A glint of madness sparked in the youth’s eyes, a chilling premonition washing over him. His blood turned to ice water, and without a second thought, he bolted down the mountainside.

Ascending was arduous, but descent proved treacherous. He stumbled, limbs scraping against unforgiving rock, drawing crimson lines across his skin. Yet, as though oblivious to the pain, he scrambled to his feet, driven by a desperate urgency.

“It must be fire! It *must* be fire! She’ll be alright, she *must* be alright!” The words tumbled from his trembling lips as he careened downwards, his herbalist’s basket bouncing wildly, scattering precious herbs in his wake. He paid them no heed, his life tethered to the frantic race against time.

He fell countless times, once a gnarled branch tearing a ragged wound across his right leg. He spared it not a glance, his gaze consumed by an all-encompassing fear.

At long last, lungs burning, face ashen, he reached the foot of the mountain. He pounded along the path that snaked towards his village, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, his body trembling with dread.

“She’ll be alright. She *will* be alright!” The litany echoed in his mind, a desperate prayer against the encroaching darkness. The world blurred around him, save for the path ahead, which he devoured with every ounce of his strength until it spilled out onto the King’s Road, a league from his home.

Though the village remained hidden from view, the sky told a different tale. A monstrous pyre clawed at the heavens, painting the night in hues of infernal orange. Faintly, carried on the wind, came the chilling echo of screams, screams that spoke of agony and despair.

The screams ripped through the air, a symphony of terror that shook the very ground beneath his feet. “Little Sister!” The name tore from his throat, and he surged forward, a man possessed.

Just then, the road ahead began to shudder. A thunderous roar heralded the arrival of a band of horsemen, a dozen or more steeds pounding the earth into submission. Atop them sat rough-hewn men, their laughter laced with a cruelty that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Ha! Never thought such a backwater could boast so many fair maids. Shame we’re on the Boss’s errand, or I’d take a few for myself!”

“Aye, especially that bride-to-be… a pretty little thing, she is…”

The riders thundered closer, their progress unchecked, until they bore down upon the frantic youth. With a cruel flick of his wrist, one of the bandits lashed out with a whip, the leather striking the boy with sickening force. He was thrown aside, a ragdoll at the mercy of uncaring giants.

“Out of our way, whelp! Don’t you know better than to block the Iron Horse Band?”

He cried out, a wave of agony crashing over him. He was lifted, tossed, and slammed against the unforgiving earth, where darkness consumed him.

The Iron Horse Band vanished into the long night, their laughter fading with the flickering flames on the horizon. Time crept onward, and the night deepened, a bone-chilling cold settling over the land. The youth stirred, his eyes fluttering open to a world of confusion and pain. His face was the color of ash, his soul a wasteland.

He stumbled to his feet, mumbling to himself as he limped towards his ravaged home.

“She’ll be alright… my sister… she *must* be…”

Finally, silhouetted against the blood-red sky, the remnants of his village emerged. He froze, his body gripped by a terror that stole his breath. A broken, guttural cry escaped his lips as he plunged towards the devastation.

“Little Sister! Little Qi!”

He ran through the broken gates, into a nightmare of smoke and ash. The stench of burning flesh mingled with the metallic tang of blood, a grim perfume that clung to the ruins. The ground was littered with corpses, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at the indifferent stars.

Each fallen form was a dagger to his heart, each a face etched into his memory.

The houses were nothing but charred skeletons, save for one lone structure that stood defiant: a vibrant wedding palanquin, untouched by the flames. In its stark beauty, it was a grotesque mockery of the horror surrounding it. He stumbled towards the charred remains of his own home, fear coiling around his throat like a vise. He found a body – Hu Zi, lying near the naked corpse of his sister, Hong Hong. The sight nearly broke him. Staggering deeper into the ruins, he saw it – the remains of his little sister.

The roof had collapsed. A white silk cord dangled from a still-standing beam, and from it hung a lifeless form. His sister’s body swayed gently in the breeze, her clothes torn and stained with blood, her face a mask of frozen agony. Her eyes were wide open, staring into the endless night, searching for a salvation that never came.

The youth gazed upon the horrifying scene, and a torrent of blood erupted from his lips.

“Little Sister!” His scream, raw and desolate, tore through the silence of the dead village, a sound that echoed across the ravaged landscape, a testament to his unbearable grief. The memories flooded back:

“Don’t cry, little Lan, it’s alright. Your big brother will tell you a story, it’s okay!”

“Little Lan, how many times do you have to ask? Mom and Dad, I’ve told you, they’ve gone to a very, very faraway place…”

“You don’t like Hu Zi? Oh, alright. You’re just jealous that I like his sister…”

“Your big brother is going to become an immortal! He’ll be back for you, just you wait!”

“When you get married, I’ll make sure you have the most amazing wedding ever, I promise.”

