---
The heavy oak door to the main hall shuddered inward, not with its usual controlled swing, but with a frantic, jarring impact. The guard who always reported with stoic composure stumbled through, his armor clattering as he dropped to one knee. His breath came in ragged gasps, and the pallor of his face spoke of a terror that ran deeper than any battlefield fear.
"Speak." The single word, uttered by Qi Lantian from his throne, cut through the panic like a winter gale. It was a tone of absolute, cold authority, a force that demanded order and stilled the man's trembling heart.
"Patriarch! We… we have lost all contact with the northern region," the guard stammered, forcing the words out. "I fear Elder Qi Mo has met with an unfortunate calamity." The thought of Qi Mo revolting never even crossed his mind; the man's loyalty was as certain as the sunrise.
Qi Lantian's eyes, previously lidded in contemplation, narrowed. "The spies? Did they not send word?"
"No, Patriarch," the guard affirmed with grim certainty. "The teams we dispatched have vanished. Their sound transmission talismans are silent—not just inactive, but destroyed. As for Elder Qi Mo… we cannot reach him, but the master talisman indicates his is still intact. It is as if he deliberately deactivated it, severing the connection."
A cold knot tightened in Qi Lantian's stomach. "This is strange. Even if he had the situation in hand, he would have reported. And if he were in true danger…" He trailed off, the unspoken thought hanging in the air: Qi Mo might be turning traitor. He dismissed the idea with a sharp, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Not Qi Mo. Not after all these years.
"Is there more?" Qi Lantian pressed, his voice low.
"Yes, Patriarch. Before they fell silent, our forward spies reported an army of twenty-five hundred marching grandly toward the northern gates."
A low hum rumbled in Qi Lantian's throat. "Their leadership?"
"The scouts claimed to see the silhouettes of three experts at the 9th Level of the Origin Realm at the vanguard."
The information acted like a spark to tinder. Qi Lantian's eyes snapped fully open, and he rose from his throne in a single, fluid motion. An invisible wave of pressure erupted from him—the dominating aura of a Nascent Soul expert—filling the hall with fiery, suffocating energy. The air itself seemed to thicken.
"So, they have chosen to bring the final fight to our doorstep," he murmured, his mind racing. "The garrison requested for the west gate? Recall them. Have them stand by. Summon every Qi clansman chasing the scattered Sword Spirit Sect remnants. They are to abandon the pursuit and return immediately. And order the armies from the western and eastern gates to mobilize toward the northern border. They are to advance slowly and report the moment they are in position, awaiting further orders."
"Your will be done!" The guard bowed deeply, relief and purpose straightening his spine as he prepared to leave.
"Wait." Qi Lantian's voice stopped him at the threshold. "Anything else? Any rumor, no matter how small."
The guard hesitated. "It… it is unconfirmed, Patriarch. Mere whispers from the citizens near the northern wall. They speak of hearing a terrible screeching, like a massive gate being dragged open by force. But our patrols found nothing. We have quelled the rumors to prevent panic. It is likely nothing."
"Is that so? You are dismissed." Qi Lantian waved a hand, his expression unreadable.
"As you wish, Patriarch." The guard offered a final bow and hurried away, his footsteps echoing down the marble corridor.
Alone, the imposing aura around Qi Lantian crumbled, replaced by a weary heaviness. He sank back into his throne, the weight of leadership and suspicion pressing down on him. Qi Mo, what are you playing at? I pray it is not what I fear. He clutched at a thin thread of reassurance. The gate has a spiritual alarm. If it is breached, I will know.
With a sigh that seemed to carry the fatigue of centuries, he stood and walked from the silent hall, his destination a place known only to him. He moved through the clan compound until he reached a hidden entrance, passing into a secluded backyard.
The air changed instantly. The stench of politics and war was replaced by the rich, loamy scent of earth and night-blooming flowers. The manicured paths gave way to a wild, lush garden. Fireflies drifted like lost stars, their gentle glow casting a dreamy luminescence over the scene, pushing back the oppressive darkness. At the very heart of this sanctuary, meticulously maintained, stood a simple tombstone adorned with fresh, vibrant flowers.
This was the resting place of Qi Xue.
Seeing the grave, the stern Patriarch vanished. A soft, sad smile touched his lips as leaves, carried on a gentle breeze, settled on his shoulders. He stood there, a statue lost in time, remembering a laugh, a touch, a life stolen too soon.
