Two armored guards, their helms faceless, lunged. Lou Hezheng straightened, a droplet of black blood still clinging to his lower lip, his grin fixed. He swayed, his knees threatening to buckle, but held firm. This was the moment. He’d played the game perfectly. The bait had been taken. Just as the first guard’s gauntleted hand reached for his shoulder, a blur of ice-blue silk streaked across the arena floor. A sword, sheathed in polished frost-steel, appeared like a silver barrier. The flat of its blade slammed into the guard’s chest with a muffled clang, sending him stumbling back, gasping for air. The second guard froze, his hand hovering mid-air. Bao Xiyue stood between Hezheng and the guards, her posture an unyielding spear. Her eyes, frigid as mountain springs, swept over the arena, lingering on Elder Kuang in the VIP gallery. “Elder Kuang,” her voice, though soft, carried with crystalline clarity, “Pavilion Rule 37. Clause 9: Any disciple of the Core Pantheon Rank may claim a lesser-ranked combatant as their exclusive sparring partner for a period of no less than one lunar cycle, provided the combatant has demonstrated exceptional or unorthodox martial prowess.” Elder Kuang’s jowls quivered. “Core Pantheon Disciple Bao Xiyue, this boy is injured! He requires immediate medical attention and investigation.” His eyes, however, betrayed a flicker of frustration, a hint of something deeper. “Precisely,” Xiyue countered, her gaze unwavering. “His unorthodox footwork, his peculiar time-delay strike… these are techniques I wish to analyze, to spar against. A medical inspection in the Doctrine Hall would only delay my research. I claim him, Elder. Immediately.” She didn’t wait for a reply. Her hand shot out, grabbing Hezheng’s wrist with surprising force. “Come, you mangy cur. You are mine now.” Hezheng, still grinning, let himself be dragged. His vision blurred at the edges, the curse gnawing at his core, but Xiyue’s grip was a lifeline. He stumbled after her, feigning weakness, allowing her to pull him past the stunned guards, past the murmuring crowd, and out of the arena. Elder Kuang’s glare, a spear of ice, followed them until they disappeared through the Arch of Whispers. She didn’t slow until they reached the heart of the sprawling complex, traversing courtyards and twisting corridors at a relentless pace. Hezheng, his lungs burning, the taste of blood still in his mouth, focused on maintaining his clumsy, grateful appearance. He knew where she was taking him. The Midnight Library. A place of forbidden knowledge, rarely accessed even by elders. With a sharp tug, she hauled him through massive, iron-banded doors. The air inside was cool and thick with the scent of aged parchment and dry ink. Towering shelves, carved from dark, unidentifiable wood, stretched into the gloom, stacked with scrolls and tomes that seemed to absorb what little light filtered in from high, arched windows. Xiyue released his wrist, the moment she did, he sagged against a nearby pillar, coughing weakly. She slammed the heavy doors shut, the thud echoing through the vast space, then swiftly engaged a series of intricate bronze locks. Turning, she drew her frost-steel sword, its polished blade reflecting the dim light like a sliver of the moon. She pointed the tip at his throat. “Lou Hezheng,” her voice was low, devoid of the earlier performance, “Explain yourself. That was not a Crippled Sparrow technique. Your footwork defied temporal laws. Your strike broke the laws of kinetic energy. What are you?” Hezheng pushed himself off the pillar, a charming, self-deprecating laugh bubbling up. He wiped his mouth again, making a show of it. “Why, Miss Bao, what a greeting! I thought you wanted to spar, not interrogate me with such a sharp tongue… and an even sharper blade.” He winked, leaning in slightly, his grin widening. “Unless this is your unique way of asking me on a date? I’m flattered, truly.” A vein pulsed in Xiyue’s temple. Her eyes narrowed. “Do not mock me, Lou Hezheng. This is not a game. Tell me how you performed those impossible feats, or I will peel the answers from your skin.” Her sword twitched, the point grazing his throat, a tiny bead of blood welling up. Hezheng chuckled, completely unfazed. “Oh, but it is a game, isn’t it? Every duel, every interaction. And you, Miss Bao, are far too beautiful to be so angry. It wrinkles your brow.” He reached out, slowly, casually, to brush away an imaginary wrinkle between her eyebrows. Her sword flashed. He pulled his hand back just as the blade hissed past, a hair’s breadth from his skin. “You