Tears of blood streamed down the youth’s face as he collapsed, staring at his sister with empty eyes.

Days later, the youth buried the dead, their stories lost to the flames. But for his sister, he crafted a separate resting place, high on the mountainside, where the purple orchids bloomed in abundance. From there, one could see the world beyond, the vast expanse of sky and land – a view she would never again witness. It was where he had promised they would watch the world together. She had taken her own life, escaping a fate worse than death. The white silk cord, now stained with his tears, remained clutched tightly in his fist, a tangible link to her lost spirit.
The boy, leaving the mountain village, gazed back at its silhouette. He clutched a white silken kerchief, and the echoes of a silver bell-like laughter danced in his ears. “Brother… brother, wake up! Look, there, a string of violet orchids bloom…” “Brother, where have Father and Mother gone? Lan-Lan misses them…” “Broth—”

He bit his lip, drawing blood that trickled onto the white silk, blooming into crimson plum-blossoms against the pale fabric. “The Horse Lords…” A chilling hatred blazed in his eyes. He turned and walked away, each step carrying him further into the unknown. “Brother, I will wait for your return…”

Years flowed by like a swift white steed across the heavens. Decades dissolved into memory. The boy’s talent, a gift he never anticipated, proved remarkable, though not unmatched. He entered the Sky-Piercing Sect, and his unwavering resolve propelled him to the forefront of the younger disciples. The Horse Lords, all one thousand four hundred souls, had perished on a rain-soaked night. None were spared, not even the beasts of burden, all slaughtered without mercy. Among them, seven or eight elders had endured a torment so profound that their agonizing cries lingered for half a month before death claimed them.

Their spirits were wrenched from their bodies, subjected to the endless torment of soul-forging, denied even the solace of reincarnation. Yet, Sima Mo’s pain remained, a constant needle piercing his heart. The leader of the Horse Lords, the one who had defiled his sister, had died of illness years ago. Through soul-searching, Sima Mo discovered the villain had not suffered greatly in his final moments. Discontent, he returned to the sect, and another century passed. Sima Mo achieved the Core Formation stage, becoming the strongest among the younger generation. The sect leader himself, recognizing his potential, took him as a disciple.

That winter, Sima Mo descended from the mountain once more. With arcane arts, he traced the villain’s reincarnation and unleashed his wrath upon the unsuspecting reborn soul. What depths of vengeance could drive a man to hunt down a foe even beyond death and rebirth? Time continued its relentless march. Wang Lin witnessed everything in Sima Mo’s memories, a grim tapestry of sorrow and revenge.

He saw, too, tens of thousands of years later, Sima Mo in the Realm of Seven Colors, witnessing the death of his fellow disciples, marked by the Seven-Colored Nails, and taken away by the Supreme. “Though I, Sima Mo, was cast out of the Sky-Piercing Sect, I am still a man of this realm! Even in death, I will not become a dog of the outer realms! Shall I forsake all I hold dear for mere survival, for the paltry lure of your Third Step? Death be it then!”

“Not only can I grant you immortality…” A voice, ancient and profound, echoed throughout the heavens, reaching Sima Mo’s very soul. “…but I can also give form to your sister. I cannot resurrect her, but I can let her remain by your side for eternity. If you achieve true cultivation, perhaps you will find one who can restore her. But if you die now, all is lost…”

Sima Mo’s heart shuddered. “Come with me… From this day forth, you are no longer Sima Mo of this realm, but my Supreme Disciple, bestowed the name Si Mozi!”

Inside the Imperial Furnace, Si Mozi’s vision blurred with tears. The firefly-sized spark between his brows expanded, consuming his entire crown.

Outside the Imperial Furnace, Wang Lin sat cross-legged atop the dome, watched by tens of thousands of cultivators. He opened his eyes, their depths swirling with confusion. After a long silence, Wang Lin sighed, stood, and strode away. With a wave of his right hand, the Imperial Furnace trembled and vanished into the void, revealing Si Mozi.

The Art of Severing the Dao. Wang Lin had not intentionally left anything in Si Mozi’s memory, but some thoughts lingered. He chose not to refine him.

The refinement might not have succeeded. Si Mozi held many hidden techniques and treasures. Further conflict would be meaningless.

Si Mozi stood suspended in the air, silent for a long time. He raised his right hand, and the spectral form of a woman beside him disappeared into his sleeve.

The recent events, by virtue of Si Mozi’s cultivation, were now understood in their entirety. He looked at Wang Lin, his gaze filled with profound complexity.

“Tell me… her words from before… were they by your magic, or…”

“I do not know,” Wang Lin replied with a sigh.

“If, that day, I had been replaced by Sima Mo, and his sister by Wan’Er, what… what would I have chosen?” Wang Lin dared not imagine the answer… or, perhaps, as he had told Sima Mo, he already knew.