The sky kept the Consort Threads page open like it wanted the whole world to suffer.
Six slots.
Two crossed out.
One name clear.
One name hidden.
Qi Shan Wei's eyes stayed on the second crossed-out slot. His face was calm, but the air around him felt colder than before—like a blade was resting inside the wind.
The slot glitched again.
The letters tried to rise.
Me—
Then they sank like a stone thrown into deep water.
A new line of pale law text shined under it, cruel and neat:
ERROR: MEMORY SEA BLOCK.SOURCE: SILENT BELL MONASTERY.
The Silent Bell monk's voice floated down, gentle like a lullaby that wanted to kill.
"You cannot pull a drowned name back," it said. "Names that fall into the Memory Sea become empty sound."
Shan Wei did not look away.
He spoke one sentence, quiet and sure.
"Then I will enter the sea."
The Ice Phoenix spirit trembled beside him. Its voice was thin with fear.
"The Memory Sea is not water," it whispered. "It is a place where memories rot. It eats feelings first. Then it eats names."
Shan Wei lifted his hand and drew a small prismatic mark in the air—simple, clear, strong. It was not an attack. It was a promise.
He pressed it toward the Consort Threads page.
A seven-colored seal burned under the second crossed-out slot like a new root growing under a dead tree.
PRISMATIC RETURN SEAL.
For one heartbeat, the slot reacted.
The hidden name flickered into view, just long enough to hurt.
MEI YULAN.
Then the Memory Sea Block dragged it down again.
But the Return Seal stayed.
It did not blink.
It did not fade.
It sat under the slot like an Emperor's stamp.
Shan Wei's Prismatic Heart ring hit his chest like a heavy drum. A warm memory tried to rise—soft hands, spring-scented robes, a shy smile by a furnace flame.
He did not let the warmth weaken him.
He let it sharpen him.
"They crossed her out," he thought, steady and cold. "So I will carve her back in."
The monk's voice lost a little of its softness.
"You mark what is forbidden," it said. "That is rebellion."
Shan Wei's golden eyes lifted to the pale "eye" in the sky.
"Yes," he said simply.
Above the Record, pale light gathered. The air turned wet.
Not with rain.
With memory.
A new screen opened across the heavens—huge, wide, and moving like a living sea.
It looked like dark water mixed with silver mist.
Faces floated inside it.
Voices without mouths.
Scenes without bodies.
The moment it appeared, the battlefield shook.
Even cultivators far away held their heads, confused, like they had forgotten why they were here.
The monk spoke one calm line, like he was reading a law.
"Memory Sea Screen: open."
The sky-sea rippled.
And then the sea spilled down.
Not as water.
As fog.
Thick, cold fog that smelled like old paper and dying flowers.
The fog touched a masked assassin at the edge of the field.
The assassin blinked.
His mask slipped from his fingers.
He stared at it like he didn't know what it was.
He whispered, "Who… am I?"
Then he screamed and clutched his head as if his own name was being pulled out.
Yin Yuerin's eyes narrowed. Her voice was low.
"That fog is eating identity," she said. "If it reaches the crowd, people will forget everything. Even their own sons. Even their own sect."
Xuan Chi's frost moon pulsed behind her. Her scars burned.
She raised her moon line, the thin white cut of frozen law.
The fog rolled toward them like a tide.
Xuan Chi took a slow breath. Her voice trembled, but she forced it steady.
"I won't let it touch them," she whispered.
She moved her hand.
The moon line cut across the fog.
It still did not cut flesh.
It cut something else.
It cut the "memory pull" inside the fog.
A clean path opened—clear air returned for a short distance, like the fog had been sliced apart and forced to separate.
Xuan Chi's eyes widened.
"It works," she whispered, shocked. "I can cut memory fog."
Yuerin looked at her with a sharp kind of respect.
"Good," Yuerin said. "Keep cutting. That fog is worse than poison."
The fog surged again, angry now, as if it could feel resistance.
