The night was still, the moon suspended like a pale crystal above Yunlai's mountain ridge.
A faint wind whispered through the narrow paths leading down from the Azure Heaven Sect, carrying with it the soft rustle of leaves and the scent of damp earth.
Aelric walked leisurely, his steps neither hurried nor slow. His robe fluttered quietly against the gravel path. Behind him, the lamps of the sect flickered faintly — distant, like dying stars.
But the peace was deceptive.
Because behind him, death was following.
The first hint came as a tremor in the air — a slight disturbance, too refined for mortal senses. To Aelric, it was obvious. Two signatures. Both faint, trained to suppress killing intent… but not enough. Their malice leaked through, thick and poisonous.
He didn't turn around.
He didn't even slow his pace.
Instead, he allowed his essence to spread invisibly through the night like a gentle mist. It brushed over the terrain, touched the grass, and crept across the narrow road behind him — a silent domain.
Then, the killing intent sharpened.
Two cloaked figures shot out of the shadows, their robes rippling as they sprinted with the speed of trained assassins. Their faces were covered, their movements precise and deadly. The first drew a dagger that gleamed cold under the moonlight.
To an ordinary man, it would have been the last thing he saw.
The assassin's dagger flashed — a silver arc slicing through the night — and plunged deep into Aelric's neck.
Blood spurted violently, painting the ground crimson. Arteries, veins, flesh — all torn open. The assassin's mask twisted into a grin as the body before him fell limp.
He exhaled in relief and muttered beneath his breath, "Heh… so much for the divine doctor. Don't know why the sect leader wanted us to kill this gigolo-looking bastard. Easy money."
He wiped his dagger on his sleeve and chuckled.
But then… snap.
Something faint cracked — not in the air, but inside his mind.
For a fraction of a second, his vision flickered — as though reality itself stuttered.
The world bent, twisted, and snapped back to normal.
He blinked. "What—"
Then he froze.
The scene before him had changed.
Blood still dripped onto the dirt. But it wasn't from Aelric.
It was from his partner — the second assassin — whose throat had been cleanly slit open. The man's mask hung loose, and his body collapsed to the ground in a boneless heap, blood gurgling from the deep gash.
The first assassin stared, eyes wide with disbelief. He looked down at his own hands — slick with blood — the same dagger still gripped tightly between his fingers.
His breath hitched. His pulse raced. "No—no, this isn't—"
He turned to look behind him.
Another snap.
A cold pressure gripped his neck. The last thing he heard was the soft sound of bone breaking.
His vision went black.
⸻
Aelric stood quietly amid the two corpses, the moonlight painting his pale face in silver hues.
Not a single drop of blood tainted his clothes. His crimson eyes gleamed faintly as he observed his handiwork — or rather, his Mind Realm at work.
Mind Realm.
The second branch of his power, born from millennia of refinement.
It was not a place of dreams or illusions — it was the inner world of consciousness. The true domain where thought, instinct, and emotion intertwined. Every being possessed one — a fragile sanctuary of the self, unseen by ordinary eyes.
And Aelric… ruled that domain.
Once his essence entered another's body, their mind realm became an open book to him — every memory, fear, and instinct accessible. He could bend perception, distort reality, make them feel pain, joy, or terror as he willed. He could trap them in a false existence… or erase their will entirely.
The assassins never realized they had died long before their bodies fell.
They were puppets dancing to the will of their own delusions — his delusions.
He crouched slightly, examining one of the bodies. "Sloppy," he murmured. "The Flowing Cloud Sect truly underestimates me."
The faint scent of poison emanated from the assassins' sleeves — a common trick. He recognized the formula immediately. It was laced with venom extracted from Azure Serpents, a species native to the southern marshes. Aelric's lips curved faintly. So it is indeed them.
He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his robe. The corpses lay still — one with a twisted neck, the other with an empty gaze staring toward the moon. Aelric looked down at them without emotion.
"To think," he muttered softly, "that someone believes I can be erased so easily."
For a moment, he considered leaving them as they were. But carelessness attracted trouble. He reached into his robe and pulled out a jade stone, its surface engraved with runic lines faintly glowing blue.
The stone had been given to him by Sect Leader Jian Wuhen — a direct channel to contact the Azure Heaven Sect in case of "emergencies." Aelric found the gesture amusing then, but now… perhaps the man had indeed foreseen this.
He infused a strand of essence into the jade. The stone pulsed once, then shattered silently into dust.
Minutes later, rapid footsteps echoed from the path below.
