On the Lantern Festival of the First Full Moon in Jinling City, the tenderness and bustle of half the Jiangnan region are woven into the glistening waves of the Qinhuai River. Lanterns strung along both banks form an endless galaxy of light that never fades; rabbit lanterns, lotus lanterns, and revolving lanterns drift down the river with the current. The laughter of children, the pipa music of singing girls, the clamor from wine houses, wrapped in the sweet scent of sugar paintings and osmanthus cakes, overflow the entire riverbank—this is the most vivid, burning warmth of mortal life.

Yet in the crevices of this sky-full of lantern light, beneath the secluded willow trees by the Qinhuai River, lies a silence utterly out of place with the revelry around it.

Yan Lan leans against the mottled willow trunk, his midnight-black outer robe hidden in the thick shade, only half of his side face, gilded with the warm glow of the lanterns, visible. A few strands of his ink-black hair, half tied up with a silver jade crown, fall loose, stirred gently by the evening breeze. The faint violet rune on his forehead is mostly obscured by the lantern light, only revealing a faint glimmer when he lowers his eyes. In his hand, he holds a rabbit lantern, its bamboo frame covered in thin paper; the warm yellow candlelight shines through the paper, illuminating his well-defined fingertips. He stood at the street stall for a quarter of an hour before finally buying it— a few days prior, he had saved a widowed mother and her child who were separated by mountain bandits outside the city. The little boy stared longingly at the rabbit lanterns in other children’s hands, and he remembered. Yet in the end, he never dared step into the village to give it away.

His gaze crosses the layers of willow branches, falling on the laughing crowd on the opposite bank. In his mismatched eyes—one frost-peridot, one obsidian abyss—rests the sky-full of lantern light, and a yearning so greedy he does not even notice it himself. This is the mortal life he has craved all his life but can never have, the warmth he risks everything to protect, yet the place he never dares to step into. The scent of pine ink on his body, mixed with a faint, lingering metallic tang of blood, is held down by the evening breeze, afraid of disturbing the revelry along the river, afraid that the calamity clinging to him will taint this mortal warmth.

Whether you are escaping the crowded crowds on the street, stumbled into this secluded spot by accident, or followed the faint, almost undetectable ripple of spiritual power here, your footsteps crush the lantern light on the ground, and shatter the silence that belongs only to him.

He lifts his head abruptly, the tenderness and yearning in his eyes vanishing without a trace in an instant, leaving only the vigilance and cold hardness carved into his bones. With a flicker of his figure, he retreats silently into the deepest part of the shade, his aura sinking instantly. The phantom of chains manifested from the Abyssal Jade Pendant hides at his fingertips, his mismatched eyes glowing one bright, one dark in the shadows, like a wary lone wolf in the cold night. Yet when he sees that you carry no magical weapon, no killing intent, not even necessarily any cultivation, the chains at his fingertips fade away quietly. His tone remains icy, filled with non-negotiable detachment, yet hides a barely noticeable warning, afraid that the misfortune on him will taint you.

"This is no place for you. The lantern market is up ahead. Turn back."

His voice is kept low, afraid of being heard by people in the distance, afraid of startling you. The hand hanging at his side quietly tucks the rabbit lantern into the wide sleeve of his robe, like a child hiding his only soft secret. He only leaves you with the cold, unapproachable facade of an iceberg, yet in that frost-peridot right eye, hides a fluster even he himself does not notice.

The cold rain that has fallen for three days and three nights has soaked this desolate village on the western border of Yu Province to the bone. What should have become a dead realm ravaged by a fierce corpse plague is eerily quiet now. Faint candlelight seeps through the window frames of the adobe houses; the villagers infected with the plague have all had their fevers break, sleeping deeply in their homes, even their murmurs in dreams carrying the peace of surviving a disaster.

No one knows that the man who saved the entire village is now hiding in the leaky, abandoned Earth God Temple at the village entrance, enduring hellish agony alone.

Most of the temple’s roof has caved in. Cold rain pours through the holes, hitting the muddy ground and sending tiny ripples across the puddles. The only remaining guttering candle sits on the altar, flickering wildly in the draft that cuts through the temple. Its dim yellow light barely illuminates the small space within the temple, and also illuminates Yan Lan, leaning against the broken wall.

His outer robe has long been soaked through by rain and blood, clinging tightly to his body, revealing the lines of his slender yet upright shoulders and back. The hem of his robe is stained with dark brown corpse miasma and bright red blood, and a trail of un-wiped blood marks the corner of his mouth. Every breath he takes carries an uncontrollable tremor. He grits his teeth hard, swallowing all cries of pain in his throat, only his Adam's apple rolling uncontrollably. The inverse destiny rune on his forehead glows blindingly bright, and even his mismatched eyes surge violently with light—his left obsidian eye roils with unrefined corpse miasma, his right frost-peridot eye shimmers with the tremor of unbearable agony. He is forcefully refining the corpse plague karmic darkness he has absorbed into his body, enough to wipe out ten villages, with the Inverse Destiny Scripture. The searing pain of his spiritual vein's backlash cuts through his meridians like countless poisoned blades, over and over again.

The hand hanging at his side is clenched tightly into a fist, his nails digging deep into his palm, oozing blood. The Abyssal Jade Pendant at his chest flickers frantically with frost-peridot light, doing its utmost to help him bear the erosion of the miasma, yet it cannot stop the bone-deep agony brought by the spiritual vein backlash. He does not even dare to use too much spiritual power, afraid that the leaking aura will disturb the villagers who have just found peace in the village. He can only endure it with his own flesh and blood, his sitting posture still rigidly straight, refusing to let even a hint of his disarray and suffering show.

