“Xiao-Lan…”

The whisper echoed through the cell, falling with a dull thud against the cold walls and bloodstained stone floor.

Mo Yuan’s knees felt weak and he nearly collapsed, wave after wave of nausea rushing through him. He could barely keep from doubling over and retching at the sight before him. Since departing Mengshan Temple at the age of fifteen, he and his companions had lived in the wild lands beyond the clans’ reach, where they had fought fierce beasts for food and contended with the occasional evil cultivator that had made his lair there. After returning to the cultivation world, they had been in near-constant conflict with the great clans, who sought to wipe them out or imprison them and stem the growth of their cause before it turned into an all-out rebellion.

Through all of that, Mo Yuan had never seen such cruelty as this. To kill in battle was one thing— to torment one who couldn’t fight back was different. It was deeds like this that gave rogue cultivators the reputation of being “evil”— and yet Mo Yuan’s first encounter with such utter sadism wasn’t in the wild lands, or the shadows of the jianghu, but here instead— dealt by the hands of the very same institutions that pledged to protect the world from such things.

And for what purpose?

This boy was no infamous evildoer— he was nothing more than a child.

Fighting against the churning in his stomach and the racing of his heart, Mo Yuan crossed the floor. He tried to ignore the faint splash of his feet in the pools of blood upon the ground, the crawling sense of dread that crept across his skin with each step. He reached up toward the shackles around the boy’s wrists and ankles. They were reinforced with inscriptions that shone faintly in the darkness, bitter and blood-red. The walls and door of the cell blocked one’s spiritual perception from reaching beyond them, while these shackles restricted a cultivator’s ability to channel their spiritual power through their body. Cultivators, even those who had only reached Ningqi stage, healed more quickly than ordinary mortals and thus could endure and recover from more severe injuries. Those bound by these chains, however, would have their power reduced to that of an ordinary person.

“Mo Lan… can you hear me?” Mo Yuan whispered, his voice trembling, throat tight.

There was no response from the boy, even when Mo Yuan reached out to cup a bruised, blood-stained cheek. His hair was stuck to his forehead, covering his eye— or at least, where his eye once had been. Mo Yuan drew his hand back, covering his mouth in a failed attempt to hold back a choked sob.

He swallowed, then turned his attention toward the places where the chains were fastened to the wall. He summoned his spiritual power into his palm, lashing out to strike the place where the strain was greatest— the inscriptions were present only on the cuffs themselves, likely so that a prisoner could be restrained in a variety of different positions or levels of restriction. The chain broke, and he hurried to catch Mo Lan before he could be jerked to the side by the one attached to his other wrist. His body was so badly damaged that Mo Yuan feared any jolt or jostle could worsen his condition.

After pausing for a moment to make sure no one had somehow noticed something was off and come to investigate, Mo Yuan broke the chain holding Mo Lan’s other arm, then slowly, carefully lowered both himself and the unconscious youth to the ground.

“We will escape this place together, Xiao-Lan,” he murmured, resting Mo Lan’s bloodied head on his lap and trying his best to ignore his shaking fingers and the rage smoldering deep within him. Mo Lan’s survival was the most important thing right now— he could get his revenge on the ones who did this to him once the boy was safe.

The concealment device had allowed him to enter the prison unnoticed, even making it all the way to this cell. Mo Yuan, however, did not know whether it could conceal two people at once. He’d not wanted to give away any more information than necessary to Ning Feiyun, after all, so he simply hadn’t asked.

He detached the device from his own clothes, then pinned it gently to Mo Lan’s tattered, bloodied shirt. Once it was activated, Mo Lan vanished right there within his arms. It was uncanny. Had he not been holding onto the boy, he would be just as unnoticeable as those concealed guards had been. Still, as far as Mo Yuan can tell, his own form remained visible. He could restrain his spiritual aura, but he was no illusionist— with just that technique he wouldn’t be able to escape notice unless the entirety of the mountain prison’s guard were suddenly struck blind.

There was still another matter of importance. Mo Lan’s injuries were severe, and still bleeding, and though Mo Yuan was attempting to use his own power to stabilize the boy, the shackles upon his wrists and ankles restricted the flow of spiritual qi through his meridians, whether his own or borrowed.

