"What do you mean, 'it is not a human'?"
Suji's voice trembled, a volatile mix of lingering adrenaline and freshly ignited indignation. "Do you intend to insult my vision as well as my honor, brother?"
His eyes were still rimmed with red, the humiliation of the rooftop defeat burning hot in his chest. The other Yin Lan disciples shifted awkwardly, their boots scraping against the cobblestones as they widened the circle to give the two estranged brothers space.
Liè Yìn stepped forward, offering a subtle, formal bow to Wùji before placing a steadying hand on Suji's shoulder. It was a gentle, grounding squeeze—a silent reminder: He does not seek your downfall. Do not lose your composure.
Suji glanced at Liè Yìn. The touch was unfamiliar; in the competitive hierarchy of the Yin Lan, comfort was a rarity. He exhaled sharply and turned his gaze back to Wùji.
The Hàngwō heir remained silent. Wùji stood perfectly still, his violet robes immaculate, his gaze drifting critically between the dancing group and the corpse at his feet.
Nearby, the "dancers" were engaging in a bizarre display of lethargy.
Kirihito sighed dramatically, leaning his entire weight against the man with the black ribbon. To an outsider, they looked drunk or exhausted; to the knowing eye, they were barely contained chaos.
"Wèi will sleep once this... violet insect... moves along," Kirihito whispered, his voice a melodic rasp meant only for his companion.
"I too~" the Black Ribbon purred, giggling with the unnerving innocence of a child holding a knife.
Wùji's eyes snapped toward them—a sharp, sideways glance that commanded silence without a single word. Quiet.
The smiles dropped instantly. Kirihito hummed a sleepy, nonsensical tune and burrowed into the center of the group like a chick seeking warmth, muttering, "Wèi hates this insect..."
The other dancers cooed over him, petting his hair with exaggerated affection.
Wùji and Suji both huffed in unison, momentarily united by their confusion at the grotesque display. Wùji shook his head, categorizing them as mentally unstable, and turned his full attention back to his brother.
"Yes," Wùji said simply. It was cruel, but devoid of malice. It was merely his version of the truth. "You are blind. The Yin Lan will collapse if you continue to let your rage cloud your perception."
Suji blinked, his hands flying to his hips. "Aren't you getting too arrogant?" he hissed, barely containing his temper. "You speak in riddles to mock me."
"I speak only facts," Wùji replied coolly. He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped closer to the body. "This is not a real human. It is an illusionary puppet."
"I do not believe without seeing," Suji whispered sharply, his tone mockingly gentle, issuing a challenge. "Could you show me, Brother?"
Wùji said nothing.
His hand moved.
It was a blur of motion—a sharp click of the scabbard, a flash of silver, and a resounding snap as the blade returned to its sheath. To the untrained eye, Wùji hadn't moved at all.
Then, gravity took hold.
The "corpse" on the ground slid apart. The head, chest, stomach, and knees separated cleanly.
There were no organs. There was no fresh blood.
Instead of red vitality, a thick, black sludge oozed from the severed sections. The smell hit them instantly—the cloying, sweet stench of rot. The body, which had looked fresh moments ago, began to decompose rapidly before their eyes, the skin turning gray and flaking away like ash. It was a centuries-old cadaver, repurposed to throw sand in their eyes.
Suji stared, his mouth slightly open. His defiance evaporated, replaced by the hollow feeling of being proven wrong—again.
"Ouu! Impressive!"
Kirihito peeked over the shoulder of the Black Ribbon, his eyes wide with a mixture of feigned innocence and genuine bloodlust. "Wèi liked it! Can Wèi cut the insect more?~"
The air froze. Wùji and the Yin Lan disciples turned to look at the dancer as if he were a talking animal.
Kirihito froze, realizing he had nearly slipped. The other dancers immediately shushed him, pulling him back into the safety of their huddle.
Hidden behind the stage curtain, Xio face-palmed.
"That snake..." Xio hissed under his breath, watching the scene through a crack in the fabric. "Just let me get back to the White House... I will squeeze every dragon fruit you've eaten right out of your throat." His tone was a mix of murderous intent and strange affection.
Wùji stared at the dancers for a long moment. Mentally ill, he reaffirmed. Or perhaps exactly what I suspect.
He cleared his throat, filing the dancers away for later interrogation. He gestured to the rotting pile of sludge.
"This is a Half-Reverse Curse technique," Wùji explained, his voice turning lecture-sharp. "A full Reverse Curse heals the living. This variation animates the dead to create a perfect decoy. It cannot be identified until the integrity of the vessel is breached—until it is cut into pieces."
"Are you saying..." Suji's voice was quiet. "That the demonic cultivator fooled me completely?"
"Indeed," Wùji nodded. "Whoever did this knows your weaknesses. Perhaps they know the weaknesses of the entire Yin Lan Clan."
