The air changed an hour before they saw the walls.
The cloying, metallic tang of the Blight, which had been a constant companion for days, simply… vanished. The dead trees gave way to a managed, if sparse, woodland. It wasn't the vibrant life of a healthy forest, but it was not actively dying. It was… preserved. The silence, however, remained, growing heavier and more unnerving with each step.
Wù Fēng raised a hand, bringing them to a halt atop a wooded ridge overlooking the Yǒngshèng Basin. Below, the capital city of Yǒngshèng Jīng sprawled, its high white walls and gleaming pagoda roofs a testament to its glory. But the scene was wrong.
"There's no Blight," Yisha whispered, her voice hushed with disbelief. "How is there no Blight?"
The land around the city wasn't just spared; it was meticulously maintained, a stark, green island in a sea of decay. But the city itself was a painting of prosperity laid over a canvas of oppression.
The famed canals that should have been bustling with trade barges were still. The grand processional roads were empty save for patrols of armored guards. And the people they could see moving in the outer districts did so with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, their movements slow and deliberate, like cogs in a vast, tired machine.
"They're not rotting the land," Wù Fēng murmured, his eyes narrowed to slits of golden light as he analyzed the spiritual flow. "They're farming it. And the people with it."
He pointed a slender finger towards the city's heart, where the royal palace complex sat. A faint, almost invisible shimmer of energy hung over it—not simply the violent malevolence of the Blight, but something colder, more calculated. A web of control.
"The Blight is a tool of consumption, of reckless, hungry destruction," he explained, his voice low. "What is happening here is different. This is extraction. Refinement. They are not draining the land's life force; they are harvesting its spiritual potential, and the people's along with it, channeling it all towards a single, focused point."
He turned to Yisha, his expression grim.
"The people are not being killed. They are being used. Their hope and labor are being collected."
He paused, feeling the air itself.
"Their very life force is being systematically harvested. And the resulting resentment is incredibly strong."
He looked back at the pristine city.
"The Blight is malevolent energy. It is born from resentment and something else. It eats away at all life."
His gaze returned to hers, intense.
"But here, the resentment is being harvested too. It is not allowed to run wild. It is being refined."
This was far more sinister than mindless decay. It was a calculated farm of suffering. And they were the livestock.
The pieces clicked into place with a sickening finality. The absence of the Blight wasn't a reprieve; it was a symptom of a far more insidious plan. The enemy wasn't just here to destroy; they were here to build something, and the entire population of Yǒngshèng Jīng was the fuel.
"So, the royal family…" Yisha began, her stomach churning.
"Are either willing partners or puppets with strings of dark divinity," Wù Fēng finished. "Their opulence is a lie, paid for with the souls of their subjects. They are not ruling a city; they are presiding over a refinery."
He looked back towards the pristine city, his gaze piercing through the walls. "And whatever they are refining… we must find it, and stop it, before the process is complete."
"First we have to figure out how to save A'Wei," Yisha added.
"The solution is down there," he reminded her.
"And Linglong. She's down there, too. I know it."
"It's very probable they brought her here."
"Well, let's go," Yisha commanded.
"We cannot afford to be reckless," Wù Fēng warned.
"You're a High God. Can't you just—"
"I'm not invincible," he laughed nervously. "But thank you." His expression then turned thoughtful. "We do not need to enter. Not yet. We only need to see." He turned to face her fully. "I can show you. It is called Divine Sight."
Yisha nodded, her curiosity piqued.
"Close your eyes, Shāshā," he instructed softly, the intimate nickname slipping out unbidden. His voice was a low murmur beside her ear, barely a breath.
This time, she didn't correct him. She simply obeyed, her eyelids fluttering shut.
He gently placed his fingertips on her temples. His touch was cool, yet it sent a warm current of recognition straight through her.
His touch was cool yet sent a warm current through her.
"Do not use your eyes. Feel the energy I channel. Follow its path."
A trickle of his divine power flowed into her. It was that same, perfectly familiar energy. She felt it instantly. The resonant hum of their power was a chord waiting to be struck.
"Don't push your sight out. Let it unfold."
His spiritual energy gently guided hers.
"Now," he whispered, his voice close to her ear. "See what I see," he whispered.
Her consciousness suddenly unfurled. Together, their sight pierced the city walls.