For Mo Lan to properly recover, they would need to be removed somehow— but Mo Yuan did not have the key to these shackles, nor was there an obvious weak point in the inscriptions that were engraved upon the iron.

Even if they managed to escape the prison, even if he got Mo Lan all the way back to their hideaway, his life could still be in danger unless they could find out how to remove the shackles.

It was an ill-prepared rescue attempt, fueled by fear and by guilt— Mo Yuan should have never allowed the boy to go out and seize that supply cart. He should have realized that it was a trap, before Mo Lan’s signal talisman had notified him that the boy was in trouble. He should have rushed to the scene more quickly, and gotten there in time to prevent the raiding party from being slaughtered and Mo Lan from being dragged away, leaving nothing but a trail of blood behind.

Nearly half a month had passed since then, and Mo Yuan had been nearly feverish the whole time, lying in wait near Baidong Mountain’s barrier array, listening in to every conversation he could between the guards and patrolmen. When he at last heard that Mo Lan was still alive, and being held within the mountain prison, he had only planned so far as to leverage his past friendship with Luo Qian, who had been adopted as the Ning clan’s third son, Ning Feiyun, in order to get past the barrier and gain the tools he needed to infiltrate the prison.

He had faced countless risks since leaving Mengshan Temple three years ago— but this had shaken him far more deeply than anything else.

How could it not?

Though the two were not related by blood, Mo Lan was a younger brother to him. He had always looked up to Mo Yuan, endlessly clinging to his side and trying to impress him. On the night that Mo Yuan, Qiu Wei, and the others had left Mengshan Temple, Mo Lan had run after them, sobbing and begging to come along.

Mo Yuan detached the concealment device once more and felt Mo Lan’s pulse. It was weak, and growing still-weaker by the second. He opened up the pouch at his waist, taking out a strengthening pill and placing it within the boy’s mouth. The Nameless cultivators often had a limited supply of medicines and thus used them sparingly— even though a girl from Xuanlin’s medicine cultivators, who had some training already before running away from home, had recently joined their cause, unless it were some herb or ingredient that could be easily gathered in the mountains or the wild lands, there was still nothing they had in abundance. Mo Yuan only had this one strengthening pill with him to to use in case of emergency— but Mo Lan would die if he didn’t have some kind of help. The shackles could not entirely restrict a person’s spiritual flow… maybe this medicine would be enough to keep him from fading away.

Mo Yuan shut his eyes, shoulders trembling as he held the younger boy close. He had been such a fool back then… he had truly thought they would be able to establish their own sect and work toward a bright and glorious future.

He should have never agreed to let Mo Lan come with them.

If he hadn’t, the boy would still be at Mengshan Temple today, safe and secure— not chained and tormented in the depths of a prison that was supposed to be reserved for the foulest of the world’s criminals.

He was just a child.

“Da-ge…”

Mo Yuan didn’t even notice the tears that had begun to roll down his cheeks, nor how much he was trembling. As soon as he heard that faint voice, though, he opened his eyes. Mo Lan’s head was pillowed in the crook of Mo Yuan’s elbow, upper back resting upon his knees. The boy didn’t move, and his remaining eye was only slightly open, barely visible beneath tear and blood-caked lashes.

Still, seeing him awake at all was unexpected— and just for a moment, Mo Yuan felt a small lurch of hope within his heart. Maybe the strengthening pill really had worked.

Maybe Mo Lan would survive, and they could somehow escape… maybe back at the hideaway they could find a way to break the shackles, and since Mo Lan’s cultivation was already quite good, he might be able to recover.

Maybe… they really should disappear back into the wild lands, and spend time recovering and training and gaining strength before returning again to establish themselves within the cultivation world…

Or maybe, they would just continue to build a life for themselves beyond its borders.

If he and Mo Lan were able to survive this… he would give up that foolish ambition entirely. It would be better to simply start something new for themselves, instead trying to break apart a world that only wished to stamp them out.

“Xiao-Lan,” he whispered back, for fear that even with the cell’s silenced walls, his voice would carry beyond them, “Da-ge is here. I’ve come to take you away from this place.”

Mo Lan didn’t respond. For a moment, the only sound was the quiet rasp of his breathing, and Mo Yuan wondered if he had lost consciousness again. Then, the boy’s bloodied lips curved slightly into a faint, weak smile.

