The night was heavy as a mountain pressing down.
The fissure at the valley floor still glimmered faintly—like an eye that had not fully closed, still peering.
Bai Lin lay slumped against the cold, damp stone wall, chest heaving like a broken beast.
The wind did not disperse the stench of blood; it shoved it back into his nostrils instead.
A burning heat still coiled inside his bones, gnawing, circling—
the lingering aftertide of the Corpse Veins that had not yet fully receded.
He was still alive.
But he knew perfectly well:
this was not because of his own strength,
but because he was stubbornly clinging to a path that had never belonged to a human.
From behind the rock wall came a faint crack… crack… crack,
as though something were deliberately snapping its own finger joints.
Bai Lin's head snapped up.
The shadow-hand was gone,
but the "folding echo" from the depths of the fissure kept repeating.
It was not an ordinary echo.
It was imitation.
Conscious, deliberate mimicry.
Every bone he had broken while killing the wolf,
every snap when he had turned corpse-like,
every tear of skin—
was being replayed, one by one.
Like an echo, yet not natural.
It was learning.
Bai Lin clenched his fingers; pale knuckles glowed faintly.
The Demon Emperor's voice rose inside him, low and amused:
[Do you hear it?]
"…It's copying me."
[It?]
The Demon Emperor's tone was as light as brushing a feather.
[You're treating that thing as if it were alive?]
Bai Lin fell silent.
[It is not alive. It does not even qualify as "existent."]
The Demon Emperor's voice stretched, thin as invisible thread.
[It has no concept of self. It only imitates what it sees—
and of all things, it chose you. Do you understand what that means?]
Bai Lin's heart shuddered.
Of course he understood.
If the Boundary Layer were merely a natural tear, it would not fixate on any single person.
But it had imitated him.
Which meant it had seen him.
The Demon Emperor chuckled low:
[You… have already been marked.]
His blood froze in an instant.
Bai Lin couldn't help asking: "Marked? Why me?"
The Demon Emperor paused, as though recalling memories from the primordial dark—or deliberately letting fear sink in.
After a long while, he finally spoke, slowly:
[Because on the sacrifice platform… you died too "cleanly."]
Bai Lin's pupils shrank.
"You saw it?"
[Saw it?]
The Demon Emperor's laugh made his spine crawl.
[I even noticed that, at the moment of your death, you were the only one without a shadow.]
Bai Lin's breath jammed in his throat.
A shadow…?
At the moment he died, his shadow had—vanished?
The Demon Emperor seemed to savour his shock:
[Did you think you were simply executed as a sacrifice?]
[…No. You were delivered to the Boundary.]
Bai Lin's entire body trembled with cold.
He suddenly realised:
he had never truly known
why he had died.
His memories of the sacrifice platform were swallowed by blood-mist.
He had always assumed it was sect punishment, offering, sacrifice.
But the Demon Emperor's words… meant something entirely different.
Bai Lin's voice was low: "I was… sent to the Boundary?"
The Demon Emperor let out the faintest sigh:
[The Heavenly Sacrifice Platform is not an execution ground.
It is a gateway.]
[In that moment, you were deemed worthy of being introduced to the other layer.]
Bai Lin's throat ached with dryness.
"…Why me? I was nothing."
[Precisely because you were "nothing," the Boundary was willing to accept you.]
The Demon Emperor's tone was as indifferent as drifting black mist.
[The easiest vessels to hollow out are those with no roots.]
Bai Lin's heart clenched violently.
He wanted to argue.
To rage.
To deny being called an "empty shell."
But he knew—
the Demon Emperor was telling the truth.
He had been ostracised, used, treated as a discard no one would miss…
Only after death did he learn he had not been "killed,"
but "delivered" to another plane.
Bai Lin's throat tasted of gravel and bitterness.
The Demon Emperor whispered:
[So the Boundary noticing you was no accident.]
[When you died, you had no shadow.]
[Your first breath after revival carried "folding."]
[Your first drop of blood awakened the Corpse Veins.]
[You were never meant to belong to the human domain.]
Bai Lin was silent for so long it felt as if his body had sunk into a frozen lake.
Finally, he said only:
"…Then what do I do now?"
The Demon Emperor's smile finally became clear:
[Run.]
