The shadow launched another flurry of attacks, aiming precisely at Lian Yue's blind spots. Blood seeped down her arm from an earlier wound, but she refused to falter. Her sword clashed with the shadow's curved blade in a violent rhythm, sparks flying as steel met steel. Her breaths came in sharp bursts, but her focus remained unshaken.
Just as she sensed an opening, the shadow pivoted—darting toward the trembling child cowering near a broken pillar.
"No!" Lian Yue shouted, leaping forward to shield the girl.
But the moment she moved, the child vanished into mist.
An illusion. A trap.
Before she could react, pain exploded through her side as the shadow struck her with a brutal, bone-cracking blow. Her sword slipped from her grasp. The world spun, her knees gave out, and the cold, hard floor rushed up to meet her. Darkness swallowed her vision, and everything went still.
---
A dull ache throbbed through her skull as consciousness slowly returned. She opened her eyes to a sickly flickering glow—dim lanterns casting long shadows across cracked stone walls. Her arms were pulled back and bound tightly to a rough, jagged pillar. Her legs, too, were tied with coarse rope, chafing against her skin.
Where…?
The air was thick with dust, decay, and something far worse—a coppery stench of blood, old and dried, but ever-present. It clung to her nostrils, filling her lungs with every shallow breath.
Her vision cleared enough to see the figure before her.
A silhouette—twisted, hunched—was preparing tools. Blades, hooks, needles. Each one glinted with menace as it was carefully laid out on a cloth stained deep crimson. The figure murmured under its breath, humming a tuneless melody, like a lullaby for the dead.
"You'll scream soon," the voice rasped. "I'll wear your skin like silk… So pure. So warm."
Lian Yue's pulse pounded in her ears. Fear crawled up her spine. But her face remained still, defiant. No. I won't give her the satisfaction.
Then, suddenly—
"Dare to harm my person, and I will make you regret it."
The voice echoed through the temple like thunder cracking across a frozen lake.
It was cold. It was wrath.
The shadow froze.
Her fingers, mid-reach for a curved knife, began to tremble.
From the far corner of the temple, a presence emerged. A tall figure cloaked in black, the very shadows seeming to part for him. The dim lantern light caught his eyes—burning crimson, like a beast barely leashed.
Though Lian Yue's head was still hazy, she could feel the weight of his presence pressing against the air, making it harder to breathe. Her heartbeat slowed—not from calm, but from a primal awareness of danger.
Even the darkness fears him.
The shadow—no, she—straightened. Her disguise melted away like mist, revealing a tall, striking woman with features too sharp to be called beautiful. Her beauty was that of a thorned rose, elegant but deadly, with a cruel smile playing at her lips.
Lian Yue's breath caught. Even through the pain, she recognized her.
"…The Duke's wife?" she whispered, disbelief lacing her voice.
The woman let out a dry laugh, stepping forward. "You're sharp for someone moments from death."
She raised a hand, dark energy coiling around her fingers, and lunged at Xingtian.
He didn't flinch.
In a blink, he seized her by the throat mid-attack, lifting her clean off the ground. Her dark energy fizzled as she gasped and thrashed, but his grip was like iron. With a sharp grunt, he slammed her into the temple wall, stone cracking beneath the force.
Lian Yue stirred, her limbs weak but her mind sharpening. She saw the way his hand gripped the demoness's throat, unmoving, merciless. Would he kill her now?
"Wait…" she croaked. "Don't… kill her yet."
Xingtian didn't look at her at first. His eyes remained on the woman, glowing with a heat that could melt steel. Then, slowly, his gaze shifted to Lian Yue.
"Why should I spare her?" he asked, voice cold as winter.
Lian Yue steadied her voice. "I need answers. She has to answer for her crimes."
Xingtian narrowed his eyes. After a beat, he loosened his grip just enough to let the woman breathe, but not escape.
Lian Yue limped forward, pain shooting through her side with each step, but she kept her gaze locked on the woman.
"Why did you kill them?" she demanded. "How many? And why was it so hard to identify the bodies?"
The woman's lips curled into a sneer.
"Why should I answer to you pathetic cultivators? I am the Demon Lord's servant!"
At those words, something in the air shifted. Heavier. Colder.
Xingtian's voice entered her mind like a blade through fog. "You will answer now, or your soul will be destroyed—never to be reborn."
His tone was not loud. It did not need to be. It carried a power older than fear, and even the shadows seemed to recoil from it.
The woman's bravado cracked. Her eyes widened as she stared at him, and something like horror bloomed across her face.
"You… You're the Demon Lord… Xingmu…"
His expression darkened.
"Speak."
Lian Yue heard nothing of that exchange. She only saw the woman's face drain of color.
Then, in a flurry of panic, the woman confessed:
"I killed them out of hatred! They were young, beautiful, beloved—and I was cast aside, cursed to rot while they thrived! I've taken ten lives already. Each time, I used a different woman's skin to cover the body. That's why the corpses never matched the identities. That's why you couldn't find them…"
Lian Yue's stomach turned.
"You murdered innocents… for beauty?"
The woman let out a bitter laugh. "You think it's just that? You know nothing of being forgotten, thrown away. If I had your skin tonight, I wouldn't need another for months! A cultivator's skin—ha! So rare. So potent."
Xingtian's eyes flared. The next moment, her neck twisted with a sickening snap.
The woman's body dropped like a broken doll, thudding to the bloodstained floor.
Silence.
Xingtian stood still, hand clenched, crimson gaze burning. His aura was suffocating, the air itself thick with the scent of fury.
But when he turned to Lian Yue, something shifted.
His expression softened. He walked over and knelt beside her, gently undoing the ropes binding her to the pillar. She flinched as her injured arm moved, but didn't pull away.
"You… killed her," she said quietly.
"She had to die," he answered, voice firm. "People like her don't deserve mercy."
Neither spoke for a while. The temple was still—haunted by silence, broken only by the occasional creak of wind pushing through broken beams.
Finally, he knelt beside her. "You're injured. Let me see your arm."
She hesitated, then extended it.
His fingers brushed her skin, surprisingly gentle for someone so fierce. As he examined the wound, she studied him. Who is he… really? How can someone so terrifying… be this careful?
She didn't know the answer.
But something inside her—something long silent—was beginning to stir.