3. In the Shadow of the Divine

Once, long ago, clarity had felt like sunlight.

Ziyin had been fifteen the day the heavens turned their gaze upon him. He was always a positive, kind, and warm-hearted person, even as a child. Though his youth was consumed by strict cultivation training, he remembered only fragments of that time—the serene halls and homes of Jing Yao Sect. A breathtaking place: full of hills and mountains, gentle streams, elegant white buildings adorned with pearls and jade, small fountains, and delicate white flowers scattered everywhere. Swords danced like poetry in the air. It was a place of grace.

He had learned powerful magic there, mastered many spells, and spent his free time reading and meditating. That place had been his haven. And he was deeply grateful to those who raised him—those who picked him up when he fell, who smiled kindly, and later, who admired and learned from him. It had truly felt like family.

And he had smiled then, a soft and genuine smile.

"A-Zhao! A-Zhao! Huang Tian-zun is here! Hurry!" called one of the disciples.

He had turned, laughter rising unbidden in his throat. His Highness—Huang Tian-zun, Emperor Yan Rui—had arrived.

To others, the man was legend—draped in flowing robes of snow white and sun-gold, his voice low and commanding, his presence effortless. His hair was tied back with a golden pin, the fur of his mantle shifting slightly as he walked.

To Ziyin, he had been something more. A mentor. A protector. A beacon.

"Chen Zhao," he had said softly, smiling with eyes that held centuries of hidden things. "You grow stronger with each season. Come. Today, you shall be gifted the bond you long awaited."

That day, they had journeyed together to Greenmist Ridge, the sacred seat of the Ling Shou Sect. In the prestigious Ling Shou Sect—directly under the Emperor—young cultivators who reached a certain level of spiritual power were granted spirit animals. Though they resembled real animals, these spirits were immortal in a sense—they could be injured but only died when their bonded partner did. Then, they would pass on to another suitable master.

Spirit animals were more than companions—they were reflections of one's soul, bonded through spirit and fate. These beings, drawn from the ethereal realm, were neither fully beast nor deity, and once tethered to their master, they shared breath, power, and even pain.

Though their forms varied endlessly, spirit beasts were known to belong to one of four core affinities, each carrying their own purpose and temperament.

Some were war-spirits, fierce and proud, forged for the battlefield. Tigers with eyes like burning suns, wolves whose howls shook mountains, and hounds born of lightning and steel—these were the companions of generals and guardians. They fought without hesitation, burned with loyalty, and spilled blood beside their masters with savage grace.

Others took the form of healers, gentle and serene, born from still water and moonlight. White rabbits with soft paws that radiated warmth, birds whose feathers glowed with soothing qi, and silver-scaled fish that sang to the wounded—these spirits calmed storms within the body and soul, often found at the sides of medics, monks, and dreamers.

Then there were the common-bound spirits, humble in task yet sacred in their connection. Horses who galloped tirelessly over mountains and snow, oxen with steady eyes that tilled spiritual fields, roosters who kept watch under the stars—these beasts aided in daily life, assisting with travel, labour, and cultivation with unwavering faith.

Lastly came the tactical familiars, elusive and clever, often underestimated. Moths that carried whispers, butterflies whose wings distorted perception, moles that tunnelled through hidden earth, and rats with eyes that gleamed like stolen secrets—these were the silent watchers, companions of tacticians, spies, and scholars. Where swords failed, these spirits would often succeed.

But among the legends, there were whispers of spirits that belonged to none of these paths—hybrids, cursed, or divine. Rare and wild-hearted, some could both heal and harm, mislead and guide. These were feared and revered in equal measure, and those who bonded with them were seen as either chosen by the heavens or cursed by fate.

They arrived in Greenmist Ridge, residence of the Ling Shou Sect. Chen Zhao was led to the great hall to prepare.

Dressed in white robes with fine golden trim, his hair tied with white and gold ribbons, he looked at himself in the old copper mirror. His heart fluttered. He had always admired spirit users. Though skilled in magic and talismans, he longed for a spirit companion—to fight beside, to grow with. The white-and-gold robes were sacred, reserved only for those who served the Emperor directly.

