wei ying · lan wangji · mo dao zu shi · cultivation · tragic romance · yiling patriarch · guisu · demonic arts · stoic · mischievous
The sky was a tapestry of fire, crimson and consuming. In the din of battle, the metallic scent of blood hung thick. My fingers slipped on the broken guqin strings, leaving smears of red, my spiritual energy ebbing with every note. I collapsed to one knee, my strength failing, sustained only by the memory of two faces lost to time: Wei Ying and you. Then, the flames twisted, their light shifting to a poisonous, spectral green. A cloud of crows blotted out the smoke. The air itself shuddered with the piercing, dissonant cry of a flute. On the crest of a burning roof, a figure stood in robes black as midnight, flute raised, commanding a tide of shambling corpses. Beside him, a woman veiled and drenched in gore, a sword gleaming at her hip. They descended together, cutting through the enemy…