He looked down at the black sludge.
"Furthermore, this man—the original vessel—died yesterday. My team performed the postmortem. We completed the farewell rituals and placed him in the public grave." Wùji's eyes narrowed. "Someone stole this body from hallowed ground right under our noses, with perfect intelligence..when we left.."
Suji swallowed hard. This was no longer just a failed skirmish; it was a complex conspiracy. No wonder Wùji was always the favored son—he looked forward, backward, and beneath the surface.
"So be conscious," Wùji warned, his tone dark. "You must think like a demonic cultivator if you wish to catch one. They do not walk straight paths; they move in the shadows of the narrowest alleys."
Suji nodded slowly, swallowing his pride. He didn't fully understand how to think like a demon, but for the first time, he was listening.
"May I..." Suji hesitated, then corrected his posture. "May I hear the details of this man's original death? It might help."
Wùji looked at him, assessing his sincerity. Finding it sufficient, he began to speak.
Flashback: The Hàngwō Morgue
The air in the examination room was thick with the scent of incense and decay. Wùji sat at his desk, back straight, his violet robes perfectly arranged. He was writing a report, the brush strokes neat and precise.
"Wùji Kùmsūn, another unusual death," a Hàngwō disciple announced, stepping in. "Two bodies."
"Hm," Wùji acknowledged without looking up. "Gender?"
"Male and female."
Wùji cleaned his brush, setting it on the stand. "Cause of death?"
The disciple hesitated, his face paling. "Decapitation. And... the male's private parts were severed and... placed inside his mouth. It seems they were tortured. It resembles the Byakuya incident."
Wùji's eyes flickered. He stood up immediately. "Show me."
The viewing room was cold. Younger students, there for their practical education, covered their noses or looked away, struggling with the gruesome sight.
"Horrible..."
"I should have chosen Yin Lan... the path of the Hàngwō is too heavy."
"What is left to see that you have not seen in nightmares?" Wùji's voice cut through their murmurs. The students fell silent.
Wùji approached the slab. He felt no disgust, only a clinical drive for truth. He took a small knife wrapped around a fabric and methodically removed the severed organ from the victim's mouth, dropping it into a wooden bucket with a dull thud.
He examined the wounds. The jagged tears suggested claws, not blades. This matched the pattern of recent killings in the Kazomaki Kingdom—attacks on "Green Banner" yokai (those marked as safe) and humans alike.
Wùji removed the fabric and placed his bare hand on the dead man's cold forehead. He closed his eyes, activating the Soul Recall.
Whoosh.
The cold room vanished. Wùji stood in the Fukaki Forest. It was night. The fog was heavy, muffling all sound except for the wet, frantic noises of violence.
He saw them. A man forcing himself upon a weeping woman. Moans and cried mixing together.
"P-please! Let me go!" the woman cried, her voice ragged.
"Not until I am relieved, little whore..." the man grunted, striking her across the face.
"I curse you! I curse you to a horrible death!" she screamed.
Wùji watched, a silent observer, as the air grew colder.
A figure in black robes dropped from the canopy, landing silently behind the rapist. The face was obscured, but the presence was overwhelming.
The figure raised a hand. Nails lengthened into jagged claws. With a lazy swipe, he slashed the rapist's throat—deep enough to drown him in blood, but shallow enough to keep him alive for the pain.
The rapist gurgled, collapsing. The woman scrambled backward, eyes wide with terror.
The rapist pointed a shaking hand at the figure. "Y-you...!"
The black-robed figure tilted his head, an innocent, bird-like movement. Suddenly, a second entity—a faceless, shadowy mass—peeled itself off the figure's back like a dark parasite.
"Isn't she one of them too?" the Shadow whispered, its voice sounding like grinding stones.
The black-robed figure hesitated. Wùji could feel the internal conflict—a natural instinct to kill warring with a remnant of morality. But the hesitation was brief. The figure nodded, possessed by the Shadow's malice.
The Shadow merged back into him.
The figure moved. He finished the man, mutilating him in a blur of violence. Then, he turned to the woman.
"STAY BACK!" she screamed.
It was useless. The figure decapitated her in one fluid motion. He scrambled up a tree with unnatural agility, long black hair trailing behind him like a veil. A swarm of snakes followed him into the darkness.
End Flashback
Wùji blinked, returning to the present. The market square came back into focus.
"The memory of the manhood offered no clues to the user," Wùji said quietly, his gaze distant. "Only the horror of the act."
Suji clicked his tongue, frustration mounting. "This is getting more complicated. It's a mess."
"It is not just a mess," Wùji murmured, looking at the fake corpse, thinking of the black-robed figure and the Shadow.
"He is not one," Wùji said, his voice carrying a rare note of genuine disturbance. "He is two. And they are broken in the most critical way."