Chapter LXXXIII: Echoes

There are moments when silence is mercy. When even the breath of the wind seems too loud. But in that place, mercy had been slaughtered, and in its place rose a symphony—a terrible, soul-rending choir of screams.

Not one. Not two. Dozens. Each one distinct, yet blending into a single, unbearable wail of suffering that shook the air like thunder. There were screams of terror, of fury, of regret. Screams that pleaded for salvation and those that cursed the heavens in futility. It was as though every throat cried out the deepest truths of their souls at once, as if pain had found a voice through them.

If a mortal had heard it—truly heard it, not just with their ears but with their being—they would never be whole again.

Their mind would fracture like glass struck at its weakest point. Sleep would be replaced by trembling. Food would rot in their mouth. And joy—simple joy—would become a thing of memory, never to be felt again.

Because what echoed through the air was not just suffering. It was despair weaponized. Grief magnified. Regret given claws.

No god, no cultivator, no monster could replicate the purity of that sound. It was the scream of helplessness, the cry of knowing no one would come, that no justice existed here—only fate.

The birds had long since vanished. Even the insects refused to chirp. Nature itself recoiled.

Each scream carved itself into the air like a wound. Even the silence between them felt wrong, stretched too thin, as though reality itself was trying to hold its breath.

And then, for a moment, all of it paused. A heartbeat. A breath. The eye of the storm.

But then came another scream, louder than the rest—hoarse, desperate, drenched in hatred and horror.

And then the rest followed again. Not a cry for help. Not a struggle for life. Just pure, meaningless agony—looping endlessly in the stillness, a requiem for sanity.

If there had ever been hope in that place, it had drowned in the chorus.

…

A day had passed since the screams fell silent.

The air was still now—eerily still. As though the forest itself remembered what had happened and dared not disturb the lingering echoes. Time moved forward, but the place remained frozen, weighed down by what it had witnessed.

Under the dull light of morning, a woman knelt before a plain tree at the forest's edge. No grandeur, no symbols—just bark, leaves, and the quiet whisper of wind brushing through its branches.

It was Yun.

She remained still for a long moment, then finally spoke, her voice low and composed.

"Lord… the people bound to the Wheel of Fate have met their end. Their fates are sealed. There are no survivors."

Her tone carried no emotion—only certainty. It wasn't a confession. It was a report.

She paused before continuing, a slight shift in her breath.

"As for Linglong, I treated her injuries. Just enough to keep her alive. I knew you had a plan for her… so I made sure she didn't die."

The breeze rustled the leaves above her, faint and passing, as if listening. Yun did not lift her head, nor did she seek acknowledgment. She had not come for praise.

She had come because it was her duty.

Because she belonged to him.

Above her, nestled among the branches of the tree, Yanwei stirred.

He had been resting all this time, not asleep in the traditional sense, but in that strange state of stillness only someone like him could achieve—unbothered, untouched by the weight of what had transpired.

As Yun finished speaking, his voice drifted down through the leaves—calm, unhurried, and almost bored. As though the hundreds of deaths, the agony, the screams… were nothing but background noise.

"That's good," he said lazily. "That's good. You did well."

He stretched slightly, a casual motion that made the scene all the more unsettling. Then his gaze dropped down through the canopy, eyes barely flickering.

"And you're right," he added, almost as an afterthought. "I still have a plan for Linglong."

There was no elaboration, no urgency. Just a quiet certainty that the next steps were already unfolding exactly as he intended. The dead no longer mattered. The living were tools. And Yun, kneeling obediently below, was right where he wanted her.

He closed his eyes again, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—as though fate was just a game he was playing, and everyone else hadn't realized they'd already lost.

For a moment, silence returned. Yun remained kneeling, hands resting on her lap, but her body was no longer still. Her fingers twitched faintly, her shoulders drawn ever so slightly inward. There was a tremble beneath her composed exterior—a hesitation she couldn't suppress.

She was nervous.

Something weighed on her, gnawed at her thoughts like a shadow clinging to the edge of light. Her breath hitched quietly, and her lips parted, but she stopped herself.

Above, Yanwei let out a faint sigh. His voice, when it came, was flat and devoid of emotion, yet it held that same quiet edge of command that always compelled obedience.

"Speak."

She flinched—not visibly, but enough for her breath to catch again.

Then, finally, she asked, voice soft and laced with unease:

"Lord… if you don't mind me asking… are you planning to do that to Linglong too?"

The question hung in the air, trembling and raw. She didn't elaborate on what she meant—she couldn't. The words were too heavy, too dangerous to name. But the implication was clear. It was about what he had done to her—the claim, the bond, the breaking of her will.

She stared down at the dirt, unable to lift her head. The silence that followed felt endless.

And in her chest, her heart beat just a little too fast.

Yanwei's eyes slowly opened, and for the first time, he looked directly at her.

Yun stiffened.

That gaze—cold, unreadable, yet impossibly sharp—pierced through her like a blade made of ice. Her nervousness, once a whisper in her chest, now roared like a storm. Every breath felt tighter, her pulse quickening beneath her skin.

Then he laughed.

Just a little. Quiet. Amused.

"Little Yun…" he murmured, voice like velvet over something sharper. "Are you jealous?"

The words struck her harder than she expected. Her lips parted slightly, but no answer came. She didn't know how to respond. She didn't even know what she felt.

Yanwei shifted lazily against the trunk, his gaze flicking away from her like she was no more than a momentary distraction.

"I'm still thinking what to do with her," he said casually, as if the fate of Linglong—whether she would be broken, remade, or simply discarded—was no more serious than deciding what to eat.

Then he waved a hand, dismissive.

"You can go rest. I'll call for you when I need you."

Yun's fingers curled tightly into her robes. She bowed her head low.

"Yes, Lord."

She stood, her steps light but unsteady as she turned to leave—her thoughts heavier than ever. His voice still echoed in her ears.

Are you jealous?

She didn't know the answer.

And that scared her more than anything.