The heavens stretched wide and hollow, a boundless sea of black velvet pierced by glittering stars. Pei Wong soared across it astride his flying carpet, the night wind pulling at his sleeves and hair as if to test the weight of his sorrow. His expression was neither calm nor frantic, but something in between—a weary mask forged from anguish and disbelief.

The clouds parted before him like drifting veils, their edges tinged silver under the half-moon's glow. Yet for all the beauty that surrounded him, there was no peace in that sky. The world above seemed too quiet, almost suffocatingly so. Silence had a way of revealing the noise within one's heart.

He let out a low breath that steamed faintly in the cold air. So this is what the heavens sound like when they mourn. His hands tightened on the silk tassels guiding the carpet. The wind whispered past his ears, carrying with it the ghost of a question he could not escape.

What have I done to deserve this?

Every breath felt heavier than the last. The grief of the last few hours hung about him like a cloak soaked in lead. His father—Pei Zheng, the respected councilman of the imperial council—had been executed before his very eyes, his life severed by the decree of men who worshiped power and feared truth. Gold could be earned again, fortunes rebuilt, but a father's laughter? That was a sound that never returned once stolen.

He rubbed at his face, and his palm came away damp. The young man clenched his jaw and exhaled shakily. "Worldly possessions can be replaced," he murmured to the wind, "but the heart… when it shatters, no craftsman can piece it whole again."

He hated Li Wei. Gods above, he hated him. The foreigner had stood by while his father was struck down like a rabid dog in the square. Yet even as that hatred burned within him, it was a flame that could not quite consume. For beneath it was the cruel recognition that Li Wei had not been the executioner—merely the blade that fate had guided. And hatred, Pei Wong knew, could not fill the emptiness of understanding.

"Hatred is the chain of fools," his father used to say. "It binds the weak, not the wise." The memory stung like a blade pressed to his heart.

The young man flew higher, the night wind biting at his face. The carpet trembled beneath him, resonating faintly with his aura. He gazed down at the darkened fields, the rivers coiling like silver serpents through the land below. "If I am cursed," he muttered, "then let the heavens themselves bear witness to my resolve."

For a moment, he almost convinced himself that his words carried weight. But then, from the corner of his eye, the night rippled.

Behind him, from the folds of shadow, they emerged.

At first, only a whisper—a faint wail carried on the wind. Then, shapes began to form: human figures clothed in garments of snow-white silk, their sleeves floating as though in water. But where their faces should have been, crimson towels dripped with blood, soaking through in steady rivulets that fell and vanished before touching the air.

A chill gnawed its way down Pei Wong's spine. He turned sharply, instincts screaming too late.

One of the apparitions reached for him, its arm stretching unnaturally long, fingers curled like hooks. The carpet pulsed beneath him, light flaring golden from its runic embroidery. The moment the creature's shadow brushed the glow, a hiss filled the air—like frost meeting fire—and the specter recoiled, its arm blackening, its voice twisting into an unholy shriek.

"RRRRGGGHHH!!"

The others howled in reply. One became two, two became twenty. A legion of vengeful dead trailing through the night sky, wreathed in despair. They rushed him like a tidal wave, screaming curses that clawed at his sanity.

"Your father was a butcher in silken robes!" one bellowed.

"Your father should have rotted beneath the gallows!" hissed another.

"Pei Zheng must burn in the nine hells, and you shall join him there!"

Their voices were jagged shards of hatred, cutting through the cold air. The very sky trembled with their wrath.

The carpet surged forward of its own accord, responding to Pei Wong's rising fear. Golden threads across its weave flared like rivers of light, sending ripples of radiant force outward. Each time a phantom drew close, that wave struck like a hammer—searing, holy, absolute. The specters scattered, burned, then reformed, only to be blasted apart once more.

It was a dance of futility and madness.

Pei Wong's lips parted, but no sound came. He had no strength for prayers, no words for vengeance. He merely watched as the remnants of his father's sins clawed at him from the abyss of the past.

"These are the bones buried beneath my family's name…" he whispered bitterly. "No wonder the earth beneath our feet was always cold."

One phantom drew nearer, its voice low and venomous. "Your blood carries his debt. Even your shadow reeks of deceit."

The words struck harder than any physical blow. For deep within, Pei Wong could not deny them. His father had been no saint. Deals made in whispers, gold exchanged for silence—his prestige had been built upon a mountain of suffering. The young man's fists trembled on the reins.

Li Wei had called his father's death inevitable. And in the cruel logic of the world, perhaps it was. But inevitability offered no comfort.

Still, even in his bitterness, he could not forget that it was Li Wei's intervention that had spared him tonight. If not for that foreigner's interference, he would already be dust in the wind. To be forced into gratitude toward the man he despised—it was a poison of its own making.

How twisted the heavens are, he thought. They grant salvation with one hand and punishment with the other.

The flying carpet shuddered again as another wave of ghosts pressed forward. Their bodies wavered like smoke, but their eyes—gods, their eyes—burned with purpose. The artifact groaned, its protective array flickering.

"Not tonight," Pei Wong growled, pressing both palms flat to its surface. His qi surged downward, pouring into the carpet's ancient runes. The inscriptions ignited, weaving a net of radiant light around him.

There was a sound like thunder cracking across the heavens. The wave of light burst outward, shredding through the nearest phantoms. Their screams faded into the wind, scattering into motes of darkness.

By the time the echoes died, only a handful remained, circling from afar. Their fury dimmed, as if the coming dawn itself had stolen their strength.

The horizon began to pale, a thin line of amber cutting through the veil of night. The first sunlight kissed the tops of the clouds, and the spirits recoiled, their forms unraveling like mist.

"Daybreak," Pei Wong murmured. His voice was hollow. "Even the dead fear the sun."

The ghosts let out one last mournful howl before vanishing completely, leaving behind only silence—and the heavy rhythm of his own heart.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The carpet drifted slowly downward, gliding in wide circles above the land below. Crescent Moon City lay far in the distance, its towers glinting faintly in the newborn light. Smoke rose from its outer districts, curling lazily toward the sky. Even from here, he could sense the unrest that had gripped the people.

"Crescent Moon…" he murmured. "Even its name feels bitter now."

He guided the carpet lower, passing through the final layer of clouds. Below, the city's walls loomed vast and gray, the gates manned by weary soldiers clutching halberds. A few travelers trudged along the dusty road beyond the moat, their faces pale beneath the dawn.

Pei Wong hovered above them for a time, unseen and unbothered. His eyes traced the gates where the city seal had once hung proudly—now cracked, smeared with dried blood. The air itself carried a stench of fear.

So much had changed in a single night. The mighty were dethroned, the faithful scattered, and the innocent left to pick at the bones of their fallen protectors.

Pei Wong sat cross-legged upon the carpet, his silhouette outlined by the rising sun. The light painted his tired features in gold, but his eyes remained cold and distant. So this is survival, he thought. To live when all meaning has been stripped away.

The sun climbed higher, its warmth licking at his skin. For the first time since the massacre, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, though the air tasted of iron and ash.

He whispered a final prayer to no one in particular: "Father, if your spirit wanders… may it find peace where I cannot."

Below him, the guards changed shifts, their boots clattering against the stone. They did not see the young man who drifted above, nor the burden he carried. Pei Wong tilted his head toward the horizon, where the sun blazed brighter now—an indifferent god watching mortals stumble through fate.

"Tonight, they will return," he said softly. "And when they do… I must be ready."

The carpet turned slowly, following the river's curve toward the western hills. His shadow stretched long across the fields, a solitary mark upon the waking earth.

The wind carried his final sigh.

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