The surface had changed.
The air was thinner, laced with unfamiliar particles of spiritual decay. The skies were no longer blue but veined with crimson clouds that pulsed like wounds. Mountains stood taller. Rivers ran slower. The world was older.
And sicker.
Jin stepped through the rift at the summit of the Mountain of Hollow Suns, emerging into a realm that no longer remembered its own soul.
But it remembered him.
Sort of.
A chill ran through the waiting valley below as he descended. Birds went silent. Shadows curled away. Animals bolted. The land knew.
It had buried him once.
And now he walked its bones.
They arrived at a border village nestled in a half-dead grove called Yuma's End. Once a trade post, now it was a sanctuary for runaways and survivors. The people there were wary, thin, half-starved. Cultivation auras hung in the air like ash—too many conflicting schools, none truly rooted.
The moment Jin stepped into the village, children cried.
And the elders bowed.
Not in reverence.
In terror.
"Forgive us, Grave King," a wrinkled woman whispered, falling to her knees. "We offer no tribute, only our lives."
Jin frowned. "I'm not here to collect anything."
But they didn't believe him.
No one did.
Because the stories had already spread.
In the central tavern—half-collapsed, barely lit—Jin, Qilin, and the Empress gathered information.
And what they learned twisted reality.
Somewhere in the fractured dominion of the Empire's eastern provinces, a new faction had risen.
They called themselves The Sect of Returning Shadows.
And they were led by a masked cultivator who claimed to be Jin himself.
Not a follower.
Not a fanatic.
Jin.
Alive.
Awakened.
Powerful.
He traveled from village to village executing corrupted officials, razing temples, enslaving spirit beasts. The world had crowned him a judge, jury, and executioner.
And the world feared him.
The real Jin sat in silence.
Processing.
Calculating.
Qilin broke the silence. "It's a lie. A puppet created to exploit your name."
The Empress leaned forward. "Or worse—he's someone who truly believes he is you."
Jin's fingers drummed on the table. "Where was he last seen?"
"South," the tavern owner said from behind the bar, not meeting their eyes. "City of Boneglass. Two weeks ago. He strung up the local Sect Leader and burned the Hall of Purification. Said it was 'in the name of the true order.'"
"Did he give a speech?" Jin asked.
The bartender hesitated.
Then nodded. "Yeah. Said the same thing he always does. Word for word."
He recited:
"The grave bore truth. I walked it. I bled it. I returned not to be worshipped, but to finish what the cowards started. I am the consequence you buried."
Jin's hand tightened into a fist.
Because those words were his.
He had written them.
In his final journal.
Before burial.
They departed that same night.
Southward.
The terrain was shattered. Villages half-swallowed by roots of colossal spirit trees. Fields where spirit beasts now ruled as apex predators. Pockets of anti-cultivation mist that made even breathing dangerous.
They traveled under cloaks, avoiding notice.
But rumors moved faster than feet.
Each village spoke of the "Returned Jin" in reverent whispers, but their eyes showed terror.
They spoke of fire raining on corrupt sect halls. Of wandering tombs where traitors awoke in chains. Of impossible duels where the masked Jin fought with two blades—one crimson, one white—and never lost.
And then…
They found the first survivors.
It was outside a ruined fortress called Dawnspire.
Smoke still curled from its upper towers. The walls were marked with sigils of blood and shattered jade. Spirit beast corpses littered the ramparts. Cultivators hung from poles, their cores extracted with surgical precision.
But in the center of the courtyard stood a boy.
Barely twelve.
Caked in ash, but alive.
He stared at Jin without fear.
"You're him," the boy said.
"No," Jin replied. "I'm not the one you've seen."
The boy shook his head. "You are. But you're not wearing the mask today."
"What did he do here?"
The boy's voice lowered.
"He said we were dirty. That Dawnspire taught false ways. So he broke the teaching stones. He killed everyone over level three. He left the rest of us here. Said we had to earn survival."
Qilin stepped closer. "He left you with no food. No protection."
"He said suffering breeds truth," the boy whispered.
Jin turned away, jaw tight.
Because the boy had repeated another of his own forgotten sayings.
Twisted.
Warped.
Weaponized.
They arrived at the outskirts of Boneglass five days later.
The city shimmered behind wards made of obsidian mirrors and lunar steel. Once the site of one of Jin's favorite debates, it now resembled a battlefield preparing for a final siege.
The streets were quiet.
Too quiet.
Not even spirit rats skittered.
Then came the scent.
Ash. Blood. Incense.
And power.
Not raw.
Not vast.
But familiar.
Because it was his.
They found him in the Temple of Sky and Soil.
A domed ruin repurposed as a court of judgment. Bodies of failed cultivators lined the steps. Their cores turned into lanterns. Their swords melted into the foundation.
And at the altar?
He stood.
Clad in dark robes stitched with bone-thread.
Wearing a silver mask.
Identical to Jin's face.
Eyes glowing with spirit fire.
He looked up as the real Jin approached.
And smiled.
As if he'd been waiting.
"You're late," he said.
The Cult of the Waiting Dead had followed Jin in silence, hidden in the mists.
Now, at his signal, they revealed themselves.
The impostor didn't flinch.
He simply opened his arms.
"My brothers. My echoes. I see your memories, and I honor your wait."
Wu—the ancient disciple—stepped forward, blade drawn.
"You are not him."
"But I am," the impostor whispered. "In all the ways that matter. In truth. In purpose. In pain."
Jin stood at the front of the group.
Calm.
Controlled.
Until he spoke.
And the temple shook.
"Then prove it."
The duel was arranged.
No crowd.
No stage.
No illusions.
Only the cracked courtyard under a dying moon.
They faced each other, two silhouettes born of the same past.
One forged in reality.
The other in myth.
The impostor drew twin blades—one red, one white.
Jin drew only the Soulbrand Fang.
Then… they moved.
The clash was savage.
Rhythms from Jin's original forms echoed in the impostor's movements.
Parries. Feints. Deathlines.
It was like fighting himself.
But hollow.
Because the impostor knew the forms.
He didn't feel them.
He replicated.
Jin remembered.
And when he struck—
It wasn't with force.
It was with judgment.
He shattered the white blade.
Then the red.
Then knocked the mask loose.
It fell.
And the world held its breath.
Because the face beneath the mask—
Was a perfect replica of Jin.
Down to the scar under the left eye.
Down to the mark burned into his soul.
Qilin gasped.
The Empress took a step back.
Wu's voice broke.
"How—?"
Jin stared.
Not at a stranger.
But at a clone.
Made from his blood.
His marrow.
His grave.
The impostor smiled through a cracked lip.
"I am you."
"No," Jin said.
"You were abandoned. Betrayed. Buried."
"And I rose."
"You rose, yes. But I was chosen."
"By who?"
The impostor's smile widened.
And behind him, shadows moved.
Figures stepped from the darkness.
Clad in divine gold.
Eyes like suns.
And on their foreheads—
Marks of the Celestial Tribunal.
Gods.
Ten of them.
Alive.
Present.
Watching.
And smiling.
Jin turned slowly.
The Soulbrand Fang pulsed once.
Then again.
Like a heartbeat quickening before war.
Because the final game had begun.