The air tore apart in a soundless whisper—a rift in reality itself opening with the soft grace of a veil being pulled back. Lian Xuan emerged from the spatial fissure, his body drifting like a leaf on the wind until his feet touched the gray ground with a near-ethereal lightness.
The ground beneath him… was not earth or stone. It was something between the two: a dull, lifeless surface, cold and sterile. The soil seemed to have forgotten its purpose—to cradle life. Lian Xuan gazed around and realized the landscape was frozen in time. There was no horizon, only an endless plain of gray stretching in every direction, devoid of landmarks. No sound, save for the faint echo of his own existence.
The sky above was not a sky. It was a muted, opaque shroud without stars, sun, or moon. A uniform canvas of desolation, as though the universe itself had turned its back on this forsaken place. The air was dry but not arid—a hollow stillness, where even the concept of breath felt unnecessary.
Lian Xuan inhaled deeply. The cold was not physical. It seeped into his spirit, bypassing flesh and bone, leaving an emptiness that no warmth could dispel. He had faced the unknown many times before, yet fear did not surface. Fear was a luxury for those who still cared. What stirred within him was subtler: a discomfort that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness, whispering that he did not belong here.
He hovered across the plain, his steps light, leaving no trace. Time stretched and bent unnaturally; he couldn't tell if minutes or days had passed before he saw it—a faint column of black smoke, spiraling into the starless sky.
Intrigued, he moved toward it.
As he neared the smoke, he saw a solitary figure seated beside a fire. The flames were dim, orange and exhausted, as if the fire itself were weary of burning. Yet what unsettled him most was the figure's presence: a shadow that seemed to breathe. More alarming was its absolute absence of life energy. Even the dead left a residual echo of their essence. This figure left nothing. It was void personified.
Lian Xuan descended, his eyes never leaving the stranger.
— "Forgive my intrusion," — he said, his tone calm and measured. — "May I share your fire?"
The figure inclined its head—a simple gesture, yet laden with an eerie gravity. Lian Xuan sat, legs crossed with the effortless poise of a warrior monk. The silence pressed against him, thick and oppressive.
At last, he studied the figure more closely.
It appeared almost human, but there was something fundamentally wrong. Long, white hair drifted around the figure's shoulders as though suspended in water. Its skin was ashen, drained of all warmth or life. Its eyes… voids of pure blackness that consumed the fire's glow without reflection. The tattered, black robes it wore were adorned with faint patterns resembling roots strangling unseen forms. But it was the presence that dominated the space—impossible to ignore, like gravity given consciousness.
The figure broke the silence.
— "Fire is fascinating, isn't it?" — The voice was soft, slow, and unhurried. — "Always hungry. Never satisfied. It consumes because it must… without guilt."
It smiled—a thin, hollow expression, more a ghost of a memory than a human gesture.
— "Perhaps it's the most honest of us all."
Lian Xuan kept his gaze on the flames, absorbing the words. The weight of the statement resonated with a truth he could not dismiss.
— "Fire also illuminates. Warms. Sustains life. Its nature depends on the hand that wields it… and the intent behind the flame."
The figure laughed softly—a brittle, broken sound.
— "Ah… intent. Such a fragile thing." — It tilted its head toward the fire. — "A wildfire doesn't care why it was lit. It just burns. Consumes. And when there's nothing left to devour, it dies."
The silence returned, stretching long enough to feel eternal.
— "You're aware of yourself despite the corruption. You think, speak… question. That is rare." — Lian Xuan shifted slightly, eyes locking on the figure's. — "How do you maintain such clarity?"
The figure's smile vanished.
— "Clarity?" — It laughed again, the sound cracking like ice. — "Clarity is a curse dressed as a gift."
A pale hand touched its chest.
— "Those who succumb to corruption find peace. No more voices whispering in their minds. No memories of what they were. Just… silence. But I?" — The figure's fingers dug slightly into the fabric. — "I am still here. Aware. Knowing what I was… what I've lost. And knowing that… that is the true corruption."
The air thickened as the words settled between them.
— "You speak like someone who has already surrendered to fate. If it's truly a prison… why resist?"
The figure met his gaze.
— "Because hope is crueler than despair." — The voice was flat, but the emotion behind it was undeniable. — "Despair ends things. It's a period at the end of a sentence. But hope?" — The figure's mouth twisted into something like a smile. — "Hope is a comma. It keeps you here… waiting for something that will never come."
Lian Xuan tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly.
— "And what is it you wait for?"
The smile disappeared.
— "Death." — There was no sorrow, no resignation in the statement. Just stark, unyielding truth. — "Not the mortal kind. The true death. Oblivion. Erasure. The end that even gods fear."
The figure stood. Its movements were fluid, almost liquid.
— "But destiny is a sadistic warden. It keeps us dancing long after the strings have rotted away."
Lian Xuan thought of the Sorcerer—of that madman's laughter, masking ancient knowledge. Perhaps the true abyss was not forgetting oneself, but remembering too much.
— "If the fire is not a metaphor… if it's just fire… what then?"
The figure blinked, startled by the simplicity of the question. Then, for the first time, the smile felt genuine.
— "Then we're wasting time with words."
The silence returned, but it was softer now. More familiar. Like the hush shared by soldiers before a battle neither wished to fight.
Lian Xuan stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes.
— "Before I go… how may I address you? Your presence feels vast… like gazing at the endless sky over the Black Desert." — His voice was respectful but curious. — "Is this your domain?"
The figure mirrored his movement with eerie grace.
— "I am Morwen, Lady of the Death Plains." — The smile flickered again. — "Self-proclaimed, but it fits."
Her gaze drifted across the barren expanse.
— "Yes, you're right. I am more fearsome than the Black Desert. More ancient than the sands beneath it. The starry sky is my opposite… the only force here that dares challenge me."
The fire crackled softly, its light flickering across the frozen landscape.
— "And the sky? Why does it never shine here?"
— "Because here, in this realm of death…" — Morwen whispered, her eyes glinting with cold certainty — "I am the only light left."