[Run to anywhere beyond the sight of the sacrifice platform, the Boundary Layer, the fissures.]
[Live.]
[Because—]
He whispered against Bai Lin's ear:
[The next time a fissure opens, only then will you have the right to choose your own shape.]
Bai Lin's heart lurched.
Shape?
He had no time to ask.
Because—from the depths of the valley, something began to crawl out.
The sound was soft,
like an infant learning to walk,
or like wet, rotting flesh being dragged across stone.
Bai Lin's head jerked up.
The light in the fissure dimmed, as though some immense awareness had shifted its gaze away, leaving only afterglow.
But in the darkness, a thin black thread extended from the crack.
Like a nerve. Like a finger. Like a loose strand—
yet carrying an indefinable intent.
Cold stabbed down Bai Lin's back.
The Demon Emperor's voice hardened:
[…That is not meant for you.]
Bai Lin's face stiffened: "What?"
Demon Emperor, grave:
[That is bait for the next candidate to be turned into a corpse.]
[The Boundary Layer is searching for a replaceable body.]
Bai Lin's heart pounded wildly.
So—
he was not the only one.
All those people the Heavenly Sacrifice Platform killed every year…
where exactly had they been sent?
The black thread swayed gently in the air,
as though searching for its owner.
Bai Lin could almost feel its "taste" probing the air.
The Demon Emperor whispered:
[If it chooses you—you will be replaced.]
[You will no longer be you at all.]
Before Bai Lin could speak—
the black thread looked at him.
Then it shot forward.
Like an arrow.
Like a venomous snake.
Like hunger given instinct.
Bai Lin's body reacted on pure reflex—he threw himself backward.
Agony from his wounds nearly buckled him to his knees.
Blood surged in his chest. He bit down, forced himself upright.
The black thread grazed his cheek,
lightly slicing skin.
A piercing cold burrowed in.
He seized it instantly.
His palm smoked from the burn, but he refused to let go.
The thread let out a low whine, thrashing like a startled creature.
Bai Lin glared at it.
For the first time, true defiance flashed in his eyes.
"…I am not a replacement."
The thread twisted violently and bit into the web of his hand.
Pain flashed white before his eyes. Blood burst from his palm.
The Demon Emperor roared:
[Tear it apart! It hasn't fully materialised yet!]
Bai Lin bit his lip until it bled,
then yanked with all his strength—
The black thread ripped in his grip,
like severing a living nerve.
A shrill scream echoed from the depths of the fissure.
It retreated.
The glow in the crack vanished instantly, leaving only cold and silence.
Bai Lin collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from his hand.
The Demon Emperor:
[…You should have died three times by now.]
Bai Lin panted, staring at his palm.
The wound was already healing before his eyes.
—The Corpse Veins stirred again.
The Demon Emperor sighed:
[There is a reason the Boundary Layer watches you.]
[You were not chosen.
You were… picked up.]
Bai Lin fell silent.
He suddenly realised a question deeper than death.
"Demon Emperor."
[Hm?]
"What… exactly am I?"
The Demon Emperor's laughter sounded both distant and submerged:
[You want an answer?]
Bai Lin raised his head.
The Demon Emperor whispered:
[Then survive first.]
[Only the living have the right to ask "what am I."]
[The dead have no right to know what they are.]
Bai Lin closed his eyes.
When he opened them again,
there was only desolation, pain,
and a thin, stubborn spark forced into being.
He stood.
"…Let's go."
Demon Emperor: "Where?"
"Anywhere I cannot be seen."
He pressed a hand to his chest.
"The next time a fissure opens—
I won't just be chosen."
"I will choose it back."
—
Wind surged between the valley walls.
Bai Lin dragged his wounded body upward along the mountain path,
one slow, steady step at a time.
Blood dripped behind him,
leaving a trail of crimson stains—
the first path
belonging to one who walks the Calamitous Veins.
And in the place he could not see,
the "folding echo" deep inside the fissure began to sound once more.
This time—
its rhythm matched his footsteps perfectly.
As though some ancient, abyssal synchrony were answering:
—I am watching you.
—You have been recorded.
—Next time, come again.
Night pressed down,
yet for the first time, a faint heat rose in Bai Lin's chest.
It was not hope.
It was—
the will to live.