It was a long-forgotten memory—buried under layers of blood, years, and the silence of the dead. A memory from before the separation, before the black mirror ever etched its mark into his soul. A time when Liang was still young, untempered, and nameless—just another outer disciple of the Cloudfire Sect.
More precisely, it was the first time he killed.
And more importantly—it was the first time someone tried to kill him for no other reason than being a witness.
It had rained that day.
Not a gentle mist, but a heaven-breaking downpour, washing the mountain trails of Cloudfire Peak into slick rivers of mud and stone. Liang had taken shelter beneath the half-collapsed roof of a ruined spirit shrine along the east path, its guardian statues broken, its incense long extinguished. He hugged his soaked robes tighter, hoping the storm would pass before nightfall.
Then he heard shouting—followed by the sharp clang of steel.