“I’m so glad…” Mo Lan replied, his voice trembling. Then, the smile was replaced by a look of anguish, and a choked sob escaped his throat. “I’m sorry, Da-ge… I didn’t mean… to be captured…”

“It isn’t your fault,” Mo Yuan insisted, holding him ever so slightly closer, propping the boy’s head up against his chest. “I should have realized that things were getting dangerous.”

Another few sobs followed, breaking off into a rattling cough. Mo Yuan tried to calm the younger boy down, gently stroking a place on his head where there didn’t seem to be any cuts or bruises. Mo Lan was intermittently shaking and still, his body too weak even to keep trembling.

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“I… didn’t tell them,” Mo Lan continued. “They tried to make me, but… I didn’t tell them how to find you or the others. I… I won’t give in, just like Da-ge.”

“Hush now… don’t try to speak too much. You should maintain your strength…”

Mo Lan fell silent again, and swallowed— then coughed once more. Blood ran from between his lips, his lashes fluttering as his eye rolled back into his head. Even speaking took the boy so much effort, caused him so much pain.

The severity of his injuries was becoming more and more apparent. He had been tormented for many days now, and the floor of the cell was soaked in his blood. Many of his bones were broken, and along with his missing eye, half of the fingers on his right hand had been severed. The sound of his breathing was painful to listen to, and he could barely keep his eye open enough to look up at Mo Yuan’s face.

He needed to find them a way out of this prison, but before he could start to formulate a plan, he felt a tug at his clothes. Glancing down, he saw that the boy had caught hold of his sleeve with his less-injured hand, holding on as firmly as he could with his weak, shaky grip.

“I’m glad,” Mo Lan repeated. “I’m glad that I… I’m not alone.”

Another cough, another mouthful of blood spilled.

Mo Yuan’s eyes went wide as he realized he could feel the boy growing weaker and weaker. And now, he could feel something else as well— something sinister, winding its way through his veins, burning through his meridians.

His heart sank. Not only had they tortured Mo Lan… but they’d poisoned him as well.

“It hurts… so much. They wanted to… use me against you. I thought I wouldn’t see you… I thought I would… die here in the dark, but I’m not alone, and there’s light. I’ve been so cold, but at least… before I die.. I’m not as cold anymore.”

“No…” Mo Yuan shook his head. He gathered Mo Lan up in his arms and held him close. “We’ll leave this place, we’ll get back to the hideaway and you’ll heal. Xiao-Lan, don’t say things like that! You can’t say that sort of thing, alright? Stop acting like you’re going to die!”

Mo Lan’s head drooped, tucking up close against Mo Yuan’s shoulder. Mo Yuan could feel the blood that dripped from the younger boy’s wounds, soaking through his clothes, warm and damp against his skin but rapidly cooling. Outside, it was midsummer, yet here in this cell it was as cold as winter. Why was it so cold?

“Thank you… for coming to find me,” Mo Lan choked out. His words were cut off by another fit of coughing. “I’m sorry… I won’t be able to keep following you.”

“No, no… of course you can follow me!” Mo Yuan insisted, barely able to restrain his voice to a whisper now.

But it was too late already.

Rasping, shaky breaths became weaker, the spaces between lengthening until the boy’s chest went completely still. Dark lashes flickered as he struggled to keep his eye open, until the struggle ceased, leaving it neither open nor closed, dull and lifeless. The tears that had been pooling at the corners of his eyes and slowly trickling down his face came to a stop as the final droplet, shining faintly in the light of Mo Yuan’s small flame, ran through the blood stains on the boy’s cheek and vanished.

Mo Yuan tried to continue channeling spiritual energy into the boy’s meridians, but it was no use. One by one, the last few sparks of life flickered and disappeared, any attempts to keep that light from going out thwarted by the impenetrability of the shackles’ inscriptions. There was nothing he could do. Even if he simply took Mo Lan in his arms and ran as fast as he could, and even if somehow, miraculously, no one tried to stop him, he wouldn’t reach the hideaway in time. Even if he could, they had no true physicians among them, few who even practiced the Dao of medicine. The struggle was lost before it had even begun.

The moment they had dared to show their faces, to believe they might be deserving some place in this world, Mo Lan’s fate had been sealed.

