The night cloaked Golden Peak Sect in a shroud of inky silence, broken only by the distant howl of wind through the mountain passes. Lanterns flickered like dying stars along the stone paths, casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits. The air carried the chill of impending rain, mingled with the faint, acrid scent of curse wards etched into the sect's walls—reminders of the Abyssal War's lingering poison. Disciples had retired to their quarters, the training grounds empty, the halls echoing with the soft patter of nocturnal creatures.
Hwang Geummo staggered through the inner courtyard, his broken sword sheathed at his side, the stump of his left arm wrapped in blood-soaked rags that did little to stem the throbbing agony. Ink-blood from the abyssal remnants still stained his tattered robes, black veins creeping faintly under his skin where the curse poison had taken hold. His face remained an unyielding mask—eyes depthless, lips a flat line—but inside, behind the sealed heart meridian, a storm raged. The loss of his Equilazer Domain was a void in his dantian, an emptiness that screamed for balance.
The guards at the courtyard's edge had summoned healers, but Geummo waved them off with his remaining hand. "The Patriarch. Now."
One guard, a mid-tier disciple with wide eyes, bowed low. "Young Master Hwang, the Patriarch remains in closed seclusion. The elders have forbidden disturbance. But... the warnings you speak of—the temple, the remnants—they must be delusions from curse exposure. Rest first. Heal."
Geummo's gaze bored into him, cold as mountain frost. "The seal fails. The ghosts stir. If not warned, the Union falls again."
The guards exchanged uneasy glances. Whispers spread like mist: "He entered the forbidden temple... lost his hand... madness has taken him."
No one moved to summon the elders. Instead, another messenger arrived, breathless. "Miss Baek Sooyoung demands your presence at once. She has waited too long. Go, or risk offense to the Baek Family."
Geummo stood still for a moment, the weight of dismissal pressing heavier than his wounds. The Union he had bled for dismissed him as mad. The balance he had maintained for twenty-two years—shattered in a single night.
But the summons could not be ignored. Not yet.
He turned toward the stables at the courtyard's edge massive structures of dark wood and iron, warded with scripts to contain the sect's war mounts. Most were ordinary spirit horses, swift and qi-infused. But in the shadowed rear pens, reserved for elite disciples, lurked the abyssal-bred steeds. Forged from the war's cursed bloodlines, these were no mere animals: demonic equines twisted by ink essence, armored in black scales and spikes, their eyes glowing with restrained malice.
Geummo approached one such beast a colossal black stallion, its coat matted like shadowed fur, legs thick and feathered with thorny protrusions that gleamed like obsidian. Spikes curved from its shoulders and haunches, a natural armor that whispered of abyssal origins. The saddle was a grim affair: leather bound with chains, etched with suppressive scripts to bind the creature's rage. Horns curled from its brow, and its mane flowed like liquid night, ending in tendrils that snapped at the air. The horse snorted, steam rising from nostrils wide as fists, eyes burning crimson in the lantern light.
This was no common mount. It was a relic breed, said to have been tamed from the war's edge, where Abyssal Wraiths had fused with wild herds. Only those with strong qi could ride them without being thrown or devoured.
Geummo placed his remaining hand on its flank. The beast trembled, sensing his unbalanced qi, but did not buck. Perhaps it recognized the curse ink in his veins the same darkness that birthed it.
He mounted slowly, pain lancing through his ribs. The saddle's stirrups adjusted with a metallic groan, chains rattling. In a hidden compartment beneath the saddle meant for emergency arms he found a concealed weapon: a dark halberd, its shaft black iron wrapped in ornate carvings of dragons and reversed scripts. The blade was a crescent moon of sharpened obsidian, tipped with a crimson spear point that gleamed hungrily. Faint red veins ran through the metal, as though it thirsted for qi. A relic from the war, hidden for riders facing peril.
Geummo gripped it awkwardly in his right hand, the weight familiar yet burdensome without his left to balance. The horse stamped, eager.
With a quiet command "Forward" the beast surged into motion.
