CHAPTER 69 – The Endless Abyss
The crack in the sky had widened.
From its jagged mouth, an abyssal darkness swirled like a whirlpool in the heavens, devouring the winter sunlight. Every time it pulsed, the surrounding air quivered, and the qi in the land trembled as if drawn upward, thread by thread. The disciples standing in formation below felt their own spiritual energy tug against their meridians, threatening to tear free from their bodies.
Hua Mo's shadow was already gone from the battlefield.
Master Zhou stood rigid, his robes snapping in the violent wind. His gaze tracked the yawning rift above, but his thoughts… his thoughts were elsewhere. The black-robed figure's parting smirk still hovered in his mind, the unspoken threat curling through his heart like ice.
He had refused. He had not handed Chen Xinyu over.
It was the right choice. It was the only choice.
And yet… if Xinyu was still within the sect grounds, with chaos and slaughter already spilling over the walls—was he in danger right now? Could he defend himself? Master Zhou's hand trembled against his sword hilt.
If they did not close the endless abyss, the city below would be swallowed whole. But if he left—if he abandoned his post for even a moment—thousands could die.
"Shizun," Yan Zheng's voice broke through the roar of wind, firm and unwavering. "You did the right thing. We do not simply hand him over."
Shen yao, standing nearby, inclined his head in agreement. Lan Xueyao and Lu Rourou echoed the sentiment. "Even if the sky collapses, we will not give him away."
More disciples poured in from every corner of the sect, their faces pale in the cold light. They pressed their hands to the shimmering barrier, strengthening the formation that held the abyss at bay. The golden lines of the array wavered with each tremor. If it shattered, the rift would open fully, and all would be lost.
On the other side of the sect, the sky was dim with spirit-mist. Chen Xinyu's breath came in sharp bursts as he swung his sword, cutting down another shrieking evil spirit. Its body burst apart in a cloud of black fog, only for three more to surge forward from the shadows.
"Xinyu!" Mochen's voice came from behind. He stepped in front just as one spirit lunged, its claws aimed for Xinyu's chest. The blow landed squarely on him.
"Shidi!" Xinyu's face drained of color. He caught Mochen by the arm, his hand sliding over the slick warmth blooming through Mochen's robes. "Are you all right?"
Mochen gritted his teeth and nodded, one hand pressed to the ache in his stomach. "I'm fine. Keep your guard up."
The air thickened, the scattered spirits drawing together like streams converging into a river. Shadows swirled until they formed something massive—a grotesque, formless giant, its surface crawling with countless wailing faces.
"This is bad," Mochen murmured, his own eyes reflecting the writhing mass. "It's feeding on the others. It's getting stronger."
The creature struck, the blow tearing the ground open in its wake. Mochen seized Xinyu by the wrist, pulling him sharply out of range. His grip was tight, protective, the kind of hold meant to shield, not restrain.
But Xinyu, seeing the second strike coming, shoved him away. "I won't let you take another hit for me!"
The evil spirit surged forward. Xinyu pivoted, blade up, but it did not slash—it grasped, a cold, unnatural force wrapping around his limbs, pressing into his meridians, draining. His qi bled away in thick, suffocating waves. His knees buckled.
"Xinyu!"
Mochen's chest constricted in a fear he could barely name. Without thinking, he acted—one chance, one risk—stepping forward and pressing his palm into the spirit's core.
Only one with demon blood could do what he was about to attempt.
Xinyu's eyes widened. "You—!" His voice caught. He could feel it—the faint echo of the Demon Realm's power curling out of Mochen like smoke.
Mochen's jaw tightened. He would rather bare his secret to the world than watch Xinyu die.
With a guttural breath, he pulled the spirit's essence into himself.
The creature shrieked, its form collapsing in on itself until it was gone, leaving only the echo of its malice.
Xinyu dropped to his knees, coughing hard. Mochen was there instantly, one arm steadying him. "Yu'ge—"
"You lied to me too." Xinyu's voice was hoarse, but sharp. His gaze was steady, unreadable. "You're from the Demon Realm. Why?"
"This isn't the time," Mochen said, urgent. "Please—get up, we have to move—"
Xinyu yanked his hand away. "Don't follow me anymore."
The words were a blade, sharper than any sword. Mochen froze, his open hand still reaching toward empty air.
He had known, in some deep corner of his mind, that the truth would one day come between them. He had not known it would feel like this—like something vital had been ripped out of him.
But when Xinyu turned to leave, Mochen caught his wrist again, desperate. "Yu'ge i had my reasons to hide my identity . I know I lied, and I am sorry, but give me one more chance. I swear I won't—"
Xinyu tore free and walked on. Mochen followed anyway.
The next moment, a ring of guards closed in around him. Chi Ruyan's orders—meant to keep him away from Xinyu. Rage ignited in Mochen's chest. The world bled red at the edges.
The first man reached for him. Mochen's hands were bare when he broke the man's neck. The next fell with his throat crushed. One after another, the guards dropped, not in battle, but in slaughter. The ground grew slick.
Chi Ruyan's breath hitched as she took in the scene—his eyes black as ink, his face expressionless as he carved through her people.
Far ahead, Xinyu's steps slowed. A shadow fell over the ground before him.
Someone was descending from above—slowly, with the casual inevitability of falling snow.
The man's aura pressed down like a mountain. The very air seemed to freeze; even a mortal standing nearby would have dropped dead before his feet touched the earth.
Xinyu's hand clenched around his sword hilt. He lifted his gaze—and met eyes he had seen before, though only in nightmares.
The memories struck like lightning: his mother's sobbing breath, his father's final cry, the heat of their blood on his hands. His vision swam red.
Hua Mo landed before him, the long sweep of his black robe settling like ink into water. His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers idly turning a string of beads. His smile was unhurried. Arrogant. Certain.
Xinyu's teeth ground together. That smile—he wanted to carve it off his face.
In Hua Mo's palm floated a black box, patterns etched into its surface. It revolved lazily in the air, as if bound to him by an unseen tether.
Hua Mo's tone was almost amused. "Chen Xinyu, Chen Xinyu… it has been years since I last heard that name. Ah, it takes me back."
He sighed, lifting his gaze to the abyss overhead. "Your parents were… remarkable. Brave. I gave them many pleasantries, but they refused. We traveled the world together once, you know. Their love—unbreakable."
He strolled in a slow circle around Xinyu, as if the boy's sword was no more threat than a flower stem. "And the result of that love was you."
Xinyu's shoulders tensed, every nerve screaming to strike, to end this man. But something in Hua Mo's eyes kept him still.
"They were great," Hua Mo continued. "But they were not perfect. They had their mistakes. If they had obeyed me, they would be breathing beside you now."
He stopped walking. His voice hardened. "Instead, they refused. Refused to share their secret with me. We had fought and bled together, and still—they betrayed me. Tried to keep the power for themselves."
The black in his eyes deepened. "So I showed them no mercy. I killed them myself. They fought well—truly remarkable. I never expected you to survive."
Xinyu's grip whitened on his sword.
"And yet," Hua Mo smiled, "they cursed you. Hid the key inside you. As if that could keep it from me. But they were wrong. I have found you, my precious key."
The air behind them shifted—cold and sharp as a blade. A voice spoke, low and cutting.