The night air in Haicheng was heavy, carrying the scent of ozone and something older—ash, perhaps. The kind that lingered after rituals best left forgotten.
Chen Wanli walked alone through the outskirts of the city, past overgrown temples and crumbling stone markers. His steps carried him not forward, but backward—toward a place buried deep in both earth and memory.
Toward the ruins of the Northern Sect.
It had once been his home. A sanctuary for healers, seers, and scholars of the Divine Path. Now, it was a forgotten relic, swallowed by vines and rumor.
"Fifteen years," he murmured.
"And still it smolders."
The once-majestic pagodas lay shattered. Statues were cracked, their faces eroded by wind and time. But beneath the surface—beneath the dirt and the charred prayer stones—power still pulsed.
Wanli knelt near the base of an old ceremonial altar. He ran his fingers along the blackened grooves, tracing symbols no longer taught, no longer spoken.
One name echoed through his mind.
"Master Feiyun."
His mentor. The one who had dragged him, bloodied and half-conscious, from the flames that night. The one who had forced a soul seal into his chest, binding him to life when death should have taken him.
Wanli closed his eyes, breathing deep. Then, slowly, he opened the small scroll he had carried with him since that night. The ink was faded, but the warning was still clear:
"When the lotus awakens, so shall the devourer."
"Protect the Thread."
He finally understood.
Jiaojiao wasn't just marked by fate—she was the anchor of something far greater. A vessel for an ancient cycle of healing and destruction. And the moment she defied death, the old enemies of the Northern Sect had stirred.
Wanli rose, dusted off his hands, and turned toward the east.
---
Meanwhile, at Song Enterprises, a formal dinner was underway.
Song Jiaojiao, dressed in a regal navy qipao, sat at the head table beside her father, Song Yongjian, who had returned from Singapore in a rare show of paternal concern. His expression was unreadable as the guests murmured blessings and relief over his daughter's survival.
But under the table, Jiaojiao's fingers tapped out rhythmic beats on her thigh. A silent code. A distraction from the pressure mounting behind her calm gaze.
Across from her sat Zhao Liren.
Uninvited.
He lifted his glass. "To miracles," he said. "And the rare few who return from the edge of death stronger than ever."
Her smile was polite. Empty.
"And to those who test fate," she replied softly, "only to find it doesn't flinch."
Their eyes locked.
For a heartbeat, the room went still. The other guests chatted, laughed, toasted—but between them, a silent war had already begun.
Jiaojiao could feel the lotus mark burning faintly.
So could Zhao.
---
On the rooftop above, hidden in the shadows of the tallest spire, Chen Wanli watched it all unfold.
He wasn't dressed in his robes now. Just a long coat, hood pulled low. His eyes glowed faintly as he activated the Hundred Petal Sight, a forbidden ocular technique passed down through the last scroll of the Northern Sect.
He could see the auras now—bright threads of qi.
Jiaojiao glowed like moonlight.
But Zhao Liren? His aura was wrong. Twisted.
Threads looped in and out of his body, connected to something distant and hungry.
And worse—he was tethered to someone else.
Wanli's eyes narrowed.
"There's another player behind the curtain."
"Someone darker… more ancient."
He turned away, disappearing into the night once more.
There was no time left.
The Divine Thread was awakening. The veil between healer and destroyer was growing thin.
And somewhere, buried beneath the city's heart, a sealed gate began to tremble.
---