The procession wound deeper into Wuwei City, its black lanterns casting flickering shadows that danced across ancient stone walls. Shen Ziyan stood motionless on the balcony, eyes fixed on the blindfolded figures below. The child's voice continued its haunting lullaby, ethereal and weightless, like mist caught in moonlight.
"That song..." Bai Yanyue whispered beside him, her voice laced with dread. "It doesn't belong to the living."
Ziyan didn't respond. His heart thudded in rhythm with the melody. He couldn't look away. It wasn't fear. It wasn't curiosity. It was... familiarity. As if this song had once sung him to sleep a lifetime ago.
Suddenly, the child leading the procession halted. Her lantern dimmed. Slowly, she tilted her head—directly at Ziyan's window, despite the blindfold covering her eyes.
Ziyan's breath caught.
"She sees us," Bai Yanyue muttered.
"No," Ziyan said quietly. "She sees me."
Without hesitation, he descended the stairs and stepped into the street. The crowd parted as if guided by unseen hands. None of them looked at him. None spoke. Only the child did.
"You've come home late," she said, her voice far older than her small body.
Ziyan stared. "Who are you?"
The child tilted her head. "You once held the name Shen Ziyan. But long ago, you bore another. One that the world erased."
He frowned. "What name?"
The girl stepped closer, her voice lowering into a whisper.
"The one given to the Hand of Creation."
The street grew colder.
Bai Yanyue shivered. "What is she saying?"
But Ziyan was transfixed.
"Do you remember the cave beneath the blood river?" the girl asked. "Do you remember the spear in the mouth of the sleeping god? You touched it. It touched you."
"How do you—?"
"Because I remember everything you forgot."
Then the procession moved on, vanishing into an alley that didn't exist moments ago.
Ziyan stood frozen.
The Hand of Creation...
That phrase echoed in his mind like the tolling of a divine bell. It wasn't just the name of the artifact he'd uncovered. It was something more.
It was a title.
And it had once belonged to him.
The scholar who greeted them earlier reappeared, this time seated beneath a willow tree with a brush in hand. When Ziyan and Bai Yanyue approached, he gestured to the ground.
"I assume the procession has found you," he said calmly. "Then there is no need to delay."
"Explain what's going on," Ziyan demanded. "What is this city? Why do they call me the Hand of Creation?"
The scholar sighed. "Because you are the last fragment of a forgotten god. You were sealed within mortality to preserve balance. But now that seal is weakening."
He pointed toward the sky.
Above them, the moon had changed.
No longer full and bright, it was now veiled in darkness—its surface marred by strange red veins.
"The Eclipsed Flame is a trial," the scholar continued. "Each century, it descends to burn away those who carry the remnants of divinity. You are one of them."
Ziyan's jaw tightened. "And if I survive?"
The scholar dipped his brush into ink. "Then you will begin to awaken."
Suddenly, Bai Yanyue stood, her eyes sharp. "Why help us? What do you gain?"
The scholar gave a sad smile. "I am a Remembrancer. My purpose is not to interfere—but to record. When gods walk again, someone must bear witness."
He handed Ziyan a sealed scroll.
"Tonight, go to the Mirror Grove. When the flame falls, it will test your soul."
Ziyan accepted the scroll, its surface hot to the touch.
"Will I die?" he asked.
The scholar said nothing.
But as Ziyan turned away, he heard the man whisper—
"You've already died once. This... is just the remembrance of it."
The Mirror Grove
Beneath the light of the dying moon, Ziyan and Bai Yanyue reached the grove at midnight. Hundreds of stone mirrors rose from the earth, cracked and crooked, each reflecting twisted images of the world around them.
Ziyan stepped into the center, where a pool of black water mirrored the sky.
Suddenly, fire rained from the heavens.
Not ordinary fire—but crimson and silver flame, twisting with divine hatred. It struck the grove like a storm, setting the mirrors ablaze. But the pool remained still.
Ziyan turned to Bai Yanyue. "Stay back."
"No," she said simply. "If you fall, who'll tease me in the next life?"
He blinked.
She smiled. "Besides, what's the fun of dual cultivation if one of us dies before we get to the fun part?"
Ziyan coughed. "This is hardly the time."
But her presence steadied him. He stepped into the pool.
Instantly, his reflection rose to meet him—not as he was, but as something else.
Armored in bone and starlight, his hair white as snow, eyes glowing with primordial fire. The figure spoke:
"You are the spark left behind by a fallen god. Do you choose to reclaim what was yours?"
Ziyan clenched his fists. "Not because I want power. But because I need answers."
"Then be judged."
A blinding light engulfed the grove.
He was no longer in Wuwei.
He stood in a hall of mirrors, each showing a different version of himself—some noble, some cruel, some monstrous. They screamed at him. Accused him. Tempted him.
"You betrayed us."
"You abandoned her."
"You became less than what you were."
Ziyan gritted his teeth. "I didn't ask for this life."
"But you carry it!" they shouted in unison. "You must choose. Which 'you' will remain?"
He turned toward one mirror—one where Bai Yanyue lay dead, his hands drenched in blood.
He turned to another—one where the world burned while he sat on a throne.
Then one more—one where he was simply a man, nameless and at peace, walking with Bai Yanyue under the moonlight.
He raised his hand and shattered them all.
"I'll make my own path," he growled. "Not the god's. Not the world's. Mine."
The light flared.
And the grove returned.
He stood alone in the pool, sword in hand.
The mirrors had all crumbled.
Only Bai Yanyue remained, watching him with wide eyes.
"Ziyan... your eyes..."
He turned toward her—and she stepped back.
They were glowing with divine flame.
But before either could speak, a deafening crack split the sky.
A rift had opened in the heavens.
And from it descended a figure wrapped in crimson robes, face hidden beneath a bronze mask carved like a weeping god.
The figure pointed at Ziyan.
"The Gods have remembered your name, O Fallen Hand."
And the sky began to bleed.