Xio was utterly unprepared for the current moment, when his deepest fear crystallized into reality. It began subtly, before the stage lights could fully focus.
Kirihito's hips and feet moved, not yet dancing, but merely taking his final steps onto the grand platform.
The silver and violet tearstone-like gems echoing softly on his hips pulsed with a faint, internal light, and the stage seemed to burn beneath him like wildfire.
Kirihito, the mesmerizing enigma, didn't need to consult his own mouth to say if thr hearts were singing. because
It was singing—a frantic, high-pitched chorus of fear, mixed with a myriad of thrilling, unknown, and dangerous emotions——.
The scene shifted, focusing on a solemn ritual deep within the heart of the Hàngwō sect's temple. Golden light poured through the high windows, delicately kissing the majestic, violet-hued statues of the Four God Figures. In the center stood the Earth God. To its left, the figures of the Hate and Fire God stood sentinel; to its right, the Love and Weather God.
Their expressions were universally majestic, yet subtly differentiated. The Love and Weather God possessed a slight softness in its stone gaze, a hint of benevolent sorrow. The others, however, looked heartless, their faces identical but their robes and expressions speaking volumes of their distinct, formidable powers.
These were colossal figures. The Earth God's raised hands cradled a large, floating, upside-down violet gem—within its depths, the faint, sorrowful countenance of the fallen Violet God was barely discernible.
Before them, the Hàngwō males knelt. At the very front stood the two Dàozǔs. One was Wùji, his own violet eyes—pools of fierce, sparkling resolve—reflecting the sunlight.
They held three sticks of sandalwood, which burned with a barely visible flame, filling the sacred air with its soft, cleansing scent. Following the Dàozǔs, the seniors of the sect bowed deeply, four times, their movements precise and reverent.
With a soft, unified thud, they threw the burning sandalwood to the floor. The sticks splintered instantly into two clean halves.
The first part of the ritual was respect for the Four Gods.
The final, definitive act was rage—rage against the fallen Violet God.
Then, moving with trained grace, they retreated neatly, never turning their backs on the sacred images. Today was the anniversary, the day the Violet God was cast out from the Violet Heaven and violently torn from his violet throne.
In a blink, the seniors swiftly formed a precise circle around the two Dàozǔs. Their eyes, once ordinary, now glowed with a fierce, faint violet light.
"Our heads for our Four Gods! Our blade is for the fallen Violet God!!" the chorus echoed through the high-domed chamber, resolute and chilling.
Wùji and his father, the head Dàozǔ, mirrored the chant, their voices ringing with a cold, absolute conviction that spoke of deep, unshakeable determination. The seniors simultaneously struck the lower hilt of their swords against the violet half-moon design inlaid in the stone floor.
The son and father clasped hands tightly, then swiftly sliced their own palms. Their crimson blood touched the center of the floor—the sound it made was startling, like warm steel meeting snow. Instantly, violet sparks erupted from the contact point, carrying with them a cloud of unknown, messily-formed alphabets that swirled briefly before dissipating.
Everyone then drew a perfect half-moon symbol in the air using the pale violet light that emanated from their fingertips, holding the brilliant form suspended for a measured moment. Wùji and his father's palms bled freely onto their own symbols, which burned a vibrant, terrifying crimson red against the others' violet.
"Justice over the dead bodies!" they echoed one final time.
With unified force, they flung their moon symbols high into the sky, where they coalesced into a single, immense, half-moon symbol that painted the heavens.
Right after the Hàngwō symbol took its place, the entire sky seemed to answer, swiftly becoming a canvas for hundreds of clan symbols, including the distinct, swirling design of the Yin Lan clan, alongside countless others, great and small.
Across the town roads, a cacophony of respectful cries swelled, echoing the chant back to the heavens: "Justice over the dead bodies!" The very air seemed to reverberate with the collective resolve of the world.
Far away, in the deep, unknown recesses of Fukaki's first-class soul gardens—a location that seemed to exist outside of normal space—the same chilling melody filled the air.
Kirihito stood on the rehearsal and dance stage, flanked by five human male dancers. He was here, finally, to burn the stage again. But this performance would be different, calculated to ignite more than mere awe. It would burn the heart and tease the deepest, darkest desires—softer, deeper, and devastatingly lower.
A slow, silently dark smirk curved his lips, a look that suggested both he and his dark side were sharing a singular, predatory enjoyment.
His perfect hips were adorned with silver jewelry, which echoed with every measured movement as he positioned himself center-stage. His entrance was less a walk and more a catwalk across a velvet carpet. The silver chains held stunning heart-shaped gems: blue and crimson red, with a lower arrangement of violet gems—a subtle, visual equation declaring: red and blue make violet.
He let his fingers slip over the gems, an intentional, deliberate stroke, like a predator hunting its precious treasure. He tilted his head slightly. Five layers of silver chain were attached to his neck, sliding down his chest like a stylized cage, holding more of the same colored gems. At the absolute center, a slightly larger, darker, crimson-red heart-shaped gem pulsed. His free hand slowly, hypnotically touched his own throat, then his tongue delicately licked his wine-red lips.
"Let's break the whole floor by tearstones / (Kirihito: Let's burn the whole earth) without even touching a single insect... because I / (Kirihito: Wèi) like / (Kirihito: hard) twisted games..." Kirihito said, his voice terrifyingly double—both he and his dark side delivering the line, each in their signature style. Only the gods, perhaps, could discern the dark, subtle murmur beneath the main projection.
The people watching, even the dancers around him, swallowed hard, a profound shiver running down their spines. He hadn't even started, yet the energy he radiated was overwhelming. The strange guqin and flute music, a familiar but altered melody, filled the air—it wasn't tearing their ears, but hunting them. Then, it faded like smoke, as if it had never been.
