It was dark.Not the kind of dark that comes from nightfall or a shaded forest. This was a thick, pressing dark that had weight to it—like wet soil or soaked cloth smothering every surface. There was no breeze. No scent. No sound.Then, slowly, a sound broke through. A light click, then another. Wood shifting. Joints creaking.A pair of eyes opened.They did not shine. They did not burn. They simply opened—mechanical and still, like shutters letting in nothing.And Lin Cang drew his first breath.His body didn’t move right away. He remained still for a long time, staring at nothing, trying to understand what had woken him. Or what he was.His mind, clear and sharp, held no memories. No name. No age. No face. Yet words floated in his thoughts like fish in a still pond.Finally, he tried to speak.“…Hng.”His voice sounded dry, as if unused for years. It startled even him.He tried again.“…Is someone… there?”The words echoed softly, bouncing off unseen walls.A response came—not from

Lin Cang did not move.The man—or whatever it was—stood just beyond the fallen elder, the talisman-laced robes fluttering slightly, though there was no wind. His voice, quiet as it had been, echoed strangely in the wooden hall, like it carried more weight than volume. It wasn’t threatening. It was worse than that—it was calm. Certain. The kind of tone people used when reading out names from a list.The figure stepped forward, shoes silent against the floor. Lin Cang stepped back in equal measure, one pace, careful and balanced. His eyes flicked briefly to the talisman the elder had dropped. Its edges were stained red now, the center mark fading in the pooling blood.“You killed him,” Lin Cang said, not shouting, not whispering.“Yes,” the figure replied without emotion. “He saw the mark. He was not meant to.”“What are you?”The figure tilted its head slightly, not as a gesture of confusion—but more like it was surprised Lin Cang had asked so plainly.“You speak with no fear,” it said

Zhao Chen froze where he stood.His foot was still raised from his last step, but he didn’t put it down. His breath caught in his throat like something had grabbed it. Lin Cang didn’t move either, but he shifted his weight slightly, angling his body between Zhao and the figure that had emerged from the wall.The figure was tall—taller than either of them. Its body looked like a man’s in shape, but not in movement. There was something wrong with the way it stood, as if its legs were placed just slightly too far apart, or its arms hung at an angle that ignored bone. It wore long gray robes that fluttered even though there was no wind, and its sleeves trailed like ribbons behind its fingers. But the most unnatural part was its head.It had no face.No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just smooth, pale skin stretched across the front of its skull like soft wax that never finished hardening. The only mark on it was a single red line running vertically from the crown of its scalp down to the base o

Lin Cang rose to one knee, breath slow and uneven. The burning sensation in his chest had settled into a low throb, like a drumbeat echoing through hollow wood. He didn’t need to look down to know the change had completed. The new heart—the crafted one wrapped in gold thread—was now inside him. Not implanted. Not absorbed. Merged. It had rewritten his core. He could feel it. His body felt heavier, but not in a way that slowed him. It felt more real. More present.But he didn’t move yet. Not with that man watching him.The silver-haired figure stepped closer, soft footsteps echoing on the smooth stone of the ancient shaping chamber. He didn’t walk like a sect elder, or like a swordsman. There was no martial rhythm to his steps. No intent to fight. He walked like someone who already owned the room.Zhao Chen stood frozen near the wall, half-shadowed by the archway. His mouth was slightly open, his hands clenched, as if his mind had realized the danger before his body could react.The ma

Zhao didn’t speak.He didn’t even move.His back was pressed flat against the sealed vault door, one hand still holding the hilt of his blade, but he made no effort to draw it. His breath had caught somewhere between his ribs and throat, and his eyes were locked on the figure in the center of the room—the one that had, just seconds ago, called Lin Cang a brother.Now the figure stood straighter, taller, as if something beneath his skin had uncoiled. His voice, which had been calm and measured, now carried a strange echo—like two versions of him were speaking at once. One spoke with reason. The other with purpose. Lin Cang didn’t flinch, but his stance shifted slightly, just enough to let his weight settle across the balls of his feet. He didn’t want to fight—not yet. Not unless he had to.The figure took a step forward. His robes moved like liquid shadow, the silver threads dragging behind him like veins that had been torn loose from stone. His eyes never left Lin Cang.“You activated