The Silent Bell monk's voice turned colder.
"Drown the slots," it ordered.
The Memory Sea Screen in the sky tilted like a giant bowl being poured.
The Consort Threads page began to sink under dark mist.
The Return Seal under Mei Yulan's slot flashed—fighting to stay visible.
Shan Wei's eyes turned sharp.
He placed his Heavenpiercer Ruler on the ground and drew a fast formation circle around himself, Zhen, Drakonix, Xuan Chi, and Yuerin. The circle was simple, but it held one meaning:
DO NOT FORGET.
Prismatic light rose like a wall. The fog hit it and hissed.
Still, the fog pushed.
Because Bell law was not "force."
It was "permission."
And the Monastery had permission from the Record.
Zhen's forbidden Sentinel frames shook harder.
His core light flickered like a lamp in strong wind.
A warning line flashed across his chest plates again:
CORE CRACK: CRITICAL.
Zhen's voice came out blunt, like a tool speaking truth.
"CORE BREAK SOON."
Yuerin's throat tightened.
She forced her voice calm.
"Not yet," she whispered. "Hold."
Zhen replied, too literal, too steady.
"HOLDING UNTIL FAILURE."
For one tiny breath, Drakonix made a small angry noise—like he hated how Zhen said that so calmly.
It was almost funny.
Almost.
Then Drakonix's wing chain tightened again and the humor died.
Invisible bell-links squeezed his half-formed prismatic wing. The links were not just binding bone.
They were binding "flight."
Binding "freedom."
Drakonix snarled and tried to pull free.
A link loosened—just a little—because of the wing key spark he had burned earlier.
He saw it.
He felt the weak spot.
Drakonix inhaled, then pushed flame through the crack like a knife.
A tiny prismatic feather shaped itself again, brighter than the last.
It drifted up and touched the chain.
One link loosened.
Drakonix's eyes flashed with wild hope.
Then the backlash hit.
The chain reacted like a living punishment.
A bell-chime snapped through the air, and invisible needles of law stabbed into Drakonix's wing bones.
Drakonix let out a sharp cry and dropped to the ground.
His body shook.
His scales flashed between colors too fast, like his prismatic blood was panicking.
Shan Wei's gaze snapped to him.
He did not shout.
He did not panic.
But his aura changed.
It turned colder and heavier.
He stepped forward and put one hand on Drakonix's head, steady and firm.
"Stay alive," he said.
Drakonix's eyes were wide with pain.
He made a small sound, like he wanted to argue, but he couldn't.
His breath came out hot and broken.
The Ice Phoenix spirit floated closer, voice shaking.
"The wing chains triggered a rebirth reflex," it whispered. "If he cannot endure, his bloodline will force a cocoon."
A cocoon.
That word hit like a hammer.
Because a cocoon meant time.
Enemies.
The Record.
The Bell.
Everything would rush to steal him.
Shan Wei's eyes lifted to the sky again.
The monk's voice sounded pleased.
"Good," it said. "Let the beast sleep. We will take him quietly."
Yuerin's fingers twitched near her daggers.
Her voice was low, full of hate.
"You talk like a polite man," she whispered, "but you sound like a grave."
Then Yuerin's eyes narrowed like she had made a decision.
She looked at the Record.
She looked at the Memory Sea Screen.
Then she spoke to Shan Wei without drama—just a hard truth.
"The Pavilion has keys," she said. "Not all of them. But some. If the Memory Sea has locks, the Thousand Masks Pavilion has the old lock language."
Shan Wei's eyes stayed on the sky.
"You will go," he said, not as a question.
Yuerin smiled once, sharp and tired.
"Yes," she said. "I will go."
For a moment, her voice softened—only a little.
"And I will face my past if I must," she added. "Because they crossed out someone you protected. That makes it my problem too."
Shan Wei gave a small nod.
No praise. No comfort words.
Just trust.
It meant more than any speech.
