The wind was heavy with the scent of decay.
Mo Lianyin stood at the edge of the Whispering Forest, the golden tips of his robe brushing against the damp earth. The air here was different—older, denser, like the land itself remembered sorrow and whispered it through the trees. The willow ahead of him was massive, its long, skeletal branches trailing to the ground like a weeping maiden.
He could feel the presence already. It pulsed through the roots of the earth, beckoning him closer.
"You shouldn't be here."
The voice didn't surprise him. He turned calmly, finding a young cultivator standing behind him. A boy no older than seventeen, his robes bore the mark of the Yunlan Sect, the same sect that had cast Lianyin out. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, unsure of whether to draw it.
Lianyin's eyes met his. "Neither should you."
The boy hesitated. "This place is cursed. They say no one who enters the grove of the Dying Willow returns unchanged."
Lianyin's lips curled faintly. "That's precisely the point."
He stepped forward, brushing past the boy, whose breath hitched at the sudden chill that followed. The willow's branches parted for Lianyin as if welcoming him home. They twisted in the air, moaning softly, and when he placed his hand on the bark, he saw them—flashes of the past.
A girl, crying beneath the willow.
A boy, promising to return.
Blood.
Silence.
The echoes of old pain slammed into him, and he staggered slightly, bracing himself against the tree. The Forbidden Art etched into his soul reacted violently, its runes flaring beneath his skin. The spirits here… they were bound. Trapped. Like him.
"I seek your power," he whispered, pressing his forehead to the bark. "I seek your truth."
A low groan rippled through the forest. Roots coiled up from the ground, wrapping around his feet, his legs, his waist. Not to hurt—but to pull him deeper, into the memory buried beneath.
Suddenly, the world tilted.
Lianyin opened his eyes and found himself standing in another time.
The willow was younger, vibrant, its leaves shimmering silver under a moonlit sky. In front of him, two children played—laughing, chasing fireflies. He recognized one. The girl. Her eyes were bright, filled with dreams.
Then came the invaders. Flames. Screams. The girl was dragged away. The boy tried to fight, his wooden sword no match for steel. The willow burned, and so did their promise.
Lianyin felt it all. The sorrow. The betrayal. The moment the girl's soul was torn from her body and bound to the tree, cursed to weep until vengeance was had.
When he awoke, he was back in the present, lying at the base of the tree. Blood dripped from his nose, but he felt it—the power, the curse, now sealed within him.
Another of the Seven Forbidden Arts: The Weeping Soul Binding.
He stood slowly, the air colder than before. The willow no longer wept. It had passed its burden to him.
The boy from Yunlan stood a few paces away, eyes wide with fear and awe. "What… what did you do?"
Lianyin looked at him, and for a moment, his gaze softened.
"I gave her peace. And in return, she gave me her wrath."
He walked past the boy, the forest parting for him once more. His journey was far from over, but now he carried another soul in his heart—one who, like him, had been broken, used, and discarded.
And for every soul he carried, the world would burn a little brighter.
Or darker.
He no longer cared.