The room was still.
Aelric sat cross-legged on the bed, his posture upright, eyes closed in quiet focus. The faint silver light from the moon poured through the narrow window, bathing the room in an otherworldly glow. The air inside was heavy — unmoving, almost reverent — as if the night itself waited for his breath.
Within that silence, his consciousness descended inward, slipping past flesh and blood, deeper into the crimson sea of his being.
There, suspended in the void of his inner world, he saw it — his innate core, the very heart of his existence.
Once, it had burned bright and sovereign, a vortex of blood and shadow intertwined — the mark of his lineage, the source of his dominion.
Now, it was cracked and dim. Veins of dark red fissures spread across its surface, pulsing weakly, struggling to hold form. His blood essence flowed irregularly, flickering like a dying flame. Even his shadow essence — usually fluid and endless — felt sluggish, weighed down by invisible chains.
His brows drew slightly together. "Tch…"
He could feel how little power he could now command — a mere fragment of what once obeyed his will. Even if his outer body had healed, the truth lay within; his core was in ruins.
He could not even summon twenty percent of his former might.
Aelric's eyes slowly opened. They gleamed faintly crimson in the moonlight, calm yet sharp as blades. "So… it wasn't just spatial backlash," he murmured under his breath. "That crossing took more than I thought."
He leaned back slightly, his hand brushing over his chest where the faint pulse of his damaged essence resided.
"Natural recovery will take… too long." His gaze darkened. "What I need is blood — powerful, vibrant blood. The lifeforce of this world's apex beings. Spirit beasts, perhaps… or cultivators."
He didn't relish the thought. It was simply logic.
His kind had always drawn strength from blood — a rule older than stars. To deny that nature was to court death.
He withdrew his focus from within, exhaling softly. The cold air brushed against his pale skin as his eyes drifted toward the small table where the black cube rested. It sat motionless, faint white lines running through its cracks, pulsating weakly like the heartbeat of a dying star.
Its light was even dimmer than before. Aelric narrowed his gaze but said nothing yet.
He turned his thoughts to something else — the fragments of memory he had torn from that young hunter, Lian Zhuo.
The boy's life was small, confined to the humble village of Yunlai, never having stepped beyond its borders. His knowledge of this world was limited — little more than superstition and rumor about cultivators and sects.
Aelric sighed faintly, his voice barely a whisper.
"All that effort… and I still know almost nothing."
He needed more — not from mortals, but from cultivators themselves.
To understand this world's structure of power, its energy, its balance, he would have to step into their domain. He knew the risk. Reading a cultivator's mind could expose his presence; such beings might have spiritual defenses or senses strong enough to detect tampering.
Still… ignorance was more dangerous than discovery.
His eyes drifted toward the window. Outside, the moon hung like a pale jewel in the ink-black sky. Its light spilled gently across the village, illuminating tiled rooftops and distant flickers of lanterns below. The night wind carried faint laughter, the ring of mugs, the chatter of a world alive beneath starlight.
Aelric stood, his robe falling silently around him, and walked toward the door.
⸻
The ground floor of the Cloud Rest Inn was alive with sound.
The once quiet place had transformed into a whirl of noise and warmth. The smell of roasted meat, spiced wine, and burning oil filled the air. Laughter rang across the room as merchants, travelers, and a few cultivators gathered around wooden tables under dim lanterns that swung lazily from the ceiling beams.
Aelric descended the staircase, his pale form almost ghostly amid the lively crowd. Heads turned briefly — some out of curiosity, others out of unease. Something about him stood apart, as if the shadows themselves bent slightly toward him.
He found an empty table near the far wall and sat down without a word.
A serving boy approached, hesitating for a heartbeat under that unyielding crimson gaze. "W-what would you like, sir?"
"Food," Aelric said simply, his tone calm but final. He placed a few remaining coins on the table — his last from the young hunter's pouch. The boy quickly nodded and retreated.
Aelric's eyes roamed the room as he waited. The place was crowded — drunk men leaning on each other, merchants arguing about trade routes, a pair of gamblers throwing dice in the corner. The chaotic rhythm of mortal life felt almost distant to him, like watching a play through glass.