They raced through the sect's winding paths, the horse's hooves thundering like war drums on stone. Wind whipped Geummo's hair, tearing at his wounds. The crimson lights of the Baek compound grew closer, the pavilion perched on a cliffside overlook where Hwang and Baek territories met a neutral ground of silk banners and lotus ponds, lit by floating lanterns that cast bloody reflections on the water.
As he approached, the horse slowed without command, nostrils flaring. Geummo dismounted, tying the beast to a post. The halberd he kept in hand—instinct, perhaps, or the growing unease in his gut.
The pavilion loomed: crimson silk drapes fluttering in the night breeze, incense smoke curling from braziers shaped like flame hydras. Steps led up to a raised platform, screened by translucent panels embroidered with Baek family crests.
He ascended, each step echoing his heartbeat—steady, unyielding.
Then he heard it: soft moans, rhythmic breaths, the rustle of silk on skin.
The unthinkable.
Through a gap in the screens, he saw them.
Baek Sooyoung, his betrothed, lay entangled with Seo Jinho on a bed of crimson cushions. Her fiery tattoos glowed across bare skin, crimson scripts pulsing with passion. Jinho's illusion marks shimmered, creating faint shadows that danced around them. They moved together in forbidden intimacy, her hands in his hair, his lips on her neck—lost in each other, oblivious to the world.
Geummo froze.
The sealed heart meridian shattered inwardly. Pain unlike any wound flooded him—memories flashing like broken shards: their first arranged meeting under cherry blossoms, her reluctant smile; shared training sessions where he had equalized her flames with his domain; quiet nights in the pavilion, where he had believed balance could forge something real.
Now, betrayal etched deeper than any curse.
His face remained blank. No shout. No tear.
But the halberd trembled in his grip.
The moans grew louder as Geummo stepped fully onto the pavilion platform, the halberd heavy in his single hand. Crimson silk screens parted like bloodied curtains under his push, revealing the full scene in merciless lantern light.
Baek Sooyoung lay on her back atop the piled cushions, crimson robes discarded in disarray, her pale skin flushed and marked with fresh love bites. Her fiery tattoos—ancient Baek scripts of flame hydras glowed across her collarbone, breasts, and thighs, pulsing in rhythm with her quickened breath. Seo Jinho knelt between her legs, his illusion tattoos shimmering across his lean, bare torso as shadows danced around them like living veils. His hips moved in slow, deliberate thrusts, her fingers digging into his back, nails leaving red trails.
They were lost in each other completely, shamelessly.
Sooyoung's head turned first. Her eyes once warm when they met his in arranged meetings—widened in shock, then narrowed with something colder than ice.
Jinho followed her gaze. A lazy, triumphant smirk spread across his face as he slowed but did not stop, one hand still possessively cupping her breast.
"Well," Jinho drawled, voice smooth as poisoned silk, "the statue finally arrives."
Geummo did not speak.
Memories assaulted him like blades: Sooyoung's reluctant laughter during their first shared meal, the way she had leaned on his shoulder after a hard training day, whispering that perhaps balance and fire could coexist. The quiet promises beneath cherry blossoms. The nights he had equalized her overwhelming flames with his domain, earning her rare, genuine smile.
All lies.
Behind the sealed heart meridian, something vast cracked open. Not rage—not yet. A deeper, colder fracture. The void where balance had lived now yawned empty.
His grip tightened on the halberd until knuckles whitened.
Sooyoung pushed Jinho off with sudden violence, scrambling for her discarded outer robe. She clutched it to her chest, but made no real effort to cover herself fully—defiance in her posture, chin lifted.
"You weren't supposed to see this," she said, voice steady despite the flush on her cheeks. "But since you have… know that this changes nothing. The engagement was a chain. I am breaking it."
Jinho rose languidly, unashamed in his nakedness, illusion scripts coiling like smoke around his hips to preserve modesty. His eyes sharp, mocking—fixed on Geummo's maimed arm.
"What happened to you, statue? Lose a hand to your own incompetence in the forbidden zone? Fitting. A broken tool deserves to be discarded."
Geummo took one step forward.
The demonic horse outside snorted, chains rattling against the post as though sensing its rider's intent.
He raised the halberd—awkward with one hand, but the weight felt right. The crimson spear tip gleamed.