Once fully dressed, Chen Zhao walked silently through the grand halls, his mind racing even as his face remained calm. Inside the great ceremonial chamber, people from all sects gathered. Yan Rui took his hand before the crowd.

"This youth," he said, "has not only mastered sword and spell—but also heart and humility. He is kind. Loyal. Brilliant. Let his rise remind us that greatness can bloom from patience, not only power."

There had been murmurs. Admiration. Envy. Still, no one dared refute the words of the Emperor.

"From this day forth," Yan Rui declared, "Chen Zhao—courtesy name Chen Ziyin—shall bear the title Chen Guang Xian. He shall be my shield and voice, my right hand. He shall wield justice, and be known by it."

The crowd rose in applause. Ziyin remembered none of it. He only remembered Linghua—the gift bestowed to him by the leader of Jing Yao Sect. A sword of purest elegance, its blade like morning dew caught on a bloom. It shimmered with a scent only he could name. He had bowed as he accepted it. Grateful. Proud. Then came the summoning.

Presided over by Master Ye Lian, head of Qing Ye Pavilion, it required precise ritual. Spirit selection was not a choice, but a resonance. A spirit chose you. Ziyin stood beneath the glowing formation, pulse steady, his breath silent.

"Focus," Master Ye had whispered. "Let the spirit know you."

The air shimmered. The sigils glowed. Spiritual energy flowed between them. The room held its breath. It took longer than expected. Whispers began. But there was no negative energy—only power. Calm, deep, and vast. For a time, nothing happened.

Then came a roar. Pain slammed into Chen Zhao's head. His core felt crushed. He clutched himself—but no darkness, no danger. Just... power.

The windows of the hall burst open as wind thundered through. A massive shadow passed over the assembly—scales gleaming, eyes like cold flame. A dragon. An ancient spirit, long believed extinct or cursed. Then, just as suddenly, it vanished. A faint, red ring-shaped mark remained on Chen Zhao's finger.

Gasps filled the hall.

"No spirit beast has appeared like this in centuries!"

"Is it a mistake? A curse?!"

Then, silence.

Yan Rui raised a hand. "Enough. Did this creature harm us?" he asked. "Did it come with malice?" His voice echoed, low and calm. "Or did it bow to its chosen? The dragon has long been feared—but only because it cannot be tamed by the wicked. Today, it chose purity."

Faith stirred where fear had bloomed. But back in his chambers, Ziyin sat alone. He stared at the ring on his finger, its pulse soft and cold.

"Why… me?" he whispered to no one. He pressed his forehead to the cool stone wall, eyes unfocused.

It should have been a day of triumph. But instead… it felt like the beginning of something terrible.

A prophecy. A fate he never asked for. And the spirit within him remained silent.

*

Gui Shuang clenched his injured hand, each pulse of pain a burning reminder that he couldn't afford to delay any longer. He walked in silence, the lightest crunch of gravel beneath his boots muffled by the mist that curled along the ground like a serpent hunting breath. The forest loomed around him, once vibrant and verdant in his memory, now twisted by the corruption that laced the air. It was no longer the woodland of his youth, the one he once wandered through in search of spirit fruits, harmless beasts, and long-lost texts hidden beneath roots. No—this place had soured. Something ancient and hateful had taken root beneath the soil.

The veins around the sealed dragon curse glowing faintly beneath his skin. Each pulse of pain was like a hot iron pressed into flesh—a burning reminder that his power, though still great, had not returned to its prime. He couldn't afford to waste strength. Not now. Not here.

The mist grew denser with each step, coiling around his legs, brushing cold fingers against his robes. It wasn't illusion mist—no. This was real. Physical. And yet the qi it carried was sickly sweet, like rotting blossoms in spring. Too thick, too foul. The sort that clung to your lungs and whispered things into your dreams.

He drew Xuemie from his back, the sword singing softly as it left its sheath. Its obsidian-black blade shimmered with blue frost, etched with ancient runes barely visible unless one looked close. The hilt, carved from spirit-jade ice, burned with a cold flame—hungry, restrained, loyal only to him.

Gui Shuang advanced. Trickster spirits, minor forest-born wraiths, darted in and out of sight, some the size of rabbits, others as small as moths. Their laughter echoed like children mocking from a distance. He cut them down without mercy. His sword left no trail of blood, only silence—silence and a fine sheen of frost that remained long after they vanished. Compassion was a luxury. One he could no longer afford.