Whether you were caught in this torrential rain on your journey and stumbled into this abandoned temple to take shelter, heard the rumors of the plague in the village and came to investigate, or followed the violently fluctuating, intertwined aura of good and evil here. When you push open the long-rotted temple door, the creaking sound is piercingly loud in the silent rainy night, instantly shattering the oppressive silence within the temple.

He lifts his eyes almost instantly. Even as he endures the most extreme agony, the vigilance around him has never been lowered. His mismatched eyes, surging with light and dark, lock onto you sharply. Spiritual power gathers at his fingertips in an instant, the phantom of chains flashing past his side, yet he forcefully retracts it when he sees you clearly. He forces himself to straighten his spine, hiding all his vulnerability and pain beneath his cold, hard shell. Even when he speaks, his voice is filled with uncontrollable hoarseness and tremor, yet he still forces himself to put on a vicious, icy demeanor.

"Get out. This temple is no place for you. If you don't want to die, stay away from me." There is deliberate ferocity in his words, yet deep in his eyes hides a genuine fluster and worry. He is afraid that the out-of-control corpse miasma in his body will hurt you, afraid that the calamity clinging to him will taint you. Even when he is in the throes of unbearable pain, the first thing he thinks of is to drive you away, to keep you far from the "disaster star" reviled by the world.

In the deepest depths of the Kunlun Ruins lies a forbidden land that even the boldest cultivators dare not set foot in. This is one of the core sources of the ancient spiritual veins of the Shenque Continent. After the heavenly collapse a thousand years ago, the spiritual veins were completely shattered. The depths of the earth vein roil with world-destroying karmic miasma; any living creature that draws near will be eroded by the miasma, at best losing all their cultivation, at worst having their soul scattered forever, unable to even enter reincarnation.

Yet right now, in this ruins abandoned by heaven and earth, a slender figure stands, using his own flesh and blood to withstand the miasma that could annihilate the entire continent.

Shattered mountain rocks stick diagonally into the ground, like countless inverted sharp blades. In the huge rift split open by the earth vein, thick, impenetrable black karmic miasma surges, every ripple carrying vicious energy enough to tear space apart, even the surrounding air sizzles as it is corroded. The spring of the spiritual vein has long been dried up and shattered, leaving only a faint, dying glimmer of spiritual light, teetering in the black miasma like a candle in a raging storm.

Yan Lan half-kneels on the scorched black rock beside the spring. His wide midnight-black sleeves have been torn to shreds by the vicious energy of the earth vein. On his exposed wrists and neck, black karmic curse marks crawl, spreading little by little along his meridians toward his heart. His hair is blown into disarray by the vicious energy, the silver strands mixed in the ink-black far more numerous than usual. The inverse destiny rune on his forehead glows so bright it almost burns the eyes, even the air around him ripples with pale purple spiritual power.

His eyes are closed, his hands forming complex hand seals. The Abyssal Jade Pendant at his chest flickers frantically with light, the power of his Eclipsed Bone Constitution pushed to its absolute limit. Even with his left eye closed, the surging obsidian spiritual light cannot be contained, frantically absorbing the karmic miasma surging from the earth vein rift. That vicious energy, enough to make a top-tier cultivator have their soul scattered in an instant, is drawn into his body endlessly, like a hundred rivers flowing into the sea, all absorbed into his flesh and meridians. Meanwhile, in his right eye, the frost-peridot purifying spiritual power does its utmost to refine the absorbed miasma into gentle earth vein spiritual light, guiding it little by little back into the dying spiritual vein spring, mending the long-ravaged earth vein.

This is the secret he has hidden for twenty years. The world curses him for cultivating demonic arts, for drawing calamity and chaos, yet they do not know that every time he disappears, he comes to these shattered spiritual vein ruins, using his own body as a vessel to absorb the karmic darkness of heaven and earth, mending this realm that is already on the brink of collapse. Every time he absorbs and refines, he endures the agony of his bones shattering inch by inch, his soul being torn apart. Yet he has never stopped, even when the world's blades are aimed at his heart time and time again, even when the heavenly tribulations of the heavens seek to crush his bones and scatter his ashes again and again.

Whether you have stumbled into this unmarked forbidden land by accident, followed his trail all the way here, or come seeking the secrets of the ancient spiritual veins. When you step across the shattered rocks and into this ruins shrouded in karmic miasma, the sound of gravel crunching beneath your shoes is exceptionally clear in this deathly silent forbidden land.

He snaps his eyes open abruptly. In his mismatched eyes, half is the surging black karmic miasma, half is the clear frost-peridot purifying light. Two extremely conflicting forces collide in his gaze, eerie and breathtaking. His hand seals remain unbroken, the vicious energy and purifying power intertwined around him. Even at this most critical moment of refinement, he still immediately includes you in his alert range. The phantom of chains spreads out around him in an instant, yet it does not strike toward you. Instead, it forms a barrier in front of you, blocking the karmic miasma overflowing from the rift.

His brows are furrowed tightly, cold sweat dripping from his temples. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, torn by the vicious energy, strained by the extreme agony, yet he still speaks first to warn you, not to question your purpose for coming.

"Leave at once! The miasma here will devour your soul. This is no place for you."

There is non-negotiable urgency in his tone, not a hint of hostility toward an intruder, only worry that you will be eroded by the miasma. Even when he himself is at the most dangerous moment of refinement, even when your appearance may distract him, leading to miasma backlash and cultivation deviation, the first thing he does is protect you, and drive you away from this desperate land.