Chapter 11

Lan Zeyan swayed in the air, streaking across the battlefield as talismans flew from his sleeves like paper birds, igniting upon contact and burning through the endless sea of writhing roots. Below him, Lan Feirong moved with razor precision, his sword slicing through vine after vine—but the roots were relentless, multiplying like hydra heads.

"Tch..." Lan Zeyan gritted his teeth. With a sharp flick, he sheathed his last talisman and drew his spirit sword. The blade glimmered with divine light. "Enough."

"Lan-gongzi!" Lan Feirong shouted over the chaos, his voice edged with annoyance. "Focus on saving Qinghui-ge! I'll deal with the brat!"

A flare of white energy erupted from Lan Feirong's palm as he raised his sword skyward. "White Sun Art—Moonlight Purge!"

A blinding radiance burst forth, illuminating the corrupted grove like a second sun. The roots screeched, recoiling violently as they were seared to ash.

Lan Feirong took the chance, launching toward the demonic child who hovered midair like a dark wisp. His spirit sword carved a luminous arc, aiming straight for the child's throat—but the roots rushed to shield him once again, weaving a wall of black thorns.

"Get out of my way!" Lan Feirong roared, slashing with such speed that his blade became a stream of silver light. He was mere inches from the child's hand when—

Whip! A root shot from behind, aimed at his back.

Sensing it, Lan Feirong flipped midair and cut it down, then landed lightly on a branch. But the child had already slipped away, vanishing into the tangle while the roots surged to keep Lan Feirong occupied.

Meanwhile, Lan Zeyan had reached the center of the grove, where Qinghui lay suspended in a cocoon of dark roots.

With swift, practiced movements, Lan Zeyan conjured a protective seal—a radiant talisman array that surrounded them in a golden sphere, forcing the roots to withdraw for the moment. He stepped closer, and for the first time, saw Qinghui's face.

Peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Yet from the roots embedded into Qinghui's back, Qi was steadily being siphoned—drawn away like threads of light unraveling from a tapestry.

Lan Zeyan narrowed his eyes and exhaled. "Hold on, Qinghui."

He raised his sword and, with a precise slash, severed the roots binding Qinghui's back. The moment the vines were cut, Qinghui's body fell limply from the air. Lan Zeyan caught him without hesitation—

—and his vision darkened.

Images flooded in like a storm.

A battlefield. Two figures—mirror opposites, yet bound by fate. A golden crown and a mask. One raised a blade, the other stood unarmed.

The End of Two Souls.

The masked man drove his sword into the other's chest—blood spilling like ink across white robes. Tears fell from the eyes behind the mask as the world around them began to dissolve into darkness.

Then—silence.

When Lan Zeyan next opened his eyes, he was standing alone in a realm of shadow.

A single spotlight bloomed in the abyss, revealing a scene that stole his breath.

There—kneeling in a pool of blood—was the masked man. Disheveled. Torn. The mask cracked, his body trembling. Crimson tears flowed from his eyes, trailing into the darkness like dying stars.

Lan Zeyan's feet moved forward on instinct, but just as he stepped toward the figure, a voice—low and raw—echoed in the void.

"What will be left of me... if I can no longer protect the ones I love?"

The words hit like a stone in his chest.

Not loud. But full of sorrow. A confession carved into the soul.

Lan Zeyan stood still, then clenched his fist and replied—not with the zeal of a cultivator, but with the quiet conviction of a disciple, a brother, a friend.

"You don't have to protect everyone alone."

He stepped forward into the light.

"You've already carried too much." "Let someone else take the weight. Let me."

The illusion began to crumble. The spotlight dimmed.

But the bleeding figure looked up at last.

And for a heartbeat—

He smiled.

Elsewhere, the battle raged on.

Lan Feirong unleashed a series of powerful spiritual strikes, the sheer force shaking the ground beneath them. Explosions of light and energy clashed against the darkness, sending debris flying through the air. But inside the golden barrier Lan Zeyan had formed, Qinghui remained untouched, suspended in a silent, protected world.

The demonic child did not retreat.

From his tiny frame poured forth unholy spells and tainted arts—blades of shadow, waves of decay, curses that hissed through the air like whispers from hell. Lan Feirong was struck more than once, crimson staining his sleeve—but he did not yield.

He pressed forward.

Their clash was violent. Fierce. Two opposing forces bound by will rather than size or age. But in the end, it was Lan Feirong who broke through. With a final surge of spiritual might, he cleaved through the remaining roots. The grove groaned, and the demonic vines slumped to the ground—withered, exhausted, unable to regenerate.

In one fluid motion, Lan Feirong pinned the child to the scorched earth, his spirit sword pressed tightly against the boy's throat.

The child snarled up at him, eyes blazing with hatred.

"Speak," Lan Feirong demanded, voice sharp as his blade. "Who controls the roots? You're not acting alone. Who sent you?"

The child responded by spitting blood onto Lan Feirong's face and cackling wildly.

"Ahahahaha! I can see it now—the real you. Celestial hypocrite!"

Lan Feirong froze.

The child's smile twisted into something ancient. Something far too knowing.

"What?" he whispered.

"You thought no one would see through it, didn't you?" the child hissed, all traces of childish innocence gone. "That stupid face. That pitiful disguise. But you're still Heaven's dog. Still wagging your tail for that rotten emperor in the skies."

Lan Feirong's grip faltered. His pupils trembled.

"What do you know?"

The child's laugh became crueler, sharper.

"You came here sniffing around for him, didn't you? Afraid he's waking up—afraid the balance will tip, that your false little order will collapse."

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"You won't find him. You can't. Our true king sleeps deeper than your gods can see. And when he rises..."

The child grinned, teeth sharp like fangs.

"...Heaven will fall. And the mortals you cling to will be the first to burn. Watch, watchdog of heaven. Watch it all crumble."

Lan Feirong's breath hitched. It had been centuries—five hundred years in the mortal realm, hidden, quiet, unseen. No one had pierced his disguise. No one had dared speak the truth he buried beneath his name.

And yet this child—this cursed, corrupted wretch—knew.

Lan Zeyan's voice suddenly called from the distance.

"Lan Feirong! I've secured Qinghui—did you find anything useful?"

The question snapped him back.

Eyes wide, blood still on his face, Lan Feirong turned sharply. He could not let Lan Zeyan hear the child's rambling. Could not let the truth rise from the shadows.

With cold resolve, he gripped his sword, and before the child could speak again, he drove the blade downward—not into the heart, but through the mouth. The steel pierced bone and pinned the demon to the earth.

A spray of blood splashed across his robes.

The child writhed, but no words escaped him now—only gurgled breath.

Lan Feirong's hand trembled. He stared down at the body, heart pounding beneath a veneer of practiced calm.

"...No," he said at last, voice cool and detached. "It started spouting nonsense, so I shut it up."

He pulled his blade free.

The body fell still.

Lan Feirong turned, wiped the blood from his cheek, and walked toward Lan Zeyan, who stood beside Qinghui's unconscious form. Lan Feirong took the other side, and supported Qinghui's body.

Behind them, the forest groaned one final time.

And from the far distance—flashes of light broke the horizon. The White Sun Sect reinforcements had arrived, robes gleaming like a tide of dawn across the ruined grove.