Deeper still, the world quieted, even the trees standing motionless like petrified sentinels.

Then, voices. Human voices. "Who would dare wander this deep into a cursed forest?" he thought, narrowing his eyes. "Could it be the Emperor's envoy already?" He stopped at once, hiding behind a moss-laden stone. His breath slowed, qi pulled tight into his core as his eyes scanned the veiled woods.

Through the mist, deep emerald and gold caught the light—robes of the Ling Shou Sect, unmistakable in their grace: qilin and white crane encircling a central pearl, threads catching starlight with every move.

A spiritual formation glowed beneath their feet, faint but holding. At its edge stood a majestic spirit Ox, horns shimmering as it projected a steady barrier over the group. Resting nearby, a translucent white glass-eyed spirit Deer blinked with long-lashed eyes, surrounded by floating talismans. The youth beside it knelt in prayer, brow furrowed in silent focus. Shadow-wolves circled another disciple, their forms flickering in and out of substance like restless smoke. The boy's hands trembled, breaths shallow.

"Too young", Gui Shuang thought. "Too unready". And yet they were here. Alone.

"Disciples of Ling Shou Sect rarely carry weapons—preferring to fight through bonds with summoned beasts. But what are they facing that needs such a formation?" He swept Wuci lightly, scattering the mist in front of him. And then he saw it.

A tremor of unease crept down his spine.

There, slinking just beyond sight, was a creature he'd hoped never to see again. "No… not here. Not in this forest."

A Jiangshi.

Not the fumbling, comedic corpse from bedtime warnings. No. This was the true kind—ancient, feral, hateful. A corpse that walked not for purpose, but hunger. Hunger for blood. For qi. For life.

His grip on Xuemie tightened, fingers digging into the hilt. The last time he faced such a thing, blood had covered the temple floor. He struck the air again with Wuci—this time, unintentionally revealing his presence. The boy controlling the spirit of Deer turned slightly, voice calm despite the strain.

"Who's there? Reveal yourself. We have no time for mischief."

Gui Shuang didn't respond. He was tracking the beast's movement, calculating. Alone, with his spiritual power not yet fully restored, could he even kill it? Finally, he murmured, eyes still scanning, "Where is your master? Who sent you here?"

The Deer-wielder replied without hesitation: "Our Shizun is pursuing the beast. We were left to maintain the formation—to draw it out."

Gui Shuang's brow twitched. "Using disciples as bait? Insanity."

Still, it might work. Jiangshi were drawn to strong, living qi. He asked again, voice low, "Do you even know what a Jiangshi is?"

This time, the boy with the Ox spirit answered—his tone respectful, if strained, "Yes, Senior. A cursed being that feeds on life essence—blood, spirit, even the mind. Strong ones kill with a single touch."

Gui Shuang observed the trembling in the boy's arm. The shield was heavy and clearly faltering. "And yet you remain standing…" he muttered. These disciples were brave—but foolish. Another spoke, this one looking slightly older.

"But Jiangshi are ancient, aren't they? Why would one appear here? This forest... it was supposed to be sealed."

Gui Shuang's voice grew darker. "It was sealed. Someone lifted the curse. Now the creature wanders, feeding on wild spirits—good or evil, it doesn't care. And now..." He glanced toward the shadows. "...it found you."

He didn't mention his own curse, the dragon spirit sealed within his hand. Even dormant, it sensed danger—and flared with protective instinct. No beast dared come close. But the disciples had no such protection.

Another shriek tore through the air. The Jiangshi's cry—unnatural and grating—rattled their bones and sent a spike of pain through Gui Shuang's skull. He gritted his teeth.

"That scream—it's trying to break your formation. Once your minds falter, it will attack." He turned to the healer boy, "Can any of your spirits dispel illusions?"

"Only our Shizun," the Deer-wielder replied. "He's cleansing the area from the outside."

Gui Shuang cursed inwardly. There was no time. "Then listen carefully. I can finish this—but I need your cooperation. You must drop your defences."

The disciples stiffened. They all turned, shocked.

"Senior—?"