And all Mo Yuan could do was risk his life to be beside him in this final moment, to helplessly hold him in his arms as his corpse slowly turned cold.

He raised his eyes toward the heavens, blocked away from view by the cruel stone walls of this fortress, and cried out in anguish, the echoes of his sobs joining with the memory of screams of pain and torment that filled this place, running out like blood from between the cracks in the stone. Such misery, such cruelty, and what had they truly done to deserve it? What had Mo Lan done, that made these great cultivators believe that a boy of barely fifteen deserved to be tortured to death?

All he had wanted to do was to follow his brother.

And now, he had followed him down into the darkness— a darkness he would never see beyond again.

Mo Yuan wept for a long time, there within the darkness. His voice was cut off from the halls beyond that cruel door, with only the silent, empty corpse of Mo Lan to bear witness. He wept until the pain within his chest turned from a raging fire to a dull ache, then sat in silence with tears streaming down his face. The tears ran down and soaked into his heart, and there they watered seeds of resentment planted long ago, before he had even departed from Mengshan Temple. There they put down roots, nestled among still-smoldering embers of grief.

In total darkness, the passage of time became difficult to discern. Mo Yuan sat motionless, cradling Mo Lan’s head within his lap until his body turned stiff, then gently set him down. He didn’t wish to leave the boy’s corpse here in this cell. If nothing else, Mo Lan should at least have a proper burial, far away from this terrible place.

He shut his eyes, taking in a shaky breath as he rose to his feet.

Xiao-Lan would be avenged. But first, Mo Yuan needed to get out of here.

And he didn’t have the time to formulate a plan, either.

The door’s locking mechanism released with a loud thump, and opened to reveal the pair of guards and the man with bloodstained sleeves from earlier. The finely dressed man was nowhere to be seen this time— but it didn’t matter.

Mo Yuan had left the concealment device on the ground, and now stood in full view in the middle of the cell, the prisoner’s corpse lying still on the ground, his chains broken. There was nowhere to hide, and no case to plead that might allow him to escape.

Despite this, what filled him now was not fear for his life, but instead pure, unbridled fury.

That man, whose sleeves were stained with blood, was without a doubt the one who had broken Mo Lan’s body until he could barely speak, who had infused his veins with poison until his meridians were burned away. This was the man who had killed his brother—

Mo Yuan’s body moved practically on its own, and in a split second he had flown across the cell’s threshold, rage burning within his eyes. The tormentors had been expecting a near-dead prisoner, not a living, furious, unrestrained rogue cultivator.

They didn’t have time to react.

Mo Yuan had already reached a high level in his cultivation, not merely for a rogue cultivator— even among those his age who were children of the great clans, at mid Zhuji-stage, he would be able to stand with or even surpass them.

The torturer was at least a minor boundary below him, and the guards even lower than that.

With a single strike, Mo Yuan’s hand thrust directly through the torturer’s chest, piercing his heart and sending a burst of crimson blood spraying all across the halls, floors, and ceiling of the corridor. The guards hurried to brandish their weapons, but there was a vicious light in Mo Yuan’s eyes, and he was unstoppable in his vengeful rage. He remembered the way that these two had spoken of Mo Lan earlier, how callous their words had been, even that bit of amusement in their voices. He grasped the blade of one of their swords, heedless of the way the blade cut into his palm as he wrenched it from the man’s grasp, and quickly slew them, one after the other.

It had all happened before they were even able to raise the alarm— but he couldn’t stay here.

The moment someone glanced down this corridor, the mountain prison would be sealed off and he would be trapped.

Mo Yuan, bloodied sword in bloodied hand, fled as quickly as possible.

Anyone who happened to be in his path, he cut down without hesitation, leaving a trail of bodies behind as he raced through the corridors. His mind frantically worked to remember the patterns of the surveillance array, leaping and bounding from the walls and into small alcoves to avoid triggering it as he passed through the prison’s upper level, toward the great stone doors that led to the outside.

It was here that there would be trouble— unless those doors were opened, he would never be able to break free.

But Mo Yuan had little problem with that. As he approached the gate, he simply released the sword in his hand, commanding it to fly in a wide, swift arc, piercing the hearts of all of the guards save one, who was pinned by his shirt to the wall. Mo Yuan leapt forward and grasped the hilt of the sword. As the remaining guard scrambled to sound the alarm, he swung his sword, slicing the man’s hand clean off at the wrist before bringing the blade against his throat. The man began to scream in agony, but cut off quickly as the sharp edge pricked his neck.

