The scent of dried blood lingered thick in the air.
Liu Shengjie groaned, consciousness returning like a crashing tide. Every part of him throbbed with agony—his limbs numb from tight, rune-inscribed bindings, his divine qi sealed and scattered, dripping from him like leaking soul essence. He was slumped against a cold, jagged wall, half-conscious in a room veiled in shadows.
His eyes fluttered open.
The room was pitch-black, save for a faint crimson glow leaking from a single lantern above. Chains rattled as he tried to move—but they didn't give. Dried blood clung to his skin like ink etched in failure.
Then—he heard it.
Heels. Slow, echoing.
A figure in red appeared before him.
She wore flowing robes the color of fresh blood, silken and sharp, moving like fire with each step. A black veil hid the lower half of her face, but her eyes—those cruel, gleaming eyes—shone with a coldness no mortal or deity could match.
Liu Shengjie's pupils trembled. "Y-You—who are—?"
The woman didn't answer. She unsheathed her blade in one fluid motion—a thin, wicked sword glinting with a dark yin glow, whispering with vengeful spirits.
Liu Shengjie's voice cracked. "W-Wait... you need me... I can still—!"
Her gaze narrowed.
"You're useless," she said coldly. "Just like all my men."
Liu Shengjie's eyes widened. "No—wait! I—"
"I suppose," she said, raising the sword high above her head, "I'll have to move on... alone."
The blade flashed.
A single sound. Like silk tearing.
Blood painted the floor.
Liu Shengjie's body went still, his terrified expression frozen in death.
The woman stood silently for a moment, sword dripping beside her boot. Then she turned, veil fluttering as she walked into the shadows—leaving only silence and the scent of blood behind.