Wang Lin departed the riverbank, his steps measured in the encroaching night. Behind him, the two warriors exchanged puzzled glances, their unspoken questions mirroring each other.

For the better part of the day, they had witnessed Wang Lin do little more than wander aimlessly, punctuated by moments of vacant staring at the river’s edge. Now, with twilight painting the sky, he continued his leisurely pace, seemingly indifferent to the hour.

In the distance, Hong City blazed with a thousand lights, a beacon of ceaseless activity against the dark canvas of the land. But Wang Lin’s gaze was drawn to a patch of profound darkness within the city’s luminous sprawl, where a cluster of buildings stood shrouded in an aura of oppressive dread.

This atmosphere was thick with the stench of death and the bitter tang of lingering resentment.

“That is Hong Prison, one of the four great prisons of the capital,” the soldier behind Wang Lin murmured, his voice low as he followed his gaze.

“Hong Prison…” Wang Lin echoed, nodding slowly.

“It holds only the most heinous criminals,” the soldier explained, “Its defenses are formidable. Without the proper token, none may pass its gates.”

Wang Lin studied the prison intently. He had sensed faint traces of powerful demonic energies emanating from within, energies that rivaled even the strength of Mo Lihai. After a moment of contemplation, he turned and began to walk towards Mo’s manor.

Upon his return, Wang Lin went directly to Mo Lihai’s chambers. He found the man deep in meditation, his eyes snapping open as Wang Lin pushed the door inward.

“I must enter Hong Prison. Do you know of a way, brother Mo?”

Mo Lihai regarded him with a brief, questioning glance before falling silent in thought. “It will not be easy,” he finally admitted.

Wang Lin frowned, a hint of impatience in his voice. “Then I shall consider it closed.”

Mo Lihai smiled faintly. “How long will you require within its walls?”

“A month, perhaps.” Wang Lin replied.

Mo Lihai’s eyes narrowed, suspicion coloring his tone. “For cultivation?”

Wang Lin met his gaze squarely and nodded. “I require the release of blood. To indulge in such bloodshed within Tianyao City would surely attract unwanted attention.” He paused, adding with a measured voice, “If I am successful, my aid to you will be all the more potent.”

Mo Lihai rose to his feet, his eyes locked on Wang Lin. “Are you certain?” he asked, each word deliberate.

Wang Lin offered no further explanation. With a flick of his wrist, five tendrils of pure killing intent, shaped like spectral dragons, surged forth and hurtled towards Mo Lihai with blinding speed.

Mo Lihai laughed, unleashing a powerful fist that shattered the swirling gray energy in a series of thunderous explosions. But his smile faltered, his eyes widening in surprise as he staggered back three paces.

The shattered fragments of energy swiftly reformed, once more coalescing into five ethereal dragons. An overwhelming wave of bloodlust washed over the surroundings, instantly alerting the household guards, who surged towards the source of the disturbance.

With a roar, the five tendrils of murderous energy lunged forward once more. Mo Lihai’s eyes flashed, and he delivered another blow, but the gray energy proved too swift, bypassing his defenses and striking towards his chest.

The killing intent reached within mere inches of its target, only to be repelled by a sudden barrier of demonic energy, shimmering into existence with no sound.

Despite the energy wall’s protection, it rippled and buckled violently under the onslaught.

“If there were thousands of such tendrils, would you still find it so easy to defend?” Wang Lin asked quietly.

Mo Lihai’s eyes gleamed with a newfound respect. He had witnessed Wang Lin’s killing intent before, but never had it possessed such power. He spoke decisively. “A month is too long, I cannot allow it. Seven days, however, is within my power. Hong Prison holds tens of thousands of criminals. Enough to fuel your cultivation for a week. Wait here, and within three days, I will bring you the confirmation!”

Wang Lin nodded, turning and departing the chamber.

Left alone, Mo Lihai brooded, muttering to himself, “This Wang Lin is not to be underestimated. To exchange the life of the thirteenth for this man’s assistance was the right choice.

“Apart from the power of his palm imprint, his grey killing energy is extraordinary. These mere five tendrils, barely unleashed in their full potential, were enough to shake my demon armor. Their sharpness surpasses even demon-forged blades! And more than that, there is within this gray energy a change I do not comprehend, a quality that stirs the life force within me!

“Thousands of these tendrils would be terrible to face! It is best not to make an enemy of Wang Lin, but to maintain the alliance that binds us.”

After a moment of deep contemplation, he abruptly left the chamber, setting out to pave the way for Wang Lin’s entry into Hong Prison.

Wang Lin did not return to his room but sat cross-legged in the courtyard. Though all around him was silent, his ears were filled with the faint, persistent strains of a haunting melody.

