Zhao Tang shifted slightly, the physical sensation of his surroundings filtering into his consciousness before his eyes even opened.

  The fabric pressing against his body was enthusiastically pleasant, a stark contrast to the rough, dirt-caked paths of the mountain trek.

  It appeared as if he were resting on a bed of pure cotton, a luxury that felt jarring in this world of stone and struggle.

  The softness was soothing, serving to instill a momentary sense of calmness within him, a lingering residue of a deep, soundless sleep that had temporarily shielded him from reality.

  But as awareness returned, so did the memories.

  The events of the previous night flooded his mind like a broken dam.

  Despite the vast knowledge he had inherited from the original Zhao Tang, and the cynical wisdom he carried from his life as Xiao fang, he was still horrified.

  The fact that a man meant to lead them to spiritual peace, a master meant to act as the architect of their calm and cultivation, had turned into a cruel, unforgiving beast of vile nature... it shook him to the core.

  He lay there, staring at the underside of a wooden bunk, wondering if this was a dream inside a dream, within yet another dream.

  It would be a convenient plot twist, a triple-layered fabricated illusion created by his own failing mind to toy with him in his final moments on Earth.

  It would certainly explain the absurd sequence of events: his utterly stupid death under a waterfall, the subsequent revelation of the nihilistic void, and this unexplained rebirth.

  It might even clarify the rapid demonic conversion of Master Khetsu into the swine-devil he turned out to be.

  Nonetheless, he had to face the truth as it currently stood.

  He had to.

  With a deliberate nod and a singular vibration of his spirit, he slowly flickered his eyes awake.

  He squinted as the bright, burning rays of the sun fell directly onto his body through a high window.

  Instinctively, he reached up to rub his temples, but the movement triggered a violent tremor in his mind.

  His vision began to distort, twisting the edges of the room into something unrecognizable.

  An intense wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him.

  The snug fabric beneath him, once soothing, now felt like it was shifting during a terrible earthquake.

  His perception turned blurry and hazy, distorting the various objects in the room, chairs, chests, and bedposts, into piles of raw, spoiled meat.

  The frontal, temporal, and auricular regions of his skull trembled with concentrated vibrations as memories of the nihilistic form he inhabited prior to his resurrection torrented into his nerves.

  He remembered the brilliant, shining light that had invaded the realm of darkness.

  It had punctured several points of daze within that abyssal bubble, returning his memories, his individuality, and his stained personality.

  The way that light had caved toward his soul, regarding him with a silent, heavy purpose before transferring him into the physical vessel of the exhausted Zhao Tang, was a mystery that felt like a lead weight in his gut.

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  The anguish was unbearable.

  In a desperate effort to block out the pain, he shut his eyes tight, clenching his jaws until the bone groaned.

  He bit his teeth together with rigorous force, trying to unregister the agony of the soul by drowning it in the physical pain of his nerves.

  Slowly, the discrepancy faded.

  His posture reverted to a genuine, simple form; his nerves calmed, and the unnatural heat of his body began to cool.

  In one quick motion, he sat upright on the bed and swung his legs over, finally registering his surroundings with efficiency.

  He was in a dormitory.

  Bunk beds littered the apartment, and to his surprise, a few disciples were already soundly asleep in the nearby racks.

  A calculated, bitter thought entered his mind:

  A massacre occurred here last night, a man was torn apart and Peng feasted on our peers... and there are still people lying in bed as if nothing happened whatsoever?

  Was it the Law of Blissful Ignorance, or were they simply broken?

  Then, his thoughts shifted to the man with the beard.

  The individual who had casually walked through the carnage and defeated a rogue demon without so much as a physical blow.

  Who was he truly?

  Khetsu had referred to him as "Master," but it didn't seem plausible that the head of the Evernest Sect would have his own teacher still residing in the shadows like a common servant.

  And then there was the smell, that putrid, concentrated aroma of gluttony.

  It seemed as if only he, the intruder from the 21st century, was able to catch it.

  The other disciples had looked at him blankly while he recoiled and clutched at his robes to block the invasion of his nostrils.

  He remembered the air gaining that scorching sensation, the way his perception had been limited to the few frames he could catch between rapid blinks.

  Most shocking of all was the shadow, the visibly tan, growing darkness that had loomed behind Khetsu, a shadow that everyone else seemed blind to.

  He needed answers.

  The dormitory door creaked.

  Tang startled but managed to keep his composure as he turned his head toward the visitor.

  It was Tseng, the herbal cultivator.

  A wave of relief shuddered through Tang.

  Subconsciously, he had placed Tseng in a small, seldom-visited hall of trust within his mind.

  "Tang," Tseng said, his voice low. "The master wishes to speak with you."

  Zhao Tang looked at Tseng, noticing the developing dark circles under the herbalist’s eyes—fatigue that hadn't been there the day before.

  "Master..." Tang repeated, the word tasting like ash.

  "What do you mean by that? And are you alright? After what happened last night..."

  Tseng stared at him for a long second, his breathing shallow.

  His lips parted as if to speak, but he hesitated, regaining his posture before continuing. "I apologize. I should have begun with concern for your wellbeing. You were... quite affected."

  Tang dismissed the apology with a weary wave of his hand.

  He had no grudge; they were all survivors of a nightmare. "Just tell me. Khetsu is... he's gone. Who is this 'Master'?"

  Tseng stepped further into the room as the sunshine glared over the mountain top.

  The rays invaded through the circular windowpane, capturing the dust motes in the air like tiny, trapped spirits.

  "Master Khetsu... he wasn't truly the successor of the sect," Tseng began, his voice trembling slightly.

  "On the official scripts, his name was clear. He held the title. However, the true ancestral custodian, the one who has maintained the Evernest Sect since before the decline, was..."

  The warm mountain winds pressed against the building, turning the atmosphere tense.

  "Me."

  Both Tang and Tseng spun around.

  Standing in the doorway was the individual with the long, unkept, and greyed-out beard.

  He stood unmoved, his presence filling the small dormitory with a weight that seemed to push the oxygen out of the room.

  Tang felt the air turn heavy again, but it wasn't the foul scent of the swine-devil.

  It was something cleaner, yet infinitely more dangerous.

  He noticed that Tseng’s shock was different from his own.

  While Tang was surprised by the man's sudden appearance, Tseng looked as though he were seeing a ghost that had finally decided to speak.

  The man refused to elaborate, standing still as Tang and Tseng exchanged glances.

  "Master Yeng," Tseng whispered, his voice full of a reverence that bordered on fear.

  Yeng, Tang thought. Yin and Yang? The balance of the crescents?

  The man, Yeng, stared at Tang with those dull, lifeless eyes.

  There was no warmth in them, no pride in having saved the survivors.

  He looked like a man who had seen the cycle of life and death repeat so many times that the blood of a demon was no more significant than rain on a windowpane.

  Tang felt a familiar parasitic dread.

  In his previous life, he had learned that power and wealth were masks.

  Beneath the luxury padded clothing and the commanding glares, everyone was just a human.

  For he once shared their status and felt the emptiness the elites collected.

  But looking at Yeng, that logic failed.

  This man didn't feel like a human who "called the shots."

  Yet, he still felt to be sharing that status.

  To be continued