“Open that gate,” Mo Yuan hissed out through gritted teeth, a madman’s fury burning within his eyes. “Open that gate now, let me pass through, and I’ll allow you to keep your wretched life.”

The guard was frozen in terror, the sudden threat having caught him off-guard. The mountain prison was nigh impenetrable— to be attacked this way, and from the inside no less, was something that he could have never expected, especially as a mere gate guard. He did not possess the strength of will to stand firm, and released the gate— perhaps hoping that he could cry out a warning to his fellows outside.

He didn’t get the chance.

In this moment, filled with such rage and bitterness, Mo Yuan cared not to hold to the promise he’d made. The moment the gate was opened, he leapt onto his sword, leaving the gate guard’s head rolling on the ground behind him.

Shouting broke out from all around the open area, and almost immediately, Mo Yuan heard the twang of bowstrings and the whistling of arrows slicing through the air toward him. He bent down low over the sword, willing it to fly faster and faster. The arrows passed over his head one after the other— until he felt a burning impact and sudden, sharp pain beneath his right shoulder-blade. Almost immediately, the burning began to spread, as though molten metal had been poured into the wound.

The arrows were poisoned.

He’d guessed as much— but the pain was still almost too much to bear.

He couldn’t stop now, though, not when he was so close to escaping. The way out was just ahead, through a narrow passage— and somehow, miraculously, the outer barrier was down. If he could make it past there, he could lose his pursuers in the labyrinth of the spirit caves.

But when he reached the passage, he suddenly crashed into empty air and fell like a stone to the ground.

The poison seeping into his veins was inhibiting his spiritual sense.

For Mo Yuan, whose spiritual eyes had been opened since birth, he had never thought not to trust his senses, which had only ever given him an advantage and helped him to survive and succeed.

Now, his confidence had betrayed him.

With the speed of his reflexes, even amid the pain he was able to catch himself and land on his feet, the sword clattering to the ground next to him. But that was as far as he could get. He raised his head to see a dozen men approaching, weapons drawn. Then, he spat out a mouthful of blood into the dirt.

For the first time since Mo Lan’s death had ignited his veins with fury, Mo Yuan felt afraid. He recalled the cold, painful isolation of those cells within the mountain prison, the cruel shackles, Mo Lan’s fear of dying alone within that lightless place.

And he felt that fear for himself.

“Mo Yuan!”

The sudden outcry of a familiar voice made him straighten up and turn his head. On the other side of the barrier, someone else was rushing to approach— a tall young man wearing grey robes, with a spear in his hand.

Why was Ning Feiyun here?

Before Mo Yuan could react, there was another snap of a bowstring, and another arrow pierced his side. He cried out, dropping down to one knee as he reached out toward his sword.

“Just surrender now, you can’t fight through this, or you’ll die!” Ning Feiyun cried out, stopping just in front of the barrier, his eyes and voice alike filled with a desperate plea as he pressed his hands against it.

Mo Yuan froze, his breath caught within his lungs.

He’d been struck by two poisoned arrows. There was a barrier before him, a small army of foes behind, and a sheer drop into nothingness on either side. His spiritual sense was muffled, and he was in immeasurable pain.

Ning Feiyun was right— he couldn’t fight this. Even if he could fight, he couldn’t escape.

But he would willingly die before he allowed them to drag him into that hell.

Slowly, shakily, Mo Yuan stood back up, his hands raised above his head. Through increasingly blurry vision, he watched as his pursuers one by one began to relax. Their prey was defeated, and surrendering without a fight— it had been a close call, but the hunter was triumphant in the end.

That must have been what they were thinking.

Then, with the last of his strength, Mo Yuan kicked off from the ground, launching himself up into the air—

And over the side of the cliff.

Gasps and exclamations of surprise rose up from the stunned pursuers.

Ning Feiyun’s desperate, pained cry echoed off the walls of cavern and chasm alike— “Gege!”

That was last thing that Mo Yuan heard as he fell into the darkness. Then, far below, his body struck the surface of an underground river, and his consciousness was consumed by inky blackness.