The music was ethereal, yet it possessed a unique resonance that lingered in the air.

That night, Wang Lin did not practice his arts, nor did he meditate, nor even dwell upon the Slaugher Immortal Art in his thoughts. He simply sat, gazing at the starlight overhead, listening to the song that filled his heart… His shadow stretched long across the moonlit courtyard, an image of profound loneliness.

Alone with his shadow, a jug of the ancient demon city’s finest wine rested at Wang Lin’s side. He would occasionally lift it to his nose, savoring its scent as he listened to the music, slowly drinking in the wine. The loneliness of his shadow seeped into him, melding with the moonlight and sinking deep into his heart. “I, Wang Lin, took up the Path at sixteen,” he murmured, “yet I have long since lost count of the years. I no longer know the body…” He took a long drink, wine spilling from his lips and staining his robes.

He looked up at the stars, and in his eyes shone a spark of isolated sorrow.

“Those who seek the Path go against the heavens, destined to walk a solitary road.”

The music was silent, but Wang Lin could still hear it faintly in his heart. Wiping the wine from his mouth, he whispered, “Only the lonely find the will to seek the Path, but how many truly understand its bitterness? It is like this wine, harsh at first, yet yielding warmth within.”

“Alone beneath the stars, drinking wine, listening to the music of life… I do not know how the ten-thousand-year cultivators endure such solitude, but I know that without some flicker of feeling in their hearts, they cultivate only their own delusion, not the true path of Heaven!
The heavens are heartless, yet a cultivator who defies them, devoid of empathy, is equally callous. To cultivate the Way of a heartless heaven with a heart equally bereft, how can this be called defiance? Nay, it is but obedience!

Since time immemorial, those who bend to the heavens’ will are favored, yet this favor masks their true nature: that of insignificant ants! My path is not of submission, but of rebellion fueled by the passions of my heart. I defy the heavens and cultivate against the current of immortality, seeking not only longevity, but escape from this ant-like existence. This, *this* is true defiance!

Wang Lin drained the wine jar in one draught, casting it aside to shatter upon the ground. He leaned against a nearby wall, his hand tracing the mark upon his brow. The sorrow in his eyes began to fade as the moonlight deepened, flowing like sand through his fingers. With the dawn’s first light, he opened his eyes, his drunken stupor lifting. The past was now buried deep within his heart, sealed away in a place beyond his reach.

Three days passed swiftly. For those days, Wang Lin forsook cultivation. Each dawn, he left the Mo estate and sat by the riverbank, awaiting the fleeting echo of the zither from the passing pleasure barge.

The mournful music flowed into his soul, weaving through his sealed memories, and settling into the deepest recesses of his being.

He listened, sipped the wine purchased by guardsmen, and lost himself in the melodies, finding a strange solace.

The woman on the barge remained unaware of the man who listened so intently. She only knew that with each passing, her sorrow deepened, flowing from her jade fingers into the strings.

These three days were tranquil for Wang Lin. He escaped the battles and bloodshed, the threat of Tuo Sen, the arrangement with Mo Lihai, even his burning desire for the Nascent Soul stage. He found himself surrounded by music and wine, cleansing his spirit in a brief, profound communion.

He never looked upon the woman’s face, needing only her silhouette and the haunting notes. Had Mo Lihai not arranged his entry into the H牢, Wang Lin might have remained there forever, nursing his wounded heart. He knew not how long he would have stayed, perhaps until the strings snapped and the music died…

Tearing himself from the zither’s embrace, Wang Lin rose, glancing at the receding barge before turning and walking away.

As he turned, the woman on the barge looked back toward the riverbank. Though darkness perpetually veiled her sight, she saw, for a moment, the receding figure of the man who had listened.

“Ming Xuan, what do you see?” a flat voice asked from beside her.

The music ceased abruptly!

The woman lowered her head, her fingers trembling upon the strings. That voice represented the heavens to her – an inescapable fate.

“Your music is too sad. The guest wishes you to play something different,” the voice continued, its flat tone brooking no argument.

The woman hesitated, then, with trembling hands, plucked at the strings. The melody shifted, becoming bright and cheerful, as joyous notes filled the barge and drifted across the river.

“Good. Continue to play like that in the future,” the voice said. The cheerful music spread, but a careful listener would detect no joy within it – only a silent weeping.

The weeping contained sorrow and pain, masked behind a forced smile. It floated upon the air, blending poorly with the laughter emanating from the pleasure barge.

Beneath the forced cheerfulness lay a bitter taste, hidden deep within the music. Ming Xuan knew that no one would ever understand the sorrow contained within her song.

The music traveled with the barge, fading into the distance, leaving only the ripples in the water to spread across the river.