A familiar figure emerged — Liang Shen, the right hand of Jian Wuhen.
The man's face was tense as he scanned the area. When his gaze fell upon the two corpses, his expression darkened. "Dead," he muttered, then turned toward Aelric — and froze.
Aelric stood there, perfectly calm, his white robe unblemished, his aura serene. Not a single sign of battle — no disorder in his breath, no injury, not even a drop of blood. Only those crimson eyes gleamed faintly in the moonlight, detached and distant.
Liang Shen bowed slightly. "Are you unharmed, honored one?"
Aelric's tone was indifferent. "As you can see."
The man nodded quickly, regaining composure. He took out another jade stone, sending a signal to the sect. A few minutes later, several disciples arrived, carrying large black cloths and containers for body disposal. They worked swiftly and silently, clearly used to dealing with death.
When the corpses were carried away, Liang Shen spoke again.
"We will investigate immediately. Though…" — his tone dropped slightly — "I believe we both already know who sent them."
Aelric didn't respond. He didn't need to.
Liang Shen straightened his posture and continued respectfully, "Sect Leader Jian Wuhen has made a suggestion. He requests that you no longer remain at the village inn. Instead, you may reside in the sect's guest compound. This will ensure your safety and prevent… further inconveniences."
The way he said "inconveniences" carried a faint edge — a subtle acknowledgment that what had just happened could have been far worse, had the target been anyone else.
Aelric nodded slightly. "Very well."
He had no reason to refuse. The inn held nothing of value, and the offer would make future dealings smoother.
⸻
Under the pale moonlight, Aelric followed Liang Shen back up the mountain path toward the Azure Heaven Sect. The night air grew cooler as they ascended, the faint sound of cicadas fading into the wind.
Soon, they reached a courtyard illuminated by soft spiritual lanterns. White stone paths wound between pavilions and cherry trees whose petals glowed faintly under the moon. In the distance, waterfalls cascaded down the cliffs, the sound merging with the soft rustle of leaves.
A young disciple bowed as they approached and gestured toward a nearby pavilion.
"Honored guest," he said respectfully, "this will be your residence for the night. Should you require anything, the guards outside will attend to your needs."
Aelric inclined his head slightly. "Understood."
The disciple bowed again and retreated quietly.
⸻
The guest room was spacious and refined — easily twice the size of the one at the inn.
Aelric's eyes swept over the polished floorboards, the lacquered desk adorned with incense, the silken curtains swaying in the breeze. The bed, layered with soft quilts, looked more inviting than any mortal accommodation he had rested in recently.
He walked to the window. The moonlight streamed in, casting his silhouette against the wall. Below, the courtyards of the sect lay bathed in silver, disciples moving like shadows between buildings.
For a moment, he stood there, lost in thought.
Then a familiar, childish voice echoed in his mind — sly and slightly irritated.
[Why did you use your essence again? You could have just… I don't know, crushed them physically. Your body is more than capable.]
Aelric exhaled softly. "If I had fought them physically," he said aloud, his tone calm, "one might have escaped. And an open fight would have stirred unnecessary commotion. That would be troublesome."
[Still,] Hex muttered, the irritation in his tone obvious. [You're overusing your essence. Every time you do that, you add more strain to me. And your core's still cracked, remember?]
Aelric's gaze softened slightly. "And yet you complain after surviving."
[Hmph!] Hex grumbled. [You're impossible. If I were any weaker, your core would've collapsed already!]
Aelric ignored him, walking toward the bed and sitting cross-legged upon it. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight — soft and warm. He closed his eyes, feeling the faint hum of essence flowing through his body.
He could sense it clearly now — the gentle thread of vitality weaving through his veins, the stabilizing presence of Hex's energy intertwined with his own. His recovery was accelerating. Before, he needed to focus entirely on his innate core to heal. Now, with Hex bound to his soul, the recovery continued even passively — while walking, speaking, even breathing.
It was convenient… and dangerous. Overreliance on anything external always came with a price.
But Aelric wasn't concerned. He understood his limits — and the risks he would need to take.
As he stabilized his breathing, his mind turned to tomorrow.
The duel between the Azure Heaven Sect and Flowing Cloud Sect drew closer.
He would need to assess their strengths — both for his own benefit and for what he planned to gain through this alliance.
His crimson eyes opened, glowing faintly in the dim light.
"Tomorrow," he murmured to himself, "will be an interesting day."
With that, he closed his eyes once more, sinking into quiet meditation — the faint pulse of his essence echoing in harmony with the rhythm of the night.