"Some souls are not meant to return. Yet fate weaves its own threads..."
That night, dark clouds gathered above Baiyun.
Thunder tore through the silence, lighting up the valley with cold flashes. Rain lashed against the Sacred Tree's leaves, and wind howled between the mountains, carrying whispers of something ominous.
In a small hut at the edge of the village, a woman was giving birth.
It was a hard labor—almost unnatural, as if life itself resisted letting this soul enter the world. Blood streamed onto the stone floor. The woman writhed in pain, her forehead slick with sweat, her hands clutching the linen sheets as if her life depended on it.
The midwife whispered frantic prayers.
Her husband held her hand helplessly, unaware that he was witnessing either a miracle… or a curse.
"One more push!" the midwife urged. "Just one more!"
A scream pierced the night, mixing with the next crash of thunder.
The newborn boy wailed—as though burdened by a world he had just entered.
The midwife stared at the child, wide-eyed.
On his forehead glowed the mark of a crescent moon.
His skin was porcelain pale, his hair a soft, dark blonde. And in his eyes—though still clouded—was something... foreign.
As if the soul inside had already seen too much.
---
That same night, high in the mountains, someone awoke from a dream.
His body was drenched in sweat, hands trembling.
He had dreamt of fire, of blood, and of a boy who stood against him—not for the first time.
That gaze held the past, the future… and judgment for sins long committed.
He knew that dream.
He knew that soul.
He stepped outside—pale, hair tousled by the wind.
Rain soaked his robes, but he only looked toward the valley.
Something had happened.
He felt it in his bones.
The path to the village was familiar.
He moved quickly. The storm could not stop him.
When he reached the hut, lightning lit his face—beautiful, cold, and unreadable.
Without hesitation, he stepped inside.
---
The woman, weak and pale, looked at him in fear.
"Who… are you…?" she whispered.
The stranger said nothing.
His cold, steel-gray eyes locked on the child in her arms.
His breath caught.
It was him.
The child from the prophecy.
The soul he had failed to destroy.
The soul that should never have returned.
A prophecy that was never meant to be fulfilled.
He had made sure of it.
Without a word, he unfolded the ornate fan in his hand.
His decision was instant.
His gaze swept across the room—the mother, the confused father, the midwife just turning away from her basin.
The fan moved—silent as a whisper.
The blade flashed like lightning.
Blood splattered the walls.
The father collapsed first—no scream, no warning.
The midwife turned in horror, but the blade found her throat before she could move.
Only the mother and child remained.
---
The mother clutched the infant to her chest, shielding him.
Her voice was faint, but her eyes burned with something he hadn't expected—
not fear… but desperate, fierce love.
"Please…" she whispered. "Spare him. He's just… a child."
The shadow stepped forward.
He looked at the child again.
Reached out and gently traced the glowing crescent on the boy's forehead.
"It's you," he said softly.
His voice was calm—too calm. Like a greeting meant for an old friend.
The baby stared up at him, wide-eyed.
He didn't cry.
The man raised the fan.
The mother screamed—and with it, all hope of that night vanished.
Her heart broke the instant the blade cut the air once more.
---
Moments later, fire consumed everything.
Flames roared high, reflected in the killer's eyes.
There was no mercy. Only cold, unshakable resolve.
He stood motionless.
The bloodstained fan rested in his hand like a sacred relic.
The bodies were gone. No witnesses.
Only smoke… and silence.
From a distance, voices echoed—villagers rushing with lanterns, calling, shouting, running through the storm.
He didn't move.
He already knew what he would say.
How to shape his face into sorrow and helplessness.
How to step onto the scorched earth and whisper:
"Lightning. I came too late. No one could be saved."
And they would believe him.
Because why wouldn't they?
He was their savior.
Their guide on the path to perfection.
He stepped into the night, ready to play the role of the savior.
But what he didn't know… was that the soul he thought he had extinguished did not vanish.
It had been forcefully torn from its vessel—ripped away in silence—and left to drift between worlds.
And even then, in that very moment… something ancient had already begun to call to it.
From far, far away.
Something that waited.
Something patient.
Something without a name.
Little did he know…
That what he tried to destroy would one day return.
And when it does—
even the heavens will tremble.