The name echoed like a death sentence.
"…Zheng'er…"
It wasn't a whisper of longing. It was a command. A summoning.
Ren Zhe didn't move.
The word reached into the marrow of the world. It slid beneath the skin of the ruins, threading through shattered pillars, scorched banners, the corpse of a long-dead empire. A name dragged from the tomb of time.
Jin's breath caught in his throat.
Meimei tightened her grip on his shoulder. "Who… who is he calling?"
Ren Zhe's face remained still, but inside, storms churned.
Not me.
Not Jin.
Zheng'er.
That was Xue Han's birth name.
The Emperor's voice was calling out—not in rage, nor sorrow—but in recognition.
The tomb cracked again. Long, faultlike splits spread across the crystalline surface, humming with ancient, forbidden power. Light leaked from within—sickly white and cold as winter's teeth.
Jin clutched his temples. "It's too loud… I hear—words. Hundreds of them. Thousands."
"What's he saying?" Meimei asked.
"Not he," Jin gasped. "They."
Ren Zhe turned sharply. "What do you mean?"
Jin looked up, dazed. "There's more than one voice inside."
That's impossible, Ren Zhe thought—but his instincts screamed otherwise.
He could feel it too. The voice that spoke wasn't whole. It was layered. Fragmented.
As if the Emperor had not died intact.
As if, during the sealing of the Demon Gate… something had entered with him.
A soul-splinter.
Or worse.
A cohabitation.
He stepped closer to the tomb.
And then it happened.
The crystal shell shattered.
A burst of pressure radiated outward in a perfect sphere, throwing Meimei and Jin backward like rag dolls. Ren Zhe held his ground, every muscle screaming, anchoring his spirit with raw will.
From within the ruins of the tomb rose a figure.
Tall. Imperious. Radiant with broken majesty.
Clad in armor wrought of starlight and void-iron. His face, unchanged by time, bore the gaze of one who once ruled the world and never forgave it.
The Last Emperor of the Ten Thousand Lotus Era.
Xue Yunlan the Immortal Crown.
Alive.
His presence was suffocating. Not just cultivation—weight. As if the very laws of the world bent around him in submission.
And yet…
His eyes were wrong.
One was golden, bright as sunfire.
The other—black. Not just dark. Empty. A void that absorbed light, time, thought.
Two souls.
One body.
Ren Zhe's heart pounded.
"Xue Yunlan?" he called cautiously.
The figure looked toward him, slowly, like a statue coming to life.
The golden eye blinked.
The black one stared.
"…you're not Zheng'er," the voice rasped.
Ren Zhe's hand went to the hilt of his Shard. "He's gone. He ran."
The Emperor blinked again, confused. "Gone…?"
Then the black eye flared.
"No. He's still mine."
Ren Zhe froze.
What?
Mine?
He's still mine?
That was no father speaking.
It was possession.
A shadow moved behind the Emperor. A second form, tethered by invisible chains, flickered like a spirit just beyond sight. It looked like Xue Han—only younger, more fragile, locked in torment.
"Jin," Ren Zhe barked. "You still with me?"
The boy groaned, pushing himself up from the ground. "Y-yeah."
Meimei clutched her dagger but shook with fear. "Is that… is that really him?"
Ren Zhe didn't answer.
He could feel it. The truth clawed at his mind, demanding entry.
The Emperor wasn't whole.
He hadn't survived by sealing the gate.
He'd merged with what lay beyond it.
A Demon Sovereign, bound within his own soul.
And now… they were waking up together.
"You look like your grandfather," the Emperor whispered to Jin, tilting his head.
Jin swallowed.
"You carry my blood."
He extended his hand.
"Come."
Jin's body moved without consent. His feet lifted. He floated—slowly—toward the Emperor like a puppet on invisible strings.
"No!" Meimei screamed.
Ren Zhe didn't hesitate.
He activated the Gravefire Step, blinked into the air, and swung his blade at the tether pulling Jin forward.
The Shard flared with cold flame.
Clang.
Something blocked the strike.
Not the Emperor.
A barrier. One made of glyphs and bone, suspended between realms.
The Emperor's voice was calm. "You bear grave energy. That's why you remember. But it's also why you cannot touch me."
Ren Zhe snarled. "Then I'll carve my way to you."
He began invoking the Death Root Scripture, pulling forbidden energy from the skeletal dragon that still writhed in his shadow.
The air shivered.
But before he could strike again, the Emperor raised his hand—and the world changed.
Reality rippled like a pond.
Suddenly, they were standing in a memory.
A palace of gold. A hall of stars. Banners bearing the crest of the immortal dynasty fluttered in impossible winds. Musicians played melodies with strings made of light.
But the people were wrong.
Their faces were masks. Their bodies flickered. Their eyes were blank.
"Do you remember this place?" the Emperor asked Jin, who now stood at his side.
Jin didn't speak.
He couldn't.
Because this was no illusion. It was a dream built from blood. A soul-memory projected from the Emperor's twisted mind.
Ren Zhe growled. "Let him go!"
The Emperor turned to him slowly.
"I ruled ten thousand years before you ever breathed," he said. "I forged peace from ash. I broke the Nine Heaven Clans. I sealed the first Demon Gate with my flesh. And still… the heavens cursed me."
His voice deepened. Changed.
The black eye widened.
"Now I curse them back."
Suddenly, the golden eye dimmed—and the black one blazed.
The true Emperor was gone.
And in his place stood the one who had waited within.
The Sovereign of the 7th Abyss.
"Thank you for waking me," it said in a voice like knives on silk.
Ren Zhe whispered, "No…"
He lunged again—but this time, the Emperor didn't block.
The entire memory palace did.
Ghostly chains wrapped around Ren Zhe's arms, legs, throat. Not physical. Not spiritual. Conceptual.
The weight of forgotten rule. The binding of ancient oaths. The suppression of rebellion itself.
Jin reached out to him, eyes wide with terror. "Ren—!"
The demon turned to the boy.
"Shall I wear your skin next?" it asked.
And then Jin screamed.