Li Xian didn't look back. His back was to the Shadow Inn, which now looked like a fading ink blot in the dim night. With every step away, the burden on his shoulders felt a little lighter, but the darkness in his heart grew thicker. He knew that returning to the Shadow Inn meant returning to the hell within himself.
Luo Feng walked beside him, his steps calm, but his hawk-like eyes constantly scanned the surroundings. "Are you sure this is the right way?" he asked, his voice low, trying to break the suffocating silence.
"My instinct says so." Li Xian glanced back. Wang Meng's figure stood in the second-floor window, his silhouette stretching out like a giant shadow. The night wind carried the whisper of his voice, sharp and piercing, as if Wang Meng was stabbing a knife into his heart.
"Forget your name, remember your rage!"
The whisper echoed in Li Xian's ears, like a mantra that locked revenge within his soul. He looked down. In the puddle at his feet, two twin moons were reflected, casting a strange, blood-red light, as if the sky itself was bleeding. The light was not like the usual calming moonlight. Its strange milky white color was as if it was mimicking the light of a surgical lamp. Every puddle on the road reflected two bloody pupils watching them. A dead owl lay on the road, its body suddenly shriveling and turning into a clump of black dust that was blown away by the wind. It was a sign. A bad sign.
They entered the Forest of Whispers. Here, among the tall tree trunks, the night wind sounded like the whispers of thousands of people. Li Xian heard familiar names, names that should have been dead: "Father... Mother... A-Ling..." The whispers were like a whip, tearing at his sanity. The pulse of the twin jade pendants given by Wang Meng around their necks was no longer warm but felt like a pressing heartbeat, as if there was a third heart in their chests, beating to a frantic rhythm. The smell of sulfur, the smell of death, increasingly stung their noses as their steps brought them closer to the former Qianlong Village.
"This is like walking into a nightmare," Luo Feng muttered, gripping his sword tightly.
"This is not a dream," Li Xian replied, his voice hoarse. "This is hell."
The air around the Qianlong ruins felt heavy, suffocating, like steam from hell itself. Rain hadn't touched this place for months, yet every surface felt damp and sticky. The ruins of Li Xian's house were now covered in a layer of blood moss, dark red fungi growing on the scorched wood, emitting a nauseating fishy smell, like the stench of rotten raw meat.
"There used to be wild flowers here," Li Xian said, his voice empty. He stared at the village well, which was now emitting thick black smoke. The smoke swirled, forming the shadow of a hand reaching for the sky. The wind howled, singing a distorted funeral song, as if the souls trapped here had never found peace. Amidst the sound of the wind, Li Xian could hear the rustling of debris as if moved by something, and a faint scream coming from the bottom of the well.
Li Xian pulled out a cloth bag from his robe, containing the ashes from his parents' cremation. With a trembling hand, he sprinkled the ashes on the scorched ground, at the location of his former front door. The ashes slowly descended, mixing with the soil and dust.
"Father, Mother," he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm home."
He then took out his father's old farmer's knife, which he had found among the ruins. The knife was rusty, its blade blunt, but the handle felt familiar in his grip. The handle felt like his father's hand, rough and calloused. He planted it in the ground, the blade stuck in deep.
"I will take it back when Mo Ling dies," he promised, his voice sounding like a roar in his heart. His promise was not just spoken; it was engraved in his soul.
As he turned, a strange phenomenon occurred. The ashes he had just sprinkled did not immediately disappear in the wind. The ashes, as if pulled by an invisible force, danced in the air, defying gravity, before forming a perfect double spiral pattern on the ground. Li Xian froze. That pattern... he had seen it before.
"What is that?" Luo Feng pointed, his eyes wide.
"That's... that's the symbol of the Black Moon Clan," Li Xian answered, his throat constricted. "But why here?"
They began to examine the surroundings. Luo Feng found it first. A fake tombstone erected by the HYT members to cover their tracks. Underneath it, a basalt stone slab lay, smeared with dry blood.
"Look at this," Luo Feng said. On the surface of the stone, a double spiral was engraved, exactly the same as the one made by the ashes, but on a larger and neater scale. The engraving was not made with a chisel, but as if stamped with fire or an acidic liquid. The spirals were like two whirlpools pulling at each other. Next to it, bloodstains formed a constellation, which at a glance looked like a scorpion. The constellation Scorpio.
"And this," he added, picking up a broken pot buried in the mud. There were only a few visible scratches of writing, but it was enough to make Li Xian's heart stop.
"Baiyun - Gray Wednesday"
"Baiyun?" Li Xian repeated, his voice choked. "Isn't that your village? They were slaughtered just like Qianlong. Why is there a pot from there here?"
"Maybe for a trade," Luo Feng theorized, though he didn't sound convinced. "But why does it say 'Gray Wednesday'?"
Luo Feng didn't wait for an answer. He squatted down, closed his eyes, and activated the "Hawk Eye" technique, a legacy of the Baiyun Clan. He saw traces of energy like seeing colorful smoke left in the air. The residual energy was like a fingerprint, impossible to erase.
"The energy... is the same," he muttered, opening his eyes. "There's a ritual residue here. Baby bone powder. And... this blood pattern..." He pointed to the broken pot in his hand. There, a faint pattern of dry blood was visible.
"The same pattern as the one on the Baiyun Clan's altar," he continued, his voice trembling. "The blood pattern we found under the ruins of my ancestral temple."
Li Xian felt his blood run cold in his veins. "This is not a coincidence..."
"No, it's not a coincidence," Luo Feng replied. "The ritual is exactly the same! Just like the one performed in my village! They used our blood for the same ritual!"
As the sentence left his mouth, the two moon-shaped jade pendants they wore around their necks pulsed hard. Their light merged, forming an energy compass that spun in the air, pointing east. Towards Baiyun.
