"To remember is to drown. To forget is to bleed."
The Path of Petrified Foxes
The orchard's golden light dimmed behind them as they stepped onto the path of thorns. The air smelled of wet earth and rust, the scent clinging to the back of Ling Tian's throat like a curse.
Petrified foxes lined the way, their stone bodies twisted mid-snarl, collars of blackened brambles digging into their necks. Some were small—kits frozen in fear. Others loomed large, their jaws wide as if caught in a final, soundless howl.
Xiao Hei skipped ahead, her bare feet avoiding the thorns with unnatural precision. She hummed a tuneless song, something old and broken, the kind of melody that lingers in dreams and vanishes upon waking.
Qing'er's fingers brushed Ling Tian's wrist. "Your pulse is too fast."
He swallowed. The place where his memory had been ripped out throbbed, a phantom wound. His father's hands, calloused from the sword, guiding his stance under the cold moonlight. The warmth of shared breath. The weight of trust. Gone.
"It took something from me," he admitted, voice low.
Xiao Hei glanced back, her dark eyes knowing. "The orchard only eats what you can't afford to keep."
Ahead, the path ended at a towering archway of black jade. Words were carved deep into its surface, the strokes jagged, as if etched by claws rather than tools:
"Here sits the Emperor Who Never Was."
The Hollow Throne
The throne room was a graveyard of mirrors.
Shattered glass covered the floor, crunching underfoot like brittle bones. Each fragment reflected a different Ling Tian:
A boy kneeling in the ashes of his clan, hands bloody from digging graves.
A monster draped in Heavenly Net Sect robes, standing atop a mountain of corpses.
A corpse with the Jade Dragon Sword buried in his chest, lips curled in a final, defiant snarl.
At the center of the ruin sat a throne of cracked obsidian.
Upon it slumped a skeletal figure in imperial robes, its fingers fused to the armrests by veins of pulsing shadow. The crown upon its head was rusted iron, the metal flaking like dead skin.
The Crimson Witch went rigid. "Tianlang Xiu."
The corpse's head lifted. Its eye sockets burned with violet fire.
"Not quite." The voice was Mo's—but beneath it, something older slithered. "The Emperor is… elsewhere. I am merely the door."
The Door's Price
The skeletal guardian extended a hand, bones clicking. "The Fox's Paw. Give it, and pass."
Ling Tian's breath hitched. The mummified paw embedded in his chest twitched, its claws pricking his heart.
Qing'er stepped forward, her sword humming in its sheath. "And if we refuse?"
The thing on the throne smiled, its jaw unhinging too wide. "Then you meet the other guardian."
The mirrors screamed.
Shadows pooled beneath the throne, rising like ink spilled in water. They twisted, thickened, until a figure stood before them—a warped reflection of Ling Tian.
Its right arm was the Thunderclap Fist that had shattered his ribs in the Violet Thunder Sect.
Its left eye bore the Heavenly Net Sect's mark, pulsing like a second heart.
Its mouth dripped with every insult he'd ever swallowed, venom made flesh.
"I," it hissed, "am what you could be."
Then it attacked.
IV. The Reflection's Edge
The doppelgänger moved like a storm given form.
Ling Tian barely dodged as his own Nine-Heaven Dragon Art roared back at him, amplified by the throne room's madness. Qing'er's blade flashed, meeting the reflection's claws in a shower of sparks, but the shadows absorbed the strikes, healing instantly.
The Crimson Witch wove hexes with bloodied fingers, her lips moving in a silent chant. The air thickened with the scent of burnt copper—but the doppelgänger laughed, its form rippling like smoke.
Xiao Hei stood apart, watching. Then, with the eerie calm of a child who knew too much, she plucked a shard of mirror from the floor and pressed it into Ling Tian's palm.
"Gege forgot," she murmured. "The orchard took the memory, but not the lesson."
The glass cut deep. Blood welled—and with it, a fragment of the lost night surged forward:
His father's voice, rough with exhaustion: "The Dragon Art is not a weapon. It is a mirror. To master it, you must first face yourself."
Ling Tian stopped fighting.
He stepped into the doppelgänger's strike, letting its claws pierce his shoulder—and grasped its wrist.
"You're right," he spat. "I could be you. But I choose not to."
The reflection shattered.
The Witch's Betrayal
The skeletal guardian laughed, its body crumbling to dust. "Clever fox. Pass, then."
The throne split open with a sound like breaking bone, revealing a staircase of frozen light spiraling into the abyss.
The Crimson Witch moved—not toward the stairs, but at Ling Tian's chest. Her dagger flashed, carving the Fox's Paw free in a spray of blood.
"Thank you for carrying it this far," she sneered, clutching the mummified relic. "The Emperor's resurrection requires two sacrifices: a thief…" Her gaze flicked to Xiao Hei. "...and a guide."
Then she was gone, vanishing down the stairs.
Ling Tian collapsed, his vision darkening. The last thing he saw was Qing'er's panicked face—and Xiao Hei's tiny hand reaching into his wound, her fingers glowing gold.
"Don't die, Gege," she whispered. "The bad lady doesn't know—the Paw chose you."
Then—agony.
The Paw's true power awoke in his blood.
The world turned inside out.