The world spun, a vortex of black ink and crumbling stone. The roar of dissolving timber ground against Pei Yunhe’s ears, the black slurry lapping at his ankles. Beside him, Kuang Zongtu struggled against the liquefaction, his heavy frame churning the dark muck. “Did you truly believe you were my first prodigy, Yunhe? Look closely at the ink.” Yue Fengmian’s voice cut through the damp roar, his calm features tightening into something predatory. He stood untouched, a serene anchor in a sea of black annihilation. Yunhe, his own core trembling, forced his gaze down, not at the pooling ink, but *into* it. His painter’s instinct, honed over years of quiet observation, urged him to find the underlying truth. As his eyes focused, the swirling blackness warped, coalescing not into a reflection of his terrified face, but into a murky, shifting vista. The hum intensified, vibrating through his teeth, an insistent pull dragging at his thoughts. The dissolving walls of the manor faded, replaced by phantom images, ghosts of stone and water that were not of this time. He was no longer in his sinking studio but stood as an ethereal observer on a precipice overlooking terraced waterfalls. Yet these were not ordinary torrents. Beneath the translucent flow, an intricate network pulsed, a terrifying, vascular system of crimson and deep violet. The waterfalls of Mount Qixia, the very lifeblood of their sect, were not rock and water at all. They were the enormous, bleeding veins of a colossal, ancient beast, its life force slowly seeping into the very ground upon which the manor was built. The air, thick with the scent of wet stone and metallic tang, carried a faint, rhythmic thrum—the slow, agonizing beat of an unimaginable heart. He watched, unseen, as people moved below. Generations of painters, their robes bearing older sect crests, toiled with brushes and inkstone. They worked beside the pulsing conduits, untroubled, their expressions tranquil. Then, a familiar figure emerged in jade robes: Yue Fengmian. Yue Fengmian. But here, the elder was different. His eyes, though retaining their warmth, possessed an ancient, bottomless hunger. He moved among the disciples, murmuring and guiding, his touch siphoning their spiritual marrow with every tap of a sleeve. Yunhe saw a young woman, her face etched with sorrow, painting a vibrant landscape. Yue Fengmian stood beside her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “Your beloved, he is lost to the chaos of the martial world,” Yue murmured, his voice a balm. “But with your brush, you can offer him a sanctuary, a haven untouched by violence. A canvas where he may find eternal peace.” The woman, tears streaming, nodded, her brushstrokes becoming frantic, infusing the painted forms of her family with desperate devotion. As the final stroke landed, the likenesses on the silk dwindled, their forms turning translucent before solidifying into dry pigment. The woman collapsed, spent, but Yue Fengmian’s eyes gleamed, a faint, golden wisp of light rising from the canvas and flowing directly into his own chest. Her loved ones were not saved; they were *consumed*. The sanctuary was a tomb, their artistic essence feeding the parasite. He witnessed the cycle repeat. A calligrapher, a musician, each coaxed by Yue Fengmian to seal their memories and loved ones into the developing scroll, all under promises of preservation. Each time, a wisp of golden light, pure cultivation energy, flowed into Yue Fengmian, rejuvenating him, keeping him forever youthful, forever wise, forever a predator. Yunhe saw the blank silk given to him, the one he had bled upon, appear in these scenes, passed down through generations, patiently waiting for another 'prodigy'. The Grand Oblivion Scroll was no simple artifact; it was an altar. The terraced falls provided ambient humors from the buried creature, and the pacifist disciples provided the spirits. Yunhe’s own blood was simply the catalyst, destined not for tranquility, but for the final reaping. He was not an exceptional talent; he was only the newest mark, his gentle nature twisted to nourish an elder's greed. Suddenly, the mournful thrum of the ancient beast’s heart was rent by a furious, guttural bellow. “*GET OUT OF HIS HEAD!*” The sound ripped through the illusion, a raw, unadulterated shockwave of primal power. Yunhe’s vision fractured, the images of past disciples breaking apart. A concussive force struck the parasitic resonance, snapping the illusion. His vision snapped back to the present, the dissolving manor still a swirling nightmare, but the consuming drag on his core had lessened. Kuang Zongtu, his face a mask of rage, stood hunched over Yunhe, his colossal body tensed, radiating a fierce, protective aura. His knuckles dripped with black silt as his sinews strained against the mire. He had roared a body-refining mantra, shattering the memory illusion, physically shielding Yunhe from the corrupting influence of the ink. “Fool! You stand there like a statue, letting it eat your mind!” Kuang’s voice was rough, but his eyes, usually blazing with arrogance, held a startling intensity, a genuine concern that belied his usual tyrannical demeanor. The manor continued its transformation, the liquid ink bubbling and coalescing. But this time, it did not merely spread. It rose. From the pooling blackness, forms began to emerge, not amorphous blobs, but distinct shapes. They solidified, limb by limb, into silhouettes. Their faces were smooth expanses of black pitch, yet their stances, the drape of antique sleeves, the fingers curved as though gripping plectrums or ink brushes, betrayed their lineage. The previous victims of Yue Fengmian, brought forth as soulless golems, their every movement a perfectly executed martial stance. They surrounded Yunhe and Kuang, a silent, lethal ring, their ink-black bodies radiating a cold, dead power.

Echoes of the Past Scholars