"These jades... they are the key," Li Xian said, grabbing his necklace. "They're leading us there."
The energy compass led them to a forbidden water tunnel, an underground passage that was said to connect the two villages. The air was damp and cold. Water droplets dripped from stalactites, creating a macabre rhythm. The light of the jade compass reflected off the wet stone walls, creating dancing shadows. The air smelled of moss and wet earth.
"This tunnel used to be forbidden. The elders said there were evil spirits here," Li Xian whispered, glancing into the darkness ahead.
Luo Feng didn't care. He walked in front, his sword ready. "Evil spirits are not as bad as humans."
There, they found an ancient, neglected trap. A poison waterfall flowing from a crack in the ceiling, emitting a green vapor. The water dripping from the ceiling was not ordinary water; it was steaming and made their skin feel sore. On the walls, strange mushrooms grew, emitting a faint purple glow.
"Memory-eater mushrooms," Luo Feng identified, keeping his distance. "A slight touch can make you forget your own name."
They continued to move, finding ancient murals on the tunnel walls. The murals were faded, but the pictures were still clear: two villages, Qianlong and Baiyun, were depicted as two eyes connected by a dragon's umbilical cord. A thick line of blood connected the two eyes. Li Xian felt sick. At the end of the umbilical cord, there was a double spiral engraving.
Finally, they reached the end of the tunnel, emerging into a forest that felt alien. This was Baiyun.
The contrast was striking with Qianlong. The houses here were still intact, not burned to the ground. However, there was a silence that was more deadly. The village was empty, like a ghost town. The silence was deafening, worse than any scream. The giant sakura tree in the middle of the village, which should have been in beautiful bloom, was now dead, its branches filled with shabby and dusty plastic flowers. The flowers were a final mockery of the life that had been snatched away. The village clock on the main tower had stopped at 03:15. Li Xian shivered. Time had stopped, as if time itself had died in this village. That was the exact time of the massacre in Qianlong.
"Did they escape?" Li Xian asked.
"No," Luo Feng answered. "They all died. This is a trap."
In Baiyun, they found more evidence. Under the dead sakura tree altar, they found the exact same double spiral, only 20% larger. The pattern was made of clay mixed with human ashes.
"This is the central altar of their ritual," Luo Feng explained, his voice low. "The blood of every victim was collected here."
They also found another broken pot, this time with "Qianlong - Gray Wednesday" written on it. The same baby bone powder residue, with an identical energy signature, was also found around the altar.
Under the altar, there was a hidden symbol. Luo Feng dug the ground and found a small handprint, the size of a 12-year-old's hand, engraved on a stone.
"This..." Luo Feng fell silent, his face pale. He placed his own palm over the handprint. The size matched.
"They forced me to stamp my hand on the altar..." he whispered, his voice hoarse. His eyes were red. "I remember... faintly... someone forcing me to put my hand there. I was crying... This is my hand. This mark is the mark of a witness."
Suddenly, the stone on Li Xian's chest, which he had taken from the Shadow Inn, reacted. The stone vibrated violently, projecting a blurry hologram into the air. The hologram felt painful, like a nightmare from the past. They saw a horrifying scene: the simultaneous massacre in two villages. On one side, the Qianlong ruins. On the other side, the Baiyun altar. Shanghai Hei appeared in both places at the same time, like a mirror illusion. And in both scenes, Mo Ling, in his black robe, held twin chalices, drinking the blood collected from the ritual. His eyes blazed, like a blood-thirsty fire.
"We are part of the same ritual!" Li Xian shouted, his rage erupting.
"Two sides of a sacrificed coin!" Luo Feng completed, his eyes blazing. "They didn't just kill us... they sacrificed us for something bigger."
Behind the wall of the ruined Baiyun temple, they found a secret room. Inside, there was an old wooden chest. It contained the diary of Luo Feng's grandfather, sketches of the "Dark Dragon Summoning" ritual, and a map showing the 5 next ritual locations.
"This is it..." Luo Feng took the diary, his hands trembling. He began to read, his voice shaking.
"Qianlong and Baiyun are the twin gatekeeper villages... We were raised for this ritual... We were betrayed by our own blood..."
Suddenly, the notes in his hand began to writhe, turning into small maggots that crawled on the paper before finally falling to the floor. The ink on the page writhed, becoming disgusting living creatures. Then, the shadow of Luo Feng's grandfather appeared on the wall, transparent and flickering. His eyes were hollow, his voice like the whisper of the wind in a graveyard.
"Run! You're next on the kill list!"
The shadow disappeared, leaving the two of them in a chilling silence.
They returned to the Shadow Inn. Wang Meng was already waiting in the lobby, a cup of bitter tea in his hand. He wasn't surprised to see their pale faces.
"Well?" he asked, sipping his tea. "Did you find the common thread?"
Li Xian and Luo Feng could only nod, too tired to speak.
Wang Meng put down his teacup and then showed his palm. There, on the inside, the same spiral symbol was engraved. The lines were like living scars, pulsing slowly.
"I used to be the guardian of the third village... the only one who escaped."
He glanced at them, his old eyes filled with sadness. "Don't ask which village. Just know, you are not alone."
Li Xian and Luo Feng looked at each other. In the mirror behind Wang Meng, their reflections no longer looked like themselves. Their faces merged, forming the face of Mo Ling, the butcher.
"Who are we really?" Li Xian whispered, his voice sounding foreign.
"We are part of him," Luo Feng replied. "Two sides of the same coin."
Outside the window, the two moons in the sky now had bloody pupils, the same pupils they had seen in the mirror. And those pupils, staring straight at them, were waiting for the next victims.