Chapter 98 : When the Past Bleeds Through : The Mark Returns From The Fire Left Behind

Morning light poured softly through the high windows, casting golden rays that danced across the marbled floor streaked now in dry, cracked paint. Crimson stains painted the room like war wounds on a battlefield of silence. Brushes lay discarded, canvases leaned in stillness, and in the center of it all curled like a forgotten thought—lay the Crown Prince.

He hadn't moved from where he collapsed the night before, his body curled inward, arms tucked close, as if guarding something only he could see. Dried red clung to his skin like old blood, smeared across his cheek, his wrists, and pooled beneath his fingers. His robes were ruined, soaked and stiff with pigment.

Knock. Knock.

A firm yet hesitant sound echoed through the chamber.

The prince didn't open his eyes. Instead, his hand searched blindly across the floor, fingers brushing past shards of a broken palette and the corner of a fallen cloth until he found it the red-stained strip of silk. He pulled it close.

With slow, practiced grace, he sat up. The silk was damp with dried paint, but he tied it over his eyes with reverence. His breathing remained quiet, composed, even as his face remained hidden behind crimson blindfold and weary silence.

With a small wave of his hand, the doors creaked open without a sound.

A single guard stepped in, lowering his head deeply.

"Forgive me for disturbing your personal space, Your Highness… but you've been summoned to the court hall immediately."

The prince did not speak.

He only nodded—once.

The guard, couldn't help but let his eyes wander for the briefest second. The sight of the room the splashed walls, the smeared canvases, the broken brush beneath the prince's foot seized him like a gust of winter air. He quickly bowed again and turned on his heel.

The door slammed shut behind him with finality.

He exhaled sharply and turned to the two royal guards standing tall beside the door, their silver helmets glinting in the sunlight.

"…His Highness is painting again," he said under his breath.

The two guards exchanged glances and sighed in sync—deep, familiar, resigned.

The Grand Court was steeped in tension. The heavy scent of sandalwood incense hung thick in the air, but even that could not mask the dread that had settled over the chamber like a shroud. Advisors murmured in hushed tones. Commanders stood pale, their arms stiff behind their backs.

The hall itself was a vast cavern of silence and echo gilded columns rising like pillars of judgment, while the cold jade floor stretched endlessly beneath the feet of those who dared speak too long. Ministers stood aligned in stiff ceremonial robes, and every glance held the weight of unspoken fear.

At the far end, elevated upon the grand dais, the Emperor sat tall his face half-shadowed beneath the golden crown, his gaze unreadable beneath the crushing burden of something.

Just then, the grand doors creaked open with weight, their sound echoing across the chamber like the strike of a gong. All heads turned in unison, conversation ceasing instantly, the air turning still.

From the wide threshold, a single figure emerged—clad in deep obsidian robes laced with muted crimson threads, walking with the calm gravity. His boots touched the jade floor with a soundless precision, each step purposeful, slow, and unwavering.

Though he was a rare sight even within the palace walls, none could mistake him.

The Crown Prince.

A silent ripple passed through the hall. Ministers, generals, advisors, men and women hardened by rank and power found themselves watching without blinking. It was not fear he carried, nor arrogance, but something older. Colder. A quiet power born from ache, forged in restraint, and sealed behind the half-mask that veiled the upper part of his face.

He stopped in the center of the court, his hands together before him in the formal gesture of respect. He bowed low.

"My greetings to His Majesty, the Emperor."

The Emperor's fingers curled slowly into a fist atop the gilded armrest. Then he rose each step deliberate as he descended from the dais, robes flowing like a storm gathering form. He said nothing to acknowledge the Crown Prince's greeting. His silence alone sent a stronger message than words ever could.

Without so much as a glance, he lifted a hand and signaled to the shadows near the foot of the stairs.

A young slayer stepped forward then dropped to one knee in the center of the hall. His body wavered, one arm trembling from a deep gash that split through skin and cloth. Blood soaked the edge of his sleeve, pooling beneath him on the jade floor.

"Your Majesty…" he breathed, his voice strained. "We lost twenty men. All trained slayers."

The chamber stilled.

"The demon's energy was… beyond anything we've faced. Even General Shun—a Fourth-Rank cultivator was struck down before he could even unsheathe his divine blade."

Silence followed like thunder. The weight of it pressed against every chest in the room.

"It tore through the Northern gate of the Middle Sector like wind through dry leaves. The entire Northern quadrant gone. Not a single life spared. Homes. Markets. Everything. All reduced to ash and ruin."

The Emperor's gaze sharpened, cold and heavy.

"What was it after?"

The slayer's throat tightened. "We don't know, Your Majesty. It wasn't feeding. It was… searching for life. Tearing open homes, shattering temples. It destroyed everything it touched. Then it—"

He faltered.

"Then it set everything ablaze and… vanished. In the blink of an eye. Like it was never there."

The silence thickened.

"There were three survivors pulled from the wreckage, including myself. But…" his voice dropped, "two succumbed to their wounds before nightfall."

A pause.

The young slayer stared at the floor, face pale, eyes haunted. His breath came short.

The Emperor's jaw clenched. "Speak," he ordered, voice a blade.

The boy's voice broke as he continued, each word dragged from somewhere deeper than memory.

"There was one thing, Your Majesty… something every victim shared." He hesitated again until the Emperor stepped closer, casting a shadow over him.

The slayer looked up, his body shaking now, eyes wide with horror remembered.

"Half-burnt faces… and a mark on the untouched side."

The words hit the court like a spark to dry oil.

Murmurs erupted across the chamber shocked gasps, frantic whispers. Faces turned, pale and stricken. Ministers exchanged horrified glances. Commanders stiffened, jaws clenched. Even the columns seemed to tremble under the weight of what had just been said.

The Emperor's eyes widened. He took an involuntary step back. A cold sweat glistened along his brow. His fingers twitched at his sides subtle, but unmistakable. His breathing turned shallow as the young slayer continued, swallowing hard.

"Not identical… but similar. The same faded shape… the same unnatural hue. Like the marks found on the victims of the Ivory Lotus Festival Disaster thirteen years ago."

Time stilled.

The Crown Prince, whose breath had already begun to quicken, suddenly froze. His entire body tensed. Then a sharp, lancing pain burst through his skull. He staggered. His hand flew to his head, fingers trembling as he fought to steady himself. A memory he couldn't forget clawed at the edge of his mind. He clutched his head tighter, nails biting into his scalp. Still, he refused to cry out.

The Emperor stared at his son doubled over in pain—his shoulders heaving, his breath ragged. His voice low and shaken.

"That disaster…" he whispered, as if the words themselves burned. "A tragedy that made the entire nation tremble. That carved fear into history itself."

His voice grew hoarse. "It took everything from us..."

"Even the memory of it," he continued, "is enough to stir hatred… and fear… in the hearts of all who survived it."

A groan tore from the prince's throat.

He fell to his knees on the jade floor, hands curled into fists, knuckles white, chest heaving with each breath.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

And in the stillness, it became clear,

The past had returned.