They saw the streets thrumming with suppressed energy. They saw faint, grey tendrils of life force being drawn from the people. The tendrils all flowed toward the palace. A dark, pulsing nexus of power glowed there.
She searched frantically for a familiar spark. As their shared sight traced the river of stolen life, it passed a fortified building that felt like a prison. Inside, she could feel the bound, muted energy of several captives. And there—one spark, small but fiercely bright, flickered with familiar, stubborn defiance.
"Línglóng…" Yisha breathed, a wave of relief so potent it threatened to break her concentration. She's alive. She's safe, for now.
She continued to follow the strings of malevolent energy.
It was a heart of polished obsidian that drank the light and life of the entire city. Then, a figure within the palace throne room turned. Though they could only see the energy of heat, they could see it was a woman clad in a heavy, hooded robe.
She looked up, as if sensing a disturbance. Her gaze seemed to sweep directly toward them. Wù Fēng severed the connection instantly and their shared sight snapped back to the ridge.
Yisha gasped, stumbling back a step.
He caught her arm to steady her. Their faces were suddenly very close.
His brown eyes, now golden from the residual divine energy, were wide with alarm and hers were wide with shared shock. The air between them crackled with spent power. And the memory of a shared vision.
Wu Feng nervously let go of Yisha's arm and quickly turned around, stumbling. "Nèige…" he stammered, flustered. "We should head back to let Qianyi know the situation here and check on Li Wei.
--
Meanwhile, at the old cottage, the moon hung high, its silver light shimmering through the faint golden aura of the barrier. Inside, Qianyi, unable to sleep, moved through the small rooms like a restless spirit.
She dusted surfaces already clean, rearranged salvaged pottery, and experimented with weaving threads of her divine energy into intricate, glowing patterns in the air—anything to keep the terror for Li Wei, Yisha, and Línglóng at bay.
Between tasks, she would kneel beside the bed, her fingers finding the steady, if too-slow, pulse at Li Wei's wrist, the rhythmic beat a temporary anchor in a sea of fear.
In the corner, Xuán Chè lay deep in the grip of the Dream Corpse Powder, his slumber so profound it seemed to have pulled him into another world. His deep, even breaths harmonized with the gentle snores of the two dogs beside him, creating a strange, peaceful symphony in the tense cottage.
In his slumber, Xuán Chè walked a path of memory made manifest.
The road was unfamiliar, lined with towering trees whose blossoms were a cascade of fragrant, crimson leaves. The air itself was thick with spiritual energy, so potent it was a warmth in the lungs, a vitality he had never felt, even at the height of summer.
At the path's end stood a massive gate of white stone, flanked by two guards in silver and white armor, their spears gleaming. Beyond it, steep stone steps ascended a mist-shrouded hill to a majestic temple.
Sunlight, clearer and kinder than any he knew, dappled through the red leaves onto a carpet of lush green grass and fantastical, colorful flowers. To his left, two black foxes tumbled and played in the leaf litter, their joy pure and unburdened. Leaning against a tree, a young woman with dark brown skin and six long, beaded braids gathered in a high ponytail watched them, a smile on her face as she drank from a wine gourd. A man rested his head in her lap, his body turned toward her, his shoulders shaking with shared laughter.
Behind this idyllic scene lay a beautiful, mirror-still lake, the sun painting a path of shimmering light across its surface. A long, elegant stone bridge arched over the water, leading to an opposite shore of dense, emerald bamboo. The Yoji Kingdom.
And the road he stood on… his very soul recognized it. This was the heart of the fallen Yan Empire. The lake was its border. This wasn't just a memory of a place; it was a memory of a state of being—a paradise where spiritual energy didn't just protect the land, but fed it, nurtured it, in a perfect, symbiotic cycle.
As he walked on, awestruck, a family of frost foxes—their fur like freshly fallen snow—darted past his legs. And he knew, with a certainty that went beyond sight, that they were not mere animals. They were demons, spirits who had yet to cultivate their human forms, living openly and without fear.
He turned, drawn back to the laughing couple under the tree, to the joyful black foxes. His eyes settled on the young woman—her fierce beauty, her unguarded joy, the powerful, matriarchal aura that even this memory could not dim.
