Silence rippled like thunder through the Grand Pavilion.
Jin's final words hung in the air like a curse etched into stone: "The Deep Gates are opening. And when they do—you'll wish I had stayed dead."
Not a soul spoke. Not a whisper dared rise.
And then—
"You speak in riddles and prophecy," came a voice sharp as broken jade.
A figure stepped forward from among the crowd. Clad in violet robes woven with arcane sigils, the man's presence parted the crowd like a blade through silk. His hair was bound in golden rings, and a serpent-shaped scepter pulsed in his grasp.
"The Sect of Silent Heaven recognizes no revenants, no exiles, and no forgotten sons of fallen thrones," he sneered. "You are a lie wrapped in drama."
Jin's gaze didn't falter. "Name?"
"Grand Elder Fushen, bearer of the Celestial Lexicon."
Jin looked at his sister. "He always talk this much?"
The Empress didn't answer.
Grand Elder Fushen's face flushed. "You think this is a jest? You desecrate the sacred rite of the Conclave!"
Jin stepped down from the dais.
The wind stilled.
The entire pavilion leaned forward.
He moved with measured steps, each footfall echoing like a war drum. By the time he stood before Fushen, there was only breath between them.
Then he reached into his sleeve—
And pulled out a bone. Yellowed, cracked, still bleeding dark mist.
"I found this six days ago, buried in the roots of a dead sky-tree," Jin said quietly. "It belonged to a cultivator of your sect."
Fushen paled.
Jin dropped the bone to the ground.
"Ask me what was chewing on it."
Fushen didn't speak.
"Ask me."
"…what was chewing on it?"
Jin leaned forward.
"A Dreadborn. Freshly emerged. Its core hadn't even hardened yet. And it was hungry."
Gasps rippled through the pavilion.
"You're lying," Fushen spat. "The Dreadborn were sealed with the last collapse—"
"Were they?" Jin cut him off. "Then explain the dreams. The cracks in your sect's vaults. The blood moon two weeks ago that whispered in the voices of the dead. Or do you think this is all coincidence?"
Fushen's mouth opened.
Then closed.
The Empress stepped beside her brother. "He speaks the truth."
Whispers erupted.
One by one, sect leaders stood. Not to argue. Not to debate.
But to agree.
The Twin Flame Monastery confirmed it had lost four outer elders to sudden madness. The Verdant Lotus Sect reported black veins spreading through their sacred pond. Even the aloof Nightveil Academy acknowledged "disturbances" within their mirror archives.
Something was moving beneath the surface of the world.
And Jin was the only one who seemed prepared for it.
Later that evening, as the delegates dispersed into tense camps filled with speculation and fear, Jin sat in the obsidian war chamber of the Ashen Spire. The map table glowed with leyline threads—once steady, now flickering.
Qilin stood behind him, arms crossed.
"They'll listen now," she said.
Jin didn't answer.
"You planned that," she continued. "You knew they'd reject you unless you scared them."
Still nothing.
Qilin narrowed her eyes. "You're not sleeping again."
"I don't need to."
"Because of the Hollow Root?" she asked.
He nodded.
A beat of silence passed.
"I saw something in the flames earlier," she said softly. "When the Empress summoned the fire for truth."
Jin looked up.
Qilin hesitated. "Your shadow… didn't look like you. It was taller. Horned. Its face was wrong."
Jin's hand clenched over the table's edge.
"I know," he said.
"What does it mean?"
He stood.
And in his voice was something colder than death.
"It means I'm running out of time."
Deep beneath the Ashen Spire, where light never touched and even fire refused to linger, the Empress stood before a sealed vault.
Its gates were carved from a single piece of void crystal, etched with runes older than history.
Beside her, a ghost flickered into view.
Draped in funeral silk, faceless and flickering, the spirit bowed.
"My lady," it whispered. "The lock is weakening."
"How many days?"
"Not days," the ghost replied. "Hours."
The Empress closed her eyes.
Then spoke a single word.
"Prepare."
Across the continent, things were waking.
In the Blackstone Labyrinth, the rats had fled. In the Azure Depths, even the sea kings hid beneath ancient coral. In the sky-temples of the Golden Stride Clan, oracles screamed in their sleep and tore out their eyes to escape the visions.
Everywhere, the signs were clear.
The world was breaking.
And at the center of it all… was the man who had clawed his way from the grave.
Back in the Ashen Spire, Jin stood alone on the Tower of Flame, staring up at the moon.
He did not sleep.
He could not.
Every time his eyes closed, he saw them—faces twisted by darkness, voices begging for release, chains made of screaming souls.
They waited for him.
And they were growing impatient.
Behind him, a voice spoke.
"You shouldn't be alone up here."
He turned.
The Empress approached, her armor replaced with simple robes.
"Neither should you," he replied.
She sat beside him.
For a long time, they said nothing.
Then she spoke.
"Do you hate me?"
He didn't look at her.
"No."
"You should."
"Maybe."
She stared at the stars.
"I used to wonder what it would be like. If you ever came back. If you'd be the same."
He looked at her now.
"And?"
"You're not."
He nodded.
"I'm not."
She hesitated.
"What did they do to you, Jin?"
He turned away.
"What they had to."
She didn't press.
Instead, she asked, "What happens next?"
He rose, his gaze hard.
"We go to the Forgotten Vale."
The Empress stiffened. "That place is cursed."
"That's why we'll find answers there."
Qilin appeared at the stairway behind them.
"The horses are ready," she said. "We leave before dawn."
Jin nodded.
The Empress looked at him.
"There's no turning back from the Vale."
He smiled without warmth.
"I turned back once. The world buried me for it."
He descended the tower.
And this time, the moonlight followed.