The wind in the Valley of Fallen Names howled like the cries of ghosts. Shen Ziyan stood alone at the edge of a cracked stone bridge, which curved like a dragon's spine over a bottomless chasm. The clouds below were thick and dark, masking whatever horrors dwelled beneath. Every gust of wind that swept past him carried a whisper—names that no longer had owners, regrets that had lost their flesh.
Ziyan's robe fluttered wildly behind him, the red sword-shaped mark on his brow faintly glowing. His body still pulsed with the aftershocks of the blood cocoon's transformation—his meridians had grown more resilient, his senses sharper, and his bones... heavier. They creaked when he moved, as if stone had replaced marrow.
He looked at his hand and clenched it.
"Too slow," he muttered. "Still too slow."
The memory of the girl in lavender, Bai Yanyue, flashed through his mind. That unexpected encounter still lingered on his skin like the touch of moonlight on water. But now wasn't the time to indulge. She was mysterious, powerful... and dangerous. Just like this world.
Suddenly, a faint tremor coursed through the soles of his feet. The bridge beneath him vibrated.
He turned.
A hunched figure was making its way across the far end of the bridge. It wore a bamboo hat and a patchwork cloak. From a distance, it looked like a beggar. But as it approached, Ziyan's pupils narrowed.
With each step, the aura around the figure distorted the very air.
Ziyan instinctively stepped back. His instincts, newly sharpened by cultivation, screamed at him. This was no ordinary man.
The figure stopped five feet away. The wind halted as if the valley itself was holding its breath.
"You reek of blood and destiny," the old man said, lifting his head. Beneath the bamboo hat was a wrinkled face, yet his eyes were as deep and ancient as the abyss itself. "You carry the scent of something that shouldn't be in this realm."
Ziyan didn't speak. He placed a hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist—not that he'd drawn it yet. He didn't even know if he had a sword technique, only instincts from the merged memories of two Li Yuans.
"I don't know what you're talking about, old man."
The old man chuckled. "You carry the Swordbone."
Ziyan's heart skipped a beat.
He said nothing, but his breathing changed. It was slight—but the old man noticed.
"You haven't awakened it yet," the old man said. "Good. Let it sleep. A sleeping sword does not bleed the world. Yet once you unsheath it, even the heavens may tremble."
Ziyan frowned. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because this path... is not meant to be walked alone."
The old man extended a finger and pointed toward the other side of the bridge, where the mist grew thicker, more oppressive. "Cross this bridge, and you will enter the Inner Valley. There lies the Bone-Forging Pool. Bathe in its marrow, and your physical body will begin to match the soul that inhabits it. But—"
He paused.
"You will face yourself. And if you fail, the marrow will not strengthen you. It will consume you."
Ziyan exhaled slowly.
He had no master.
No sect guide.
No protective talisman.
Only the lingering fragments of the other Li Yuan's memories and the instinct of survival.
"Then I'll cross," he said.
The old man's eyes lit up.
"So be it."
And then he vanished.
No sound. No ripple. As if he had never existed at all.
Ziyan stepped forward onto the stone bridge. His foot landed heavy on the mossy stone, echoing into the void below. Step after step, he moved forward until the mist swallowed him whole.
The other side was... colder.
The grass was pale, and the trees, skeletal. There were no animals, no sound. Only the steady dripping of water from unseen heights. In the center of a sunken grove stood a pool, surrounded by black obelisks etched with ancient characters.
The Bone-Forging Pool.
Ziyan approached slowly. The pool looked like molten silver—thick, viscous, glowing faintly with an inner light. It radiated heat and cold at the same time. Standing before it, he felt his blood stir.
He took off his robe, revealing a lean, scarred body. The transformation in the bloody cocoon had carved patterns into his skin—thin crimson lines that glowed faintly in the moonlight.
He stepped in.
Agony.
Liquid fire surged up his legs, crawling toward his chest. His bones screamed. His muscles twitched. His vision blurred.
It was as if his very essence was being peeled away and rewritten.
Memories flooded his mind—not just his own, but of the original Li Yuan. His childhood. His fears. His desire to prove himself to his village. The shame of being weak. The loneliness.
Ziyan clenched his teeth. His fists submerged into the marrow.
Then another wave of pain.
This time it was not physical.
A voice spoke in his mind.
"You are not him. You do not belong."
"I am," he growled through gritted teeth.
"You are foreign. A soul that usurped another's place. This body was not meant for you."
"I am Li Yuan!"
The pool boiled.
Visions surfaced.
A battlefield.
Thousands of corpses.
A man wielding a crimson sword that sang with the cries of dragons.
Blood.
Fire.
A golden dragon curling through the sky, screaming in defiance.
And then—
A shadow. With many arms. Eyes like stars.
Watching.
Waiting.
Ziyan screamed.
The marrow surged into his bones, crystallizing his marrow with a cracking sound. Every joint felt like it was being reforged. The pain was unbearable. But he endured.
Time had no meaning in the Bone-Forging Pool.
Eventually, the silver liquid turned black and still. Ziyan emerged, body steaming, veins glowing faintly.
His bones had been reforged.
He stepped out, muscles sore but eyes sharp.
Then—
Rustling.
A sound behind him.
He turned, ready to strike—but froze.
It was her.
Bai Yanyue.
She leaned against one of the black obelisks, arms crossed beneath her full chest, her silver hair cascading like moonlight.
"You actually survived," she said, tilting her head. "Not bad. I expected you to dissolve into bone paste."
Ziyan snorted. "What, came to laugh at me?"
"I came to see if you were worth watching," she replied, stepping forward. "Looks like I was right."
She looked him over without shame.
"Your body's better. Not as scrawny. Still a bit rough, though."
Ziyan grabbed his robe and pulled it over himself. "Why are you here?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Same reason as you. Searching."
"For what?"
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"A name."
Before he could question further, she turned and walked toward the mist.
"Wait," Ziyan said.
She paused but didn't look back.
"What is this place, really?"
Her voice was soft, barely audible. "A graveyard for forgotten things. But sometimes... something climbs out of the grave."
Then she vanished into the mist.
Ziyan stood still for a long moment.
Above, the clouds shifted.
A golden beam of sunlight broke through for the first time since he had arrived.
But it was brief.
Because behind it... shadows loomed.
He turned toward the forest just as dozens of glowing eyes opened in the darkness.
Something was coming.
Many things.
And they were not human.