"Qi Xue," he whispered, the name a prayer. "Watch over us. The clan stands on a knife's edge. Guide me."
But peace was a fragile illusion. Against his will, his mind tore open the oldest, most festering wound. He shook his head violently, a desperate attempt to ward off the memory. Yet, the universe, in its cruel irony, forced him to see.
---
Memory Sequence
"P-P-Patriarch! S-Something is... w-wrong!"
He was a blur of motion. The reinforced door, etched with warding runes, exploded inward under the force of his kick, shattering into a cloud of splinters.
The scene within was a masterpiece of hellish tragedy. Qi Xue lay on the birthing bed, the white linens beneath her dyed a shocking, violent crimson. Blood, dark and thick, seeped from her seven orifices. Her eyes, once full of light, were vacant pools. Her body, a vessel that had housed a powerful cultivator, was now a mutilated husk. Every ounce of her life force, her cultivation, her very essence, had been utterly devoured.
And in the arms of a trembling, ghost-pale midwife, was the source.
The child.
He was unnervingly, flawlessly beautiful. His skin was like polished pearl, unblemished despite the gore he was born into. Tiny fists were curled placidly. And his hair… a lavish, impossible cascade of metallic silver, not the white of age, but the shimmering hue of moonlight on a frozen lake, falling to his waist—a length that defied nature.
He was alive. Lantian could see the faint pulse at his temple, could hear the steady, strong beat of a tiny heart. 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 sated after a feast.
---
"Ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!"
Qi Lantian's agonized scream ripped through the garden's tranquility, scattering the fireflies and silencing the nocturnal chorus. The leaves on his shoulders were blasted away by the raw aura of grief and rage that erupted from him. The lush paradise transformed in an instant; the trees now looked like twisted ghouls, and the atmosphere grew thick with a suffocating gloom.
---
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!"
---
Another raw, mournful scream tore from his throat. Blood sprayed from his lips as the supreme Patriarch of the Qi Clan, the legendary Nascent Soul expert of Floating Cloud City, crumpled to his knees. He curled into a ball, wailing like a lost child, his tears mingling with the blood on the sacred ground. For three long minutes, he was no patriarch, only a broken man haunted by a horror he could never escape.
Then, it stopped. His eyes snapped open, and the grief was incinerated by pure, undiluted hatred. His features twisted into a mask of terrifying fury.
"I should have killed him!" he roared to the uncaring night, his fists clenched so tightly that fresh blood welled from his palms and dripped onto the flowers. "I could have crushed that animal with my own hands!!"
His ragged breathing was the only sound in the suddenly still garden.
CRAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
A sound like tearing metal shattered the silence.
Qi Lantian spun around, his bloodshot eyes locking onto the tombstone. Perched atop the smooth stone was a crow, its form so black it seemed to be a hole cut into reality. Only its eyes were visible—two pools of liquid blood that hung in the air, fixed on him with ancient, malevolent intelligence.
A killing intent so potent it felt physical washed over him. It was the sensation of a cold, serrated blade pressed against his soul, weighing his worth, considering the simple act of snuffing him out. Qi Lantian, the mighty Nascent Soul expert, began to shiver uncontrollably. The violent rage in his eyes melted away, replaced by a primal, childlike fear that rooted him to the spot. His legs trembled, threatening to give way as he stared into those bloody orbs.
The standoff stretched for an eternity.
CRAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
The crow shrieked again, a sound filled with disdain and profound disappointment. It shook its head slowly, then launched itself into the air. Its dark wings beat once, twice, and it was swallowed by the brooding clouds above.
"Ahhhh…" Qi Lantian gasped, collapsing forward onto his hands, sweat pouring from his body to form a dark patch on the earth. He whimpered, reduced to a terrified creature, the memory of the encounter already fading, stolen away by a power he could not comprehend. He tried to grasp what had just happened, but his mind found only a blank space, a void of terror with no source. All he knew was that he had been broken.
Confused and shaken, he pushed himself to his feet, his body aching with a deep, unplaceable fatigue. He cast one last, bewildered look around the garden before stumbling out, leaving the tomb of his beloved wife behind under a suddenly watchful, hostile night.
---
Elsewhere
In a dilapidated courtyard, Lethean slept. The warm moonlight draped over his form, so perfect it seemed sculpted by the gods. But peace was a stranger even in his dreams. His brow remained permanently furrowed, his flawless features tense. He slept, but it was the restless sleep of one pursued by shadows, a silent . The long night, it seemed, held no rest for anyone.