Mo Lianyin finally turned to him. "But I've already burned. Now, I will burn them back."
---
Far from the altar, at the heart of the Frostmist Sect, a council meeting had been called in secret.
"He's not dead," whispered Elder Zhou, slamming a scroll down. "The Raven Blades reported movement in the ancient temple ruins. The same site where the Fifth Art is hidden."
The Grandmaster stroked his beard, eyes narrowing. "So the boy survived."
"We underestimated him."
"No," said a cold voice from the corner. A tall man stepped out from the shadows. White robes. Silver mask. Master Yiwen—Lianyin's former mentor.
"We created him."
Elder Zhou turned to him in shock. "You protected him once. You even petitioned for his innocence!"
Yiwen's voice was bitter. "I was a fool. I thought he could be saved. But the boy is no longer my disciple. He is a curse that must be cleansed."
---
That same night, Mo Lianyin stood beneath the ruined temple roof, gazing up at the stars. The wind tugged at his hair like ghostly fingers.
He spoke aloud, softly. "Are you watching, Lanmei? Do you see what your brother has become?"
A sudden wind gusted. His long black hair whipped across his face, and with it came a strange sound—a laugh? A whisper?
He turned.
But no one was there.
Still, the feeling remained. A presence. Something… listening.
"I will finish this," he whispered, half to the wind, half to the shadows. "Even if I have to lose the last piece of myself to do it."
---
Back at their hidden cave, Aochan was tending to the supplies when he found a folded parchment inside his robe. He hadn't placed it there. His brows furrowed.
He opened it.
> He is lying to you. He has already tasted the Seventh Art. And when the moon bleeds, you will be the first he spills.
A chill crept down Aochan's spine.
He looked toward the temple ruins, toward the friend—no, the brother—he had sworn to follow into the dark.
And for the first time…
He wondered if he had made a mistake.