infuriating buffoon!” Xiyue snarled, rage finally breaking through her cold composure. Her sword sang, a blur of silver, aimed at his shoulder. This was not a warning strike. This was meant to cripple. Hezheng, still grinning, executed a sidestep that seemed to fold space, appearing a yard to her left. Her blade met empty air. “Tsk, tsk,” he chided, shaking his head. “Such aggression. We’re supposed to be sparring partners, remember? Not mortal enemies. Though, if you insist on dancing so vigorously, perhaps we could find some music?” Enraged, Xiyue pressed her attack, her movements a whirlwind of precision and power. The ‘Glacier’s Edge’ technique, a series of rapid, piercing thrusts designed to overwhelm, followed by the sweeping ‘Winter’s Embrace’ that sought to disarm. Hezheng, still maintaining his smile, weaved and dodged, his phantom steps making him appear to shimmer out of existence only to reappear a foot away. He moved with a lazy grace, parrying her most lethal strikes with the flat of his hand, a casual flick of his wrist. He was holding back. She knew it. The realization bit deep, sharper than any blow. Her best, most intricate maneuvers, honed over years of merciless training, were being treated like child’s play, effortlessly deflected by a man who was supposedly crippled. Fury and a terrifying respect warred across her features. One of her sweeping parries, meant to disarm, went wide as Hezheng slipped past. The flat of her blade, still carrying immense momentum, slammed into one of the ancient, hollow-sounding support columns supporting a balcony above. The timber groaned, then with a sharp crack, a section of its carved surface splintered inwards. A small, dark cavity opened. Inside, nestled amongst centuries of dust, rested a leather-bound volume, its pages brittle with age. Xiyue paused, her blade still, her breath ragged. Her gaze darted from the damaged column to the volume, then to Hezheng. He merely cocked his head, a curious, innocent expression on his face. “Oh dear. Did I make you angry enough to attack the furniture, Miss Bao? You might owe the Pavilion Master some silver for that.” Ignoring his jibe, Xiyue strode forward, her sword lowered. She reached into the cavity and pulled out the record. Its cover was blank, save for a single, stylized symbol: a loom with a needle piercing a cloud. She flipped it open. Her stare hardened, her expression morphing from fury to a chilling disbelief. She began to read, her lips moving silently, her gaze scanning the archaic script. Hezheng watched her, his own blood thrumming. He knew what she was seeing. He could feel the residual dark energy emanating from the book, a subtle echo of the demonic aura from Elder Kuang. “Demonic… artifacts?” Xiyue whispered, her voice barely audible. “The Soul-Shattering Shard… the Eye of Balor… all listed here. Hoarded. Not destroyed, but collected by the orthodox sects. And the purpose… ‘Assembly of the Heaven-Piercing Loom’?” Her head snapped up, her eyes blazing with a horrifying understanding. “They’re not eradicating the demonic empire. They’re rebuilding its ultimate weapon!” Just as the words left her mouth, a low, grinding sound echoed through the library. The massive iron-banded doors, which Xiyue had locked from the inside, began to creak, their mechanisms groaning as if being manipulated by unseen forces from the outside. The bronze locks clicked, one by one, disengaging. Then, with a soft hiss, a thin, sickly green smoke began to seep from beneath the door and through the small gaps in the frame. The air, already heavy, turned acrid, scorching the back of Hezheng’s throat. A faint, sweet almond scent, deadly and unmistakable, wafted through the room. “Poison gas!” Xiyue coughed, clutching the volume. Her eyes darted around the enormous, sealed room, then back to the rapidly expanding cloud of green. The realization hit her. They were trapped. Someone had been watching. Someone knew what was in this book. And they wanted it – and them – gone. She stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth, but the gas was already filling the lower sections of the library, creeping upwards. Hezheng felt the familiar tug of the black bead within him, the whispers of Grandpa Tuo. He could use the time-realm, buy them precious seconds, perhaps even reverse the flow of the gas. But doing so would reveal the ultimate secret of his power. It would expose everything. He looked at Xiyue, her face already paling, her strong frame beginning to waver. He had a choice to make, one that felt like tearing his very soul apart.