Jinho laughed.
"Going to attack me with a relic weapon? Over a woman who never wanted you?"
Sooyoung's lips curled.
"Put it down, Geummo. You're embarrassing yourself."
He moved.
Not with grace his balance was ruined without the left arm but with cold precision. The halberd swept in a horizontal arc aimed at Jinho's neck, qi surging crudely along the shaft to compensate for lost finesse.
Jinho blurred.
Illusion domain activated in an instant nine shadow clones of himself appearing around the pavilion, each smirking, each naked and taunting. The real one stepped sideways as the halberd cleaved through a phantom, dispersing it into smoke.
Geummo pivoted, stabbing toward the source of laughter. The crescent blade bit air again—another clone.
Sooyoung's flame tattoos flared. She did not intervene yet, watching with arms crossed, robe slipping lower.
Jinho's voice echoed from all directions. "Pathetic. Even whole, you were mediocre. Now? A one-handed cripple swinging a horse toy."
Geummo breathed once—steady, controlled—and struck again. This time he anticipated the flicker of qi displacement. The crimson spear tip caught real flesh, carving a shallow line across Jinho's ribs.
Blood welled—bright against pale skin.
Jinho hissed, eyes narrowing. The amusement vanished.
"Enough games."
His domain expanded fully—shadowy mists filling the pavilion, distorting space. Clones multiplied to twenty, then thirty, each wielding phantom blades. They attacked in waves.
Geummo parried desperately. The halberd spun in wide arcs, dispersing illusions, but real strikes slipped through. A shadow blade solidified—slashed his thigh. Another opened a cut along his already wounded shoulder.
He pressed forward, blood dripping onto crimson silk.
Sooyoung finally moved. Her flame domain bloomed—crimson fire erupting in controlled bursts, not to kill, but to herd him. Heat scorched his skin, forcing him back toward Jinho.
Geummo roared inwardly—no sound escaped—and charged Jinho's true position, revealed by the blood trail.
The halberd thrust straight for the heart.
Jinho sidestepped at the last moment, hand snapping out like a viper. Illusion scripts flared along his palm as he caught the shaft just below the blade—impossible strength from qi reinforcement.
He twisted.
The halberd wrenched from Geummo's exhausted grip. Metal screamed.
In one fluid motion, Jinho reversed the weapon and drove the crimson spear tip into Geummo's chest.
The impact was thunder.
Steel punched through robe, flesh, muscle—stopping just short of the heart, pinning him against a pavilion pillar. Pain exploded white-hot, curse veins from the weapon spreading cold fire through his meridians.
Geummo's vision tunneled. Blood filled his mouth.
Jinho leaned close, breath hot against his ear.
"She was never yours, statue. And now… neither is your life."
Sooyoung watched, face pale but resolute. No regret. Only calculation.
Darkness swallowed Geummo whole.
Consciousness returned in fragments: cold stone against his back, the metallic taste of blood, the slow drip of water somewhere in the dark. Geummo's eyes opened to iron bars and the faint glow of suppressive wards etched into the walls. The Hwang Family's underground jail—reserved for traitors, curse-corrupted disciples, and those awaiting execution. The air stank of mildew, old blood, and despair.
Two days.
They had left him two days without water, without healing. The halberd wound in his chest had been crudely bandaged, but curse poison still burned through his veins. His stump throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. Qi circulation was sluggish, meridians inflamed. He sat chained to the wall, legs sprawled, head bowed—but his face remained blank, eyes half-lidded and depthless.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Guards appeared—four of them, faces grim. They unlocked the cell, hauled him to his feet. Chains rattled. No words. They dragged him through dim passages, up stone stairs, into the blinding light of the Judgment Hall.
The hall was packed.
Elders from all four families sat on elevated thrones beneath their respective banners: golden Hwang lion, crimson Baek phoenix, shadowed Seo fox, white Jin lotus. Disciples lined the walls, hundreds of eyes fixed on him. Whispers rippled like wind through bamboo.
At the center stood Baek Sooyoung and Seo Jinho.
