The wind in the Blood-Echo Basin had gone still, unnaturally so. Yue Lian sat beneath the skeletal tree, cradling the golden-threaded scroll in her lap. It had cooled, but the mark on her palm continued to burn, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
She had seen too much.
Not just memories. Truth.
The kind that reshaped the soul.
"Was this your burden?" she whispered to the ashes around her. "Or your penance?"
When she closed her eyes, she saw his. Amber, dimmed by sorrow, hardened by necessity. But somewhere in that endless grief, she had glimpsed something else: mercy. Even love.
The ash trembled.
She stood. The scroll dissolved into her spirit sea, searing Yan Zhuo's final thoughts into her core. New energy bloomed within her—but it felt wrong. The qi didn't flow. It twisted, reversed, pulled at her meridians like it knew she was not the intended vessel.
Then why did he choose me?
A low hum echoed in the distance—familiar. A flute.
She turned and followed it.
Feiyan paused atop a shattered ridge. Her flute quivered in her hands. The tune had not been meant for the living.
"She comes," she murmured. "Just like him."
Beside her, Lu Chengwei clenched his fists. "You think she's his heir? That's dangerous talk."
"She's something more. Or worse."
In a hidden chamber far to the east, Shen Wu meditated before a black stone tablet. It cracked.
He opened his eyes.
"She touched it."
He stood, sheathing his twin sabers. "If she carries his flame, then I must see it with my own eyes."
He vanished into mist.
Yue Lian wandered deeper into the basin, into ruins untouched by time. Her steps felt guided—not by instinct, but by sorrow. The flute melody led her to a broken temple, where faded murals still clung to the stone.
One showed a boy shielding children from a sect elder's sword.
Another—him kneeling beside Meilan's corpse, her hair stained red.
She reached out.
A memory surged: Yan Zhuo burying Meilan with his own hands, vowing never to draw his blade again.
Her heart twisted.
A voice behind her: "You've seen too much."
She whirled. Shen Wu.
His eyes, cold as steel. His aura, heavy with grief.
"You should have let him die in silence."
"I didn't choose this," she said.
"Neither did we. And yet, we suffer still."
His blade came out—not in rage, but in mourning.
He attacked.
And Yue Lian—newly reborn, still unsure—answered in kind.
Their clash sent echoes across the Basin.
And far above, the Silver Judges began to descend.