But amid the noise, a certain conversation drew his attention.
Two men sat three tables away. Their robes were plain but bore faint embroidery near the collar — the subtle insignia of minor cultivators. Their posture, their tone, even their controlled drinking marked them as men used to wielding power.
The first man, broad-shouldered with a scar across his cheek, leaned in close. "You heard the news, right? The duel between Azure Heaven Sect and Flowing Cloud Sect? They say it'll decide the ownership of that small spirit realm opening in four days."
The second man — thinner, sharp-eyed — let out a low whistle. "Of course I heard! Everyone's talking about it. It's not every day two ruling sects of our region clash in open duel. I'm planning to watch it myself."
The first man grinned, taking a swig of ale. "It's exciting, eh? That small spirit realm's got treasures — herbs, crystals, even beast cores. Whoever wins gets rights to harvest it for a decade."
"Yeah, but I'd bet on Flowing Cloud Sect," the second replied quickly. "Azure Heaven Sect's in trouble lately. Their prodigy, Young Master Jian Longwei, hasn't shown himself in over a month."
The first man frowned. "You mean the Azure Dragon Sword? The one they called a once-in-a-century talent?"
"That's him." The second leaned closer, voice dropping. "They say he's gravely ill — some say poisoned. Blood poison, maybe. If that's true, their strength's been cut in half. His brother, Jian Minghao, has taken over most duties, but he's more of a scholar than a fighter."
The first nodded grimly. "Shame. Everyone thought Azure Heaven Sect would rise under Longwei's sword. Now… who knows?"
The second shrugged, lowering his voice further. "Rumor has it Flowing Cloud Sect used underhanded means. Maybe not directly — but something in their last friendly sparring exchange must've gone wrong."
"Friendly sparring?" The first snorted. "There's no such thing between rivals."
They both laughed, though the sound carried an edge of unease — a recognition that in this world, the strong decided truth.
Aelric listened silently, his food long since set before him — untouched. His crimson eyes gleamed faintly as he weighed the information.
A duel between sects… a poisoned genius… and the appearance of something called a spirit realm.
It all spoke of opportunity — and potential access to cultivators strong enough for him to study… or feed upon.
The low hum of their voices faded into the background as his mind drifted. He would need to approach carefully — perhaps as a wandering physician or a scholar, gaining entry into one of these sects. For now, he would observe.
His gaze lingered on the flame of the lantern above his table. The shadows it cast flickered across his face, painting sharp lines against his pale skin. To anyone watching, he seemed just another traveler lost in thought. But beneath that stillness, countless calculations turned in his mind.
The two cultivators' conversation carried on — trivialities, gossip, names of disciples and rumored alliances — none of which mattered to him.
He finished his meal quietly, placed the remaining crumbs aside, and stood.
⸻
The noise of the tavern dimmed behind him as he ascended the stairs. His footsteps were soundless on the wooden steps. The hallway above was still; the faint creak of old boards echoed beneath his boots.
He entered his room, closed the door, and for a moment, simply stood in the dim light. The world outside was bright with laughter, but here, everything felt suspended — quiet, deliberate.
His gaze turned toward the desk.
The black cube sat where he had left it — unmoving, yet somehow alive. The faint cracks glimmered with pale white light, pulsing slowly, rhythmically, as though matching his own heartbeat.
Aelric walked to it, his presence filling the room like a shadow stretching across the walls. The air seemed to darken slightly around him.
He studied the cube in silence for several long seconds. The lines across its surface were no ordinary fractures — they were runic veins, etched with meaning he couldn't yet decipher. Something ancient stirred beneath them, patient and observing.
Finally, he spoke — his voice quiet but cutting, every word deliberate.
"I know you're alive," he said. "And you can understand me."
His crimson eyes narrowed.
"So stop pretending."
The cube remained still for a breath. Then — a faint flicker, almost imperceptible — the white light within it pulsed once, as if responding.
Aelric's lips curved slightly, not into a smile, but something colder — the acknowledgment of a truth revealed.
The night wind stirred the curtains, carrying moonlight across the floor.
And in that pale glow, man and artifact faced each other in silence — two beings from beyond the world's comprehension, each waiting for the other to move first.