Is that melody responding to Kirihito, or to the day? Xio wondered, his throat suddenly tight.
He knew he wouldn't be fine here for much longer. His heart suddenly picked up pace, syncing with the music that was slowly beginning the ceremony. A drop of sweat disappeared into his collar. His breath faintly hitched when he realized that, just like the night before, Kirihito's blindfolded eyes were aimed directly at him, as if proving: My eyes are covered, but that doesn't mean I don't see anything.
Xio's eyes darted upward, trying to shake the compounding feelings of fear, worry, and something far more complicated. His gaze fixed on the burning symbols in the sky, settling hard on the Hàngwō sect symbol. Then, his eyes slowly lowered to the stage where Kirihito stood. He felt his vision tremble.
Kirihito's body began to move—slowly, deeply, like the soft, irresistible pull of sea tides; not yet the storm, but its undeniable beginning.
Please don't cause any new trouble again, Xio prayed silently, his hands balling into frustrated fists.
The ground beneath them faintly trembled, a subtle quake so gentle it felt as though even the earth was too shy to fully interrupt.
"Hm~hm~ beautiful heartbeats for me / (Kirihito: Wèi)," Kirihito whispered, his senses picking up every single pulse, every thump–thump, thump–thump in the vicinity, each beat pounding his own heart with delicious excitement.
He raised his hands, slowly, his fingers spreading like flower petals. His hips tilted to the side, the soft echo of his jewelries accompanying the movement. A sadistic smirk played on his lips as he licked them. Yet, there was a minute disharmony in the perfection, a hint that he was neither fully himself nor fully real. It was too subtle to be noticed by the crowd, yet undeniable up close.
The music swelled, reaching its crescendo—the exact moment the dance and song were meant to begin.
"It's the new generation~ of system tearstone~..." Kirihito sang the first line, his voice a double-dark symphony. It was a fusion of deep and soft tones, dangerously beautiful, sharp, and loud as a large viper striking.
His hips rolled fluidly from right to left as his hands lowered slowly from above his head, down past his face and chest, finally settling on his hips, his head bowing low.
The other dancers were momentarily shocked. The move was clearly out of script, and intensely arousing, yet unlike the chaotic effect he produced in Bayakuya Village, this one did not drive humans to murderous madness. Quickly, they nodded to one another and adjusted, executing their own moves perfectly to match Kirihito's magnetic energy.
The audience screamed in collective excitement. He was already burning. The very air seemed to be obeying him, crafting the perfect, dangerous environment for his performance.
"OH GOD, LOOK AT THAT MAN!!" a young woman screamed, biting her fists, barely holding back a tide of emotion.
"I'M GONNA GO MAD!!" another woman shrieked, clutching her face.
"WHO IS THAT GUY?!" a flustered man shouted.
"LOOK AT HIS ATTITUDE! ALREADY BURNING THE STAGE!" his friend yelled back, eyes wide with awe.
Xio's heart utterly skipped a beat at the phrase: system tearstone. Oh, God. Today was the day related to that very word, the day that owned it. And Kirihito sang the first line as if he owned the word, body and soul. Xio felt an overwhelming, primal urge to stop the performance, certain that trouble was only heartbeats away.
But he couldn't move. He was stuck. No muscles would obey his command, no matter how hard he struggled.
"What the— why can't I move?!" he hissed under his breath, fearful of drawing attention in the large crowd. Every nerve cursed him for bringing Kirihito here, for the trouble had begun the moment the dancer stepped onto the stage. But Kirihito wasn't using any obvious energy. Why was the air filling with this strange aura?
A dark, smoke-like essence was flying at lightning speed over the town, over the clans.
Xio's mind went blank. He couldn't detect any conventional cursed energy radiating from Kirihito, but something far more was filling the air. Was it a different type of cursed energy? Or Kirihito's own, newly manifested power? Even with his mastery, he couldn't tell.
At the very moment the Hàngwō sect finished their sacred ritual, they sensed it. They had heard the melody—that same threatening sound—and now they saw the dark, circular, floating smoke heading straight towards the Yinglòu Chéng market. The smoke separated, dividing into six distinct paths.
Wùji and his father exchanged a look. Their violet eyes were as expressive as Lingxi's famed speaking eyes; no words were needed.
His father merely gave a sharp nod. Wùji bowed lightly, a sharp and economical movement, before turning to his fellow sect members.
The elder Dàozǔ then turned, his violet sleeve flying back into place with a crisp movement of his hand. His figure slowly disappeared from sight, retreating into the clan complex with his two most trusted members flanking him.
Wùji walked towards the clan gate, looking down from the hill at the town below. His fellows stood behind him, unwavering determination etched on their faces.
His expression remained unchanged, though a tiny, imperceptible crack appeared when he saw that Suji was also heading in the exact direction he intended—the Yinglòu Chéng market.
Their eyes met across the vast distance—violet and blue already fighting a silent, wordless battle—before Suji vanished from sight with his small group of four. Suji's own clan was dealing with similar issues, making this a shared burden.
Wùji's jaw tightened. He held up a hand, stopping his fellows who were preparing to follow him. He did not meet their eyes as he finally spoke. His voice was sharp and final, leaving no room for argument.
"I will go alone. No Hàngwō male may follow me, unless I have told you otherwise." He finally looked at his members, his gaze like twin stars. "It is an order. An order from Hàngwō Qīngdào Wùji."
Unnoticed behind them, one of the massive statues—the Earth God—its stone lips twitched into a small, cold smirk.