The fog pushed harder. The Consort Threads page was sinking fast now. The Return Seal under Mei Yulan's slot flashed like a star drowning under black waves.
Shan Wei lifted his hand again.
He pressed the stolen proof inside his Name Anchor.
Symbols appeared in the air—clean maps of Bell logic, like a hidden machine shown in light.
He found it.
A "hinge" point.
A place where the Bell system connected to the Memory Sea Screen.
A thin line of law—small, but vital.
Shan Wei's eyes narrowed.
"I cut there," he thought. "The sea flickers. The slots breathe."
He drew a new glyph.
It was small.
It looked almost harmless.
But it carried a terrifying meaning.
MEMORY SEA GATE: PULL DOWN.
He pressed the glyph upward.
The sky-sea shook.
The fog faltered for half a breath.
The Consort Threads page lifted slightly—like a drowning person catching one breath.
Mei Yulan's name flickered again.
MEI YULAN.
The Return Seal burned brighter.
Shan Wei's heart hit his chest again, heavy and real.
Then the monk's voice snapped like a bell struck too hard.
"No."
The Memory Sea Screen surged.
A dark wave slammed down.
The fog roared.
It broke against Shan Wei's formation like a flood hitting a wall.
Shan Wei's barrier held—but the cost hit instantly.
His Name Anchor formation rings dimmed.
The bell chain in his grip screamed.
The Emperor Nail Core shook under the seal, like it was laughing again.
"Good," it whispered. "Now you feel what it means to fight a system."
The Ice Phoenix spirit moved in front of Shan Wei like a pale shield.
Its voice became sharp and old.
"Enough," it said.
The fog hesitated.
For one breath, even the Memory Sea Screen looked unsure.
Because the Ice Phoenix Tomb was not a normal place.
It had its own law.
Its own pride.
And it did not like being used as someone else's weapon.
The spirit turned to Shan Wei and spoke the words it had not said before.
"If you want to enter the Memory Sea," it whispered, "you must pay the Phoenix Price."
Shan Wei's eyes did not change.
"What price?" he asked.
The spirit's voice trembled as if it hated saying it.
"A memory," it whispered. "A real one. A piece of you. That is the toll to step into a sea that eats names."
Yuerin's breath caught.
Xuan Chi stared, shaken.
Even Zhen's frames stuttered, as if a machine had felt fear.
Shan Wei stood still.
He looked at Drakonix—shaking, breaking, close to cocoon.
He looked up at Mei Yulan's drowning slot.
He looked at Ling Xueyao's crossed-out scar.
Then he made his choice without shaking.
"Take a small one," Shan Wei said. "Not my bonds."
The Ice Phoenix spirit asked softly, "Which memory?"
Shan Wei's face stayed calm.
"The taste of my first sweet fruit," he said.
It was small.
It was safe.
But it was still his.
The Ice Phoenix spirit nodded, almost sad.
A pale flame touched Shan Wei's forehead.
For one heartbeat, Shan Wei saw the memory—bright sunlight, a simple fruit, a child's hand—and then it faded into white.
The taste vanished from his tongue.
Gone forever.
The world did not shake.
But Shan Wei's heart felt the missing piece like a quiet cut.
The Ice Phoenix spirit opened its wings.
A doorway appeared in front of Shan Wei.
Not a door made of wood.
A door made of moving mist and deep water—like the sky had been torn open.
Beyond it was the Memory Sea.
Dark waves.
Silver fog.
Floating voices.
And inside that sea, a silhouette stood still, waiting like it had all the time in the world.
The silhouette turned its head.
A smile appeared—thin, calm, wrong.
It spoke in a voice that sounded like a bell rung under water.
"Prismatic One," it said softly. "You finally came."
Shan Wei's eyes narrowed.
His aura sharpened.
He stepped toward the doorway.
And the silhouette lifted one hand, as if greeting an old enemy.
"Give me one more memory," it whispered, smiling wider, "and I will give you one name."
To be Continued
© Kishtika., 2025
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