The Floating Cloud City, a jewel in the Eastern Divine Origin Region, thrummed with celebratory energy. Lanterns glowed against the twilight, and the air itself seemed to vibrate with anticipation. The source of the excitement was the Qi Clan, one of the region's four great powers. Their Patriarch's wife, the esteemed Qi Xue, was in labor.
Outside the sealed chamber, woven with silencing and protective arrays, Patriarch Qi Lantian paced. He was a man who embodied the power of his clan—a Nascent Soul realm expert whose vigorous physique and sharp, domineering eyes made him look no older than thirty. Yet, in this moment, he was stripped of all his grandeur, a man rendered helpless by fear and hope.
His brother, Qi Futian, watched him with a mixture of sympathy and envy. "Steady, Brother," Futian said, placing a hand on Lantian's shoulder. "Sister-in-law is at the First Level of the Spiritual Realm. Her foundation is solid. The heavens will surely bless her with a safe delivery."
"I know this," Lantian's voice was a low rumble, strained with tension. "But knowing does not quiet the heart. The thought of holding my son... it is a terror and a joy I cannot describe."
Qi Futian sighed. "When will I know such a feeling? Luo and I have been... diligent. Yet, her womb remains still. I envy you, brother. You were only married two months ago."
Lantian managed a weak, strained laugh. "Perhaps you are not practicing the correct dual cultivation method, little brother. I can recommend a manual—"
His jest was cut off.
An unnatural silence fell.
The encouraging cries from within the chamber, the steady, reassuring murmurs of the midwives—it all ceased. For five long minutes, there was nothing but the frantic beating of Lantian's own heart. The festive sounds of the city outside seemed to mock the dread solidifying in the hallway.
Just as Lantian moved to shout, the door shuddered. Not from within, but from the force of a terrified voice.
"P-P-Patriarch! S-Something is... w-wrong!"
He was moving before the final syllable faded. The reinforced door, etched with protective runes, exploded inward under the force of his kick, splintering into a thousand pieces.
The scene inside would be seared into his soul for eternity.
Qi Xue lay on the birthing bed, a vision of grotesque tragedy. The white sheets were drenched in a shocking, violent crimson. Blood, dark and final, leaked from her seven orifices—her eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouth. Her body, once radiating with spiritual power, was now a mutilated, empty vessel. All life force, all essence, had been utterly extinguished.
And in the arms of a trembling, ashen-faced midwife, was the cause.
The child.
He was impossibly, unnervingly beautiful. Skin of pearl, flawless and luminous despite the blood that smeared it. Tiny fists were curled against his chest. And his hair… a lavish cascade of snow-white, not the pale blond of age, but a shimmering, metallic silver that fell like a waterfall to his waist—a length utterly unheard of in a newborn.
He was alive. Lantian could see the faint twitch of a limb, could hear the steady, strong rhythm of a tiny heartbeat. But the child made no sound. He did not cry. His eyes were closed, his features arranged in an expression of serene, profound calm. It was not the peace of an infant, but the arrogant placidity of a predator after a full meal.
A guttural, animalistic sound of anguish tore from Lantian's throat as he fell to his knees beside his wife, clutching her lifeless, cold hand. His world had just been annihilated.
Then, the grief curdled. It twisted in his chest, morphing into something black and venomous. He rose, his movements stiff and mechanical, and turned toward the midwife. A killing intent so potent it chilled the very air in the room rolled off him.
"What. Happened." The words were a raw, bestial growl.
The midwife flinched, nearly dropping the silent child. "It… it was all n-normal… until… his head emerged… th-there was a light… a blinding, h-hungry light… and then… milady… she… she was just… *empty*!"
Lantian's bloodshot eyes fixed on the child. He saw no son. He saw a parasite. A beautiful, silent monster that had consumed his beloved to fuel its own unnatural entry into the world. He saw the calm face not as innocence, but as a verdict: its mother's life was a acceptable cost.
Hatred, hot and irrational, bloomed in his heart. He wanted to snuff out the tiny, terrifying life in the midwife's arms. His fingers twitched with the urge.
Instead, he snatched the child and thrust him back into the woman's arms as if the touch burned him. His voice, when he spoke, was terrifyingly flat, devoid of all humanity.
"The child is dead," he stated. "His mother is dead. You are never to let me see that *thing* again. Do you understand?"
"Y-yes, Patriarch!" the woman stammered, clutching the silent baby to her chest.
As Lantian turned to leave, his brother standing frozen in the doorway in horror, the midwife found a sliver of courage. "P-Patriarch! Wh-what is his name?"
He paused at the threshold, not deigning to look back. A single, cold word echoed in the deathly quiet room, a curse and a sentence all in one.
"Lethean."
The name of death.