Chapter 1
Prologue
◆ Scene 1: The Burning of the Lin Clan
Thunder cracked like a divine gavel over the high peaks of the Yunxi Mountains, where the ancient Lin Clan resided—cradled in thick mist and pine.
The full moon barely pierced the storm clouds as red flames engulfed the elegant rooftops of the Lin ancestral estate.
Screams tore through the night, swallowed by the wind, and the scent of blood tainted the sacred grounds.
In the heart of the chaos, Lin Qianyu, Matriarch of the Lin Clan, stood in full violet robes now streaked with ash and blood.
Her long black hair whipped wildly as she faced the invaders with calm fury.
Her sword, Wisteria Shadow, shimmered faintly with embedded talismans, each stroke slicing through masked attackers who moved with demonic swiftness.
A group of cultivators—cloaked and faceless—surged toward the inner altar. Qianyu stepped before them like a stone against a rising tide.
"Who dares to desecrate the house of Lin? Reveal your name, if you have spine enough to stain it in war!"
No answer. Only the rustle of black robes and the gleam of cursed weapons.
The largest among them raised a curved blade dripping with unnatural shadows.
His aura reeked of corruption—dark cultivation from the forbidden valleys.
He rushed forward. She met him head-on.
Their blades clashed with a roar that sent sparks into the altar fire.
Qianyu pivoted low, using her spiritual sigils to trap his sword midair, then sent him flying with a palm strike to the chest.
The other enemies swarmed.
She danced through them—graceful, swift, lethal.
Her blade cleaved the darkness as if answering the fury of the ancestors themselves.
Blood soaked her sleeves, but she did not yield.
◆ Scene 2: The Talisman of Protection
Inside a hidden alcove behind the altar, five-year-old Lin Ye crouched against the stone wall, wide-eyed and shivering.
The sounds of slaughter were muffled here, but the fear was deafening.
Lin Qianyu, panting from the last round of battle, burst into the chamber.
Her robes were torn, her left arm bleeding, but her eyes—her eyes still burned.
She dropped to one knee beside her son and cupped his face.
"Lin Ye. My little firefly, remember this: blood does not make a legacy—spirit does."
She drew a talisman from her inner sleeve.
Intricate runes shimmered with pale golden light.
Chanting swiftly, she pressed it to his chest.
A wind swirled unnaturally through the room, and a protective seal flared to life on his skin.
The stone altar rumbled. A hidden staircase opened beneath them.
"Go. This tunnel leads to the spirit springs. Don't come out until the birds sing at dawn."
"Mom !"
"Don't cry," she said softly, smoothing his hair.
"You are Lin. You will rise again."
She kissed his forehead, helped him into the dark, then closed the stone seal just as masked figures entered the chamber.
A deep, guttural laugh echoed.
"The Matriarch herself. What a prize."
Qianyu stood tall, wiped blood from her mouth, and raised Wisteria Shadow.
"You'll find no prize here. Only judgment."
She charged.
The battle above Lin Ye's hiding place raged with thunderous force.
Spiritual blasts shook the stone.
Then—silence.
Only distant fire.
Only the wind.
◆ Scene 3: The Ceremony of Spirit Cleansing (In the heart of the Shuilan Clan's Sacred Mountain)
That same night
Far above the mortal world, nestled among the shrouded peaks of the Eastern Mountains, the sacred grounds of the Shuilan Clan stirred.
Veils of mountain fog curled through towering pines, and waterfalls whispered down marble cliffs like flowing threads of moonlight.
In that ethereal silence, beneath a sky heavy with stars and fate, a ritual older than memory began to unfold.
High within the sacred halls of the Shuilan Clan's mountain sanctuary, a fragile silence settled like a shroud.
At its center, a boy no older than five knelt motionless, encircled by a delicate ring of chalk etched with ancient runes and scattered lotus petals—symbols of purity and awakening.
Ethereal tendrils of incense wound around him, drifting through the cold air like ghostly silk threads, their scent weaving a trance-like spell over the chamber.
Around him, the clan elders stood in solemn formation, their faces veiled by shadow and time-worn resolve.
Their murmured chants intertwined like threads of qi, flowing in unison as a radiant talisman hovered above the child's bowed head. Its golden light pulsed gently, alive with the concentrated will of the gathered masters.
At the forefront, the clan leader—Xuan Luo's uncle—watched with a heavy heart. His brow furrowed deeply, worry and hope battling in his dark eyes.
He understood the fragile balance upon which this ritual teetered.
"This is nothing more than a spiritual cleansing," whispered one elder, voice as soft as the mist outside.
"The boy's spirit is strong, yet unrefined. He must be purified before his true gift can awaken."
Xuan Luo sat unmoving, his young face serene yet unknowable, wrapped in the sacred mantras that bound the ritual.
But as the elders' chants deepened, the talisman's golden glow flickered—once, twice—then dimmed ominously.
A sudden gust swept through the chamber, cold and sharp as a blade.
"That is no ordinary mountain wind." a voice trembled.
Before any could intervene, a creeping black mist seeped into the circle, slithering like dark roots seeking to choke the boy's spirit.
Hungry shadows writhed beneath him, clawing and grasping.
"Break the formation! Pull him out—now!" an elder shouted, panic breaking the chant.
But the darkness had already claimed its hold.
Xuan Luo's eyes snapped open, blazing with an unnatural violet fire. His scream was silent, but the raw force that exploded from him shattered the talisman into shards of light.
Elders were flung backward, tossed like fragile leaves in a violent storm.
His uncle lunged forward, pressing a spiritual seal against the boy's chest.
The shadows hissed in recoil and dissolved into nothingness, leaving an eerie stillness in their wake.
But on Xuan Luo's skin, a faint, spiral-shaped mark—thorned and sinister—lingered briefly before sinking beneath the surface, a cursed mark concealed from sight.
The boy collapsed, trembling, into his uncle's arms.
"He's cursed," whispered an elder, voice trembling with disbelief.
For a fleeting moment before it sank beneath the boy's skin, the clan had seen the mark—a twisted spiral of darkness, raw and unnatural—etched like a shadowed brand upon his chest.
The sight froze them in silent horror, but none could fathom how such darkness had breached the sacred ceremony.
His uncle sat silently beside him, holding the little boy close, his grip tight but unspoken—a fragile anchor amidst the growing storm of fear.
Outside, the mountain mists thickened, curling like ghostly fingers that swallowed the world in an endless gray embrace.
Within the cloaked silence, heavy with unspoken fears, the elders exchanged wary glances, their hearts burdened by a growing dread.
What had come upon the ritual? And what fate now awaited young Xuan Luo?