Night fell quickly over the ruins, but the darkness felt wrong—heavier, like a veil deliberately cast to hide something more sinister.
Wang Lin crouched atop a fallen pillar, eyes closed, senses stretched. The Blood-Sworn Pact forged earlier still pulsed within his veins, binding him to Lian Hua and Jin Tao. Their breaths echoed through the night in rhythm—attuned, united.
Below, Lian Hua was preparing wards around the remnants of their camp. "These glyphs won't hold forever," she said quietly, etching another line into the dirt. "We need to move before they arrive."
"They're already here," Wang Lin said without opening his eyes.
Jin Tao froze. "You sure?"
A wind swept through the ruins, carrying with it the scent of sandalwood and scorched incense—a signature only one faction used.
The Temple.
From the tree line emerged six figures in obsidian robes, their faces hidden beneath masks shaped like snarling beasts. They walked with unnatural stillness, as if their bodies were puppets, pulled by strings of fate.
At their head was a tall man with silver hair and a blank white mask—no eyes, no mouth. Just a smooth surface etched with a single word in ancient script:
> "Judgment."
Wang Lin dropped silently to the ground beside his companions. "We don't fight unless we must. But if they draw their weapons—"
"We finish it," Lian Hua whispered, her eyes cold.
Jin Tao rolled his neck. "Guess I won't die bored, then."
The silver-masked figure stopped a few meters away. His voice was emotionless, yet it echoed across the stones with power.
> "Child of the Abduction Path. You are hereby ordered to surrender the legacy fragment and submit to cleansing."
Wang Lin stepped forward, the seal-stone in his hand glowing softly.
> "No."
The masked figure tilted his head. "Refusal is treason."
"I never swore loyalty to the Temple," Wang Lin said. "You don't own me."
A pause. Then a soft chuckle—dry and inhuman.
The masked figure raised a hand.
Behind him, the five other Temple hounds unsheathed weapons glowing with cursed light—blades that had drunk the blood of cultivators for generations.
Lian Hua's wards flared to life.
Then—
Battle erupted.
Jin Tao vanished, reappearing midair above two of the hounds. His curved blade struck down like lightning, forcing them to scatter.
Lian Hua's short blade danced in a blur, her movements precise, deadly. She fought like a ghost—silent, swift, surgical.
But it was Wang Lin they wanted.
The silver-masked figure came for him.
Their clash split the ground beneath their feet. Energy howled through the air. Wang Lin's Abduction Path surged wildly, mimicking his opponent's techniques as fast as they were cast, stealing, adapting, refining.
> "You are unstable," the masked man said mid-duel. "You are becoming what we feared."
> "Then fear me more."
Wang Lin's hair whipped around his face. His eyes burned silver-black. The seal-stone in his hand shattered, releasing a flood of ancient power.
It wasn't just cultivation energy—it was memory.
Visions flooded Wang Lin's mind: a world burned by betrayal, a sovereign torn apart by his own creations, and a whisper that came from beyond the void.
> "The Heavens owe you blood."
Wang Lin roared—and struck.
His palm hit the masked man's chest. Not with brute force, but with a technique long buried: Heaven's Thief Palm.
The mask cracked.
The hound staggered back.
But before Wang Lin could land a finishing blow, the others pulled their leader back, retreating into the night without another word.
Silence returned.
Wang Lin stood panting, hands trembling, chest rising and falling with the weight of what he had just done.
They had survived.
But war had been declared.