That woman… The realization was a tremor through his dream-self. That's Xuán Líng.
His eyes continued to wander as he walked the road toward the guarded steps. As he neared the gate, a shard of dark malevolent energy zipped past him. It ignored the guards, streaking through the gate and up the stairs.
He tried to run, to give warning, but his dream-legs were anchors. In the disorienting blink of a dream, he was suddenly standing atop the hill, looking through the temple's opened doors.
There, he saw a man laying on the polished stone floor, wounded and curled into a fetal position. The same black, spiderwebbing veins Xuán Chè had seen on Li Wei's neck now crawled across the man's face as he choked soundlessly.
Towering over him were two figures, a man and a woman. Though he could not see their faces, he could feel them radiating heavy malevolent energy. The woman's power was different, though—deeper, colder, and underpinned by a terrifyingly familiar divine core.
The sky outside the temple darkened, the golden sun warping into a massive, blood-red orb. The divine woman and her companion strode out of the main hall and into an adjacent courtyard garden. It was filled with exotic, spiritually vibrant plants and flowers Xuán Chè had never seen, their leaves shimmering with latent power.
The woman raised an open hand over the garden. Then, she clenched her fist.
In a millisecond, a wave of absolute decay radiated from her. Lush greens turned to grey ash, vibrant petals withered to dust. The very spiritual energy of the plants was snuffed out. All but one.
A single flower, nestled at the base of a jade rock, resisted. It was a small, unassuming bloom with petals the color of a pale, pre-dawn sky. It glowed with a soft, steadfast light, protected by a faint but resilient barrier that repelled the malevolent energy.
As the decay receded, leaving a circle of life around this one flower, Xuán Chè's dream-self instinctively understood its nature. It was a Dawn-Sigh Blossom, a flower that drew its power not from the sun, but from the moment of transition between night and day—the very concept of hope persevering against despair.
He saw its roots, glowing with a pure, silvery energy, drawing strength from something deep beneath the jade rock.
The man and woman strode from the ravaged garden. The woman spoke, her words a distorted murmur, as if heard from underwater. With a final, dismissive flick of her hand, as if adjusting her long sleeve, her form dissolved into a golden mist tainted by a faint, sickening black hue, and she was gone.
The remaining man paced back and forth, his boots echoing on the stone, passing so close to Xuán Chè that he could feel the displacement of air. Using the phantom's preoccupation, Xuán Chè forced his dream-self to move.
He drank in the details of the temple's architecture, the carvings of foxes and celestial bodies. He crept toward the poisoned man on the floor, his heart aching with a helpless, centuries-old grief.
Then…
A cold, vice-like grip clamped onto his shoulder from behind.
Xuán Chè jumped, a jolt of pure terror shooting through him. He spun around. Even at this intimate distance, the man's face was an abyss of shadow within his hood.
"How did you get here?" the man demanded, his voice a gravelly rasp. "HOW DID YOU GET HERE?!"
"I DON'T KNOW!" Xuán Chè yelled back, the dream giving his fear a voice.
The faceless man began to circle him slowly, a predator inspecting an impossible prey. He leaned in, sniffing the air around Xuán Chè. "You shouldn't be here." A thin, tanned finger emerged from a dark sleeve, pointing accusingly. "You shouldn't be alive." A low, humorless laugh escaped the void of his face. "You shouldn't be alive."
"Who are you?" Xuán Chè asked, his own voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance. "Why shouldn't I be alive?"
Instead of answering, the man snatched Xuán Chè's hand. His grip was like iron. He pressed something small, cold, and hard into Xuán Chè's palm, then forcibly closed his fingers around it. "Don't let her find this. Don't let her find you."
Xuán Chè yanked his hand back and opened it. His palm was empty. "Who?!" he demanded, desperation clawing at him.
The man responded with a sudden, violent shove to his chest. The impact sent a wave of pure, unrefined potential—an energy that was neither malevolent nor divine, but something raw and foundational—surging into Xuán Chè's core. The force hurled him backward, through the temple doors, off the sacred hill, and out of the memory itself.
Xuán Chè's eyes jolted open. He lay on a thin pallet, staring at the cracked, wooden ceiling of an old cottage, his heart hammering against his ribs as if trying to escape. The echo of that push still tingled in his spirit.