Lies Etched In Ink (Updated)

Yue Lian walked beneath the thousand lanterns of the Southern Archive Sect, each flame a flickering soullight—a captured spark of Qi and memory, glowing softly above ancient scrolls, jade slips, and ghost-bound tomes. They floated in a lattice across the arched ceilings, shedding golden light upon the marble floors below. It was said that every lantern contained the remnant will of a long-dead scholar, a tiny ember of knowledge preserved against the slow decay of time.

She kept her eyes forward, her footsteps even, but inside, her thoughts churned.

Last night's jade slip had shattered her foundation. Yan Zhuo—the so-called Crimson Tyrant—hadn't incinerated the border city of Wuheng as the records claimed. He had burned his own cultivation, consumed himself, to shield it from demonic invasion. Thousands had lived because of him.

And yet, history had carved him as a monster.

"Why?" she murmured beneath her breath.

The Southern Archive Sect prided itself on neutrality—on the preservation of all histories, unedited and untouched. But Yue Lian was starting to suspect even they weren't immune to fear or politics. Someone had buried Yan Zhuo's truth. And someone still wanted it forgotten.

She reached the lower sanctum gates—twin obsidian doors veined with silver Qi channels, inscribed with ancestral seals and guarded by five layers of spiritual formations. Only three elders held unrestricted access. Yue Lian had none… but Elder Guan had granted her temporary clearance.

She reached out, pressing her fingers to the sigil plate embedded in the left pillar. It glowed faintly, scanned her Qi signature, then let out a low hiss. The doors slid apart with a weighty groan, revealing a narrow staircase that spiraled down into the archive's forbidden heart.

No one else was permitted this deep. Not even the outer disciples had seen what lay below.

The vault smelled of dust, spirit ash, and time. It was colder here—older. Rows of scroll racks and memory shelves stretched into the darkness, each labeled in runes she'd only seen in fragmentary form aboveground. Qi here didn't flow—it hung, stagnant, oppressive, as if the very walls had opinions about being disturbed.

She moved quickly, weaving through shelves until she reached the section marked Red Lotus Rebellion Era. Most records were sealed behind thin arrays, but one jade slip pulsed faintly—a pale, unassuming white rather than the typical crimson of wartime records.

Strange.

She reached for it, hesitating for just a moment before pressing it to her forehead and focusing her Qi.

The world vanished.

She stood in a ruined court chamber, its once-elegant walls scorched black, its pillars split by what looked like explosive fire Qi. Smoke drifted in from the ceiling, which had caved in at the far end. Screams echoed faintly—ghostly remnants of trauma embedded in the memory.

Yan Zhuo stood at the chamber's center, armor scorched, blood trickling down his temple. In his arms, he cradled a sobbing child—barely five years old, her robes charred at the hem.

Across from him stood a circle of sect elders—regal, untouched, their robes pristine. They looked at him not with remorse, but judgment.

"These are your protectors?" Yan Zhuo's voice cracked—not with rage, but with grief so raw it echoed like thunder. "These liars? You sold the city to demons!"

One of the elders raised his hand, conjuring a glowing red talisman. "You defied the pact. The demonic sects offered peace in exchange for one city. You made war instead."

"A city of civilians!" Yan Zhuo roared. "You call that peace?"

The memory fractured—splintering as Yue Lian stumbled back. The jade slip dropped from her fingers, hitting the stone floor with a crack. Her skin burned. Her Qi buckled and hissed inside her meridians.

She had seen enough.

But before she could flee the chamber, she felt the temperature drop. A cold presence stood behind her, calm and precise.

She turned.

Archivist Xin.

A tall, spare woman cloaked in gray-blue robes inked with flowing script. Her staff—blackwood etched with judging sigils—glowed faintly at the tip. Her hair was bound in a scholar's knot, and her eyes were sharp, unblinking. Rusted needles, Yue Lian thought.

"You accessed a restricted memory," Xin said softly. "Why?"

Yue Lian swallowed, steadying her breathing. "I have Elder Guan's clearance. This is part of my research—my thesis on revisionist sect histories."

Xin didn't blink. "History is shaped by those who live to tell it. Not by curious scholars resurrecting the dead."

Before Yue Lian could explain, the doors behind her slammed shut. The stone beneath her feet flickered with silver runes. A trap array.

Her blood chilled.

In another wing of the Archive, Elder Guan slammed his fist down onto a scroll table. The lanterns above flared with Qi in response.

"She's only seeking the truth!" he growled, robes flaring.

An elder beside him—the scribe of the Grand Index—spoke without raising her gaze. "And truth burns nations, Brother Guan. You remember what happened the last time someone unearthed the real history of the Azure Fang War."

Guan's face paled. "That's exactly why we must not repeat it. We cannot keep choking the truth. It always claws its way back."

Back in the sanctum, Yue Lian's hand twitched toward her sleeve—toward the sealing talisman she kept in emergencies—but Xin's gaze warned her not to try.

"If you're going to silence me," Yue Lian said quietly, "then do it. But if you do, you'll prove Yan Zhuo right. Again."

A long silence passed.

The formations around her feet glowed once more… then began to dim.

Xin exhaled, almost reluctantly. "Leave. Now. You won't get another chance. And if I see you again…"

"I understand."

Yue Lian bowed—shallow, not grateful, but respectful—and turned. She snatched the jade slip and fled through the now-unsealed doors, her boots barely touching the ground.

As she vanished into the spiraling upper levels, the white jade slip hidden in her sleeve pulsed faintly. Not just memory, but intent lingered inside it. A seal more ancient than the sect itself.

Far across the continent, deep in the uncharted shadow of a broken mountain range, the tomb stirred again. Its chains, forged of obsidian and stardust, groaned softly.

Within it, a red crystal throbbed once.

Then again.

Yan Zhuo's soul fragment—buried, silenced, erased—had felt her touch.

And it remembered.