She wore pristine crimson robes, hair perfectly arranged, face pale but composed—tear tracks artfully streaked down her cheeks. Jinho stood beside her in dark illusion silks, a fresh bandage across his ribs, expression righteous and wounded.
Geummo was forced to his knees before the patriarchs. The Hwang seat was empty—the Patriarch still in seclusion. An elder of the Baek Family, Sooyoung's grand-uncle, presided.
The charges were read aloud, voice booming through the hall.
"Hwang Geummo, former disciple of the Hwang lineage, stands accused of trespass in the forbidden Temple of Eternal Sacrifice, desecration of sacred grounds, attempted murder of Seo Jinho of the Seo Family, and " the elder paused for effect, "attempted rape of Baek Sooyoung in the presence of her chosen protector."
Gasps swept the hall. Disciples recoiled. Some wept openly.
Geummo lifted his head.
His voice, when it came, was flat, steady—barely above a whisper, yet it carried.
"Lies."
The elder's eyes narrowed.
"Silence. Witnesses?"
Sooyoung stepped forward, voice trembling beautifully. "He… he arrived unannounced at the pavilion. Mad with curse poison. He attacked Jinho with a demonic weapon. When Jinho disarmed him, he… he lunged at me. Tried to force himself. Jinho saved me."
Tears fell. Perfect performance.
Jinho bowed deeply. "I acted only to protect Miss Baek. The wound he gave me is proof of his intent."
Evidence was presented: the bloodied halberd, Geummo's torn robes, planted traces of aphrodisiac curse ink on his sleeves subtle, but damning in the eyes of the elders.
Geummo spoke again. "I swear by the lives of the sacrificed ex-leaders Hwang Cheoljin, Baek Hyejin, Seo Minho, Jin Suyeon that this is false. I entered the temple seeking truth about my sealed meridian. I found them alive. Twisted. The seal weakens. The ghosts stir. If not reinforced—"
"Enough!" the presiding Baek elder thundered. "You dare invoke the sacrificed while standing accused of violating their resting place? Your madness is clear. The curse has eaten your mind."
Geummo's eyes swept the hall. Jin Taeho stood in the crowd, face pale, fists clenched but guards flanked him, preventing approach. No one else met his gaze.
"I warned of the temple," Geummo said quietly. "The remnants live They stole my domain andTook my hand. The abyss returns."
Murmurs. Unease. But the Baek elder waved a hand. "Delusions to cover his crimes. The Union cannot tolerate such corruption."
The verdict came swift.
"By order of the Heavenly Union's council, Hwang Geummo is stripped of name, lineage, and qi. He is declared traitor and exile. The Binding Script shall seal him eternally. He is banished from Qingyun lands never to return under pain of death."
No appeal. No mercy.
Elders rose. Golden chains of prohibition qi materialized in the air—ancient script glowing with prohibitive force. They descended like serpents, wrapping Geummo's body, searing into flesh and meridians.
Pain beyond description.
Each chain burned a link into his dantian, locking meridians one by one. Qi flow choked, then stopped. The stump of his arm flared as curse poison met prohibition ink. His chest wound reopened, blood soaking robes.
He did not scream.
Face blank. Eyes open.
As the final chain snapped into place, something deep inside him stirred.
An itch—fierce, burning—spread across his chest. Beneath the blood and torn cloth, black Murim scripts began to form: ancient, reversed characters crawling like living ink veins. A faint outline of coiling scales appeared, unseen by the hall.
A whisper—cold, patient, endless—echoed in his mind for the first time.
They chose fracture. Let the void claim the pieces.
The ritual complete, guards dragged him through the sect's main streets. Disciples lined the path—some jeering, some silent in fear or pity. Stones were thrown. Spittle struck his face.
At the grand gates, under a sky heavy with coming storm, he was thrown to the mud.
The gates slammed shut.
Rain began to fall heavy, cold, washing blood into the dirt.
Geummo lay there a long moment, body broken, qi sealed, name erased.
Then he rose.
One-handed, bleeding, expressionless.
He turned his back on Golden Peak and walked into the wilderness.
Behind him, thunder rolled like the laughter of awakening ghosts.
Ahead, the void waited patient, hungry, and his.