Rain battered the gates of Chengdu, washing the blood from Yuan Zhen's hands but never from his memory. He stood alone beneath the flickering lanterns, white-silver hair clinging to his face, a stark banner of grief and defiance in the night.
Once, he had been a son of the mighty Yuan clan—a noble among nobles, cheered by crowds, respected by heroes and feared by rivals. Now, the only voices that greeted him were whispers: "White Demon" they called him, as if pain alone could make a monster.
In his left hand, he held a jade pendant, the last remnant of his mother's warmth. In his right, a bloodstained bundle—her head, sent by those who called themselves family.
He remembered the arena's roar, the clash of steel, the fleeting admiration in Yue Lian's eyes. He remembered the moment everything shattered: the false accusations, the cold verdict, the faces turned away in fear or envy. He remembered exile.
The city before him was chaos—bandits lurking in shadows, refugees huddled in alleys, warlords carving the land like butchers. The so-called "orthodox" sects had turned their backs, branding him a villain to protect their own.
But Yuan Zhen did not kneel.
He raised his head to the storm, eyes burning with a promise.
This is not my end. This is where I begin again.
Among the ruins, he would gather the lost. Among the betrayed, he would forge a new brotherhood. And when the moon rose over Chengdu, the world would remember the name they tried to erase.