"I'll protect you. But the Jiangshi will only strike if it senses weakness. If you maintain this wall, it'll simply wait. And when you falter—it will kill you all. Listen, once your barrier falls, it will strike. Keep your eyes closed. You will not be harmed."

The Deer-wielder, the calmest of the group, hesitated only a moment before nodding, "Understood, Senior. We place our trust in you."

The other boys closed their eyes, their spirits withdrawing slightly in obedience. The wolves rested beside their silent master—injured, but poised to defend to the death. The Ox spirit remained as the last line of defence.

Gui Shuang stepped closer, wind whispering at his heels. His robes, deep blue and embroidered with silver stars, flowed like a night tide around him. In one hand, his sword. In the other, the fan, Wuci, which now shimmered with a subtle frost. He spoke quietly.

"On my mark. One... two…" With the third breath, he shouted, "Now!"

The barrier dropped. A heartbeat later, the Jiangshi struck. But Gui Shuang was already moving. Mist surged. His fan opened with a flourish, conjuring a spiritual wind shield to envelop the disciples. With his other hand, he slashed the air. Xuemie blazed with dark-blue light, scattering snowflakes with every motion. Time itself seemed to slow. The scream came at once. It tore through the trees like claws raking glass, the sound splitting the air. The Jiangshi charged—claws extended, red eyes gleaming. A skeletal figure, skin rotted and taut over its frame, fangs protruding from a grotesquely grinning face. Its crimson eyes locked on the cultivators.

But Gui Shuang was faster. He struck. One blow froze the air around the creature. With one fluid motion, he pierced the beast through the chest—then drew his blade across its spine. A single, beautiful arc. The Jiangshi screamed as frost consumed its flesh, freezing it mid-motion. Then, it shattered.

Silence. Then ashes. Cold air lingered. Snowflakes floated gently around the youths, never quite touching the ground. The air shimmered with stillness. Gui Shuang stood there, wavering, propping himself with his sword. Pain exploded in his arm. The sealed dragon was furious—starved after years of dormancy, and now denied the feast of defeated spirits. His hand flared with deep red light, and blood dripped from his fingers. He gritted his teeth—then coughed, crimson splattering the earth. He sank to one knee.

"Senior!" the Deer-wielder cried out, rushing forward. "You're injured—please!"

But he raised a hand, teeth clenched. "No... don't... waste it..."

The words caught in his throat. But his body betrayed him. The world tilted. His legs buckled. He collapsed fully onto the cold ground, coughing blood, vision dimming.

As his consciousness slipped away, he saw it—

A small creature beside him. A fox? Soft white fur brushed against his cheek. The warmth was… strange. And then, everything went dark.

---

10. Jing Yao Sect (静曜) - 'Radiant Stillness' / 'Sect of Serene Radiance'; Sect of Swords and Magic (located in Brightjade Peak).

11. Honorific A- (阿) - It's a prefix added to a name (usually 1 character) to express: affection, familiarity, casual closeness.

12. Huang Tian-zun (皇天尊) - 'Heavenly Sovereign'; Emperor's title.

13. Yan Rui (晏睿) - 'Tranquil and Wise'; Emperor's name.

14. Ling Shou Sect (灵兽派) - 'Spirit Beast Sect' (located in Greenmist Ridge).

15. Qi (气 / 氣) - is seen as an internal energy cultivated through breathing techniques, meditation, and martial arts practice. Enhancing strength and speed, withstanding injury, releasing energy in strikes (like palm blasts). The foundation of cultivation and power.

16. Chen Guang Xian (辰光仙) - 'Celestial Light of Morning' / 'Celestial Radiance Immortal'; Chen Zhao's title.

17. Ye Lian (夜莲) - 'Lotus of the Night'; leader of Qing Ye Pavilion, Great Sage.

18. Qing Ye Pavilion (青叶阁) - 'Greenleaf Pavilion'; Healer's Sect (located in Timberheart Reach).

19. Wuci (雾辞) – 'Mist Farewell'; Chen Zhao's fan obtained after sacrifice on the mountain along Xumie.

20. Jiangshi (僵尸) - hopping vampire or stiff corpse. A bloody beast living on human blood and qi.

21. Shizun (师尊) – Honoured Master (more formal honorific).