Fu Ran and the once crying Su Biyu had moved to the edge of the bed. She lay mostly crumpled against his side. It seemed that even the short time spent with the other children had made Su Biyu's well-being important to them.
Meng Xiao lay on the floor, speaking to her in softer tones—none of the serious bite he used against Lin An and Wan Yu.
Lin An, on the other hand, played with Su Biyu's hair, braiding it or tying it into thin twintails. She insisted the look suited her. And Wan Yu found comfort simply by staying close to her, curled up nearby like someone who understood the bond of shared trauma.
When Fu Ran first took on three disciples, he never imagined that even the more difficult of them had such emotional understanding of someone in pain. Nor did he imagine they would actually get along without bickering.
Right now, the one proving difficult was…
He turned his attention to Tian Han. Ever since Fu Ran had snapped at him earlier, he propped his arm on the headboard and refused to meet his gaze.
So many times, Fu Ran stole a glance and wanted to reprimand him—something along the lines of "Sulking is not a good look." However, he genuinely looked distressed, and Fu Ran found himself unable to say it.
Instead, he decided to break the silence in a different way. "We should get ready."
Tian Han finally looked back. Any tenseness in his eyes seemed to fade the moment Fu Ran came into view.
"Is Shizun finished playing?"
"I'm not 'playing.' Giving aid to my disciples is a serious matter."
Tian Han glanced at the children and paused. His expression was neither dark nor bright—just complicated, troubled. But eventually, he stood.
"Then let's go make preparations. Shizun still needs a sword, after all." He offered a hand to Fu Ran.
"Then, children, please behave while I'm gone." Fu Ran took Tian Han's offer and carefully stepped over the sprawled-out Meng Xiao.
***
It was barely noon, and by the time they were halfway through their shopping and preparations, Fu Ran was already exhausted from trying out swords in every shop. No matter how many he held, they all felt wrong. Their weight was about right, and the sharpness of the blade wasn't dull, but they were not Shi Wei Ji.
Of course, everything was going to feel wrong.
Since his spiritual sword was first given to him over a decade ago, he had never held another. He barely even touched his disciples' training swords.
Fu Ran breathed a sigh. "This one will do," he murmured softly.
"Has Shizun found a satisfying replacement?"
"Of course not." He shook his head. "But I'm tired of looking."
Currently, he held a thin sword, light against his wrist. It was cheap in personality rather than quality. The metal itself still felt sufficient for battle, even against demonic entities. It was a simple silver blade with a detailed guard but plain wrappings.
Tian Han on the other hand, picked a sword even more basic.
At last, they finished paying and stepped back onto the main streets. Fu Ran's gaze flicked up to the sky where rolling dark clouds slowly began to cover blue. Something nagged at his gut—another reason he was beginning to miss Shi Wei Ji with each passing day. When he witnessed a bad omen, he couldn't check the future.
"It's going to rain," Tian Han said, sniffing the air.
"Hopefully, it doesn't get in the way of our plan."
"A little rain doesn't hurt cultivators," Tian Han chuckled.
However, as soon as the words left his lips, it was as if the entire earth began to shake. The cobblestone beneath Fu Ran's feet shuddered, and if he hadn't caught himself on his companion, he might have tumbled to the ground in shock.
"What the—? An earthquake? But this region shouldn't have those." No sooner had the words left his lips before a spiraling plume of black billowed from below the mountain. It felt… oppressive like it was stealing his breath; undeniably evil.
His fingers instinctively clung to Tian Han. "Is that above the temple?" he asked.
If this morning's interaction had been a bad omen, and the rain clouds puffing up over the city a foretelling of doom, then what was this? The only real answer was… disaster.
The streets filled with clamoring gossip for only a second before a scream sounded toward the gate.
Fu Ran clutched his newfound blade and ran with a snap. "Hurry."
The entrance was beginning to clog with people. The civilians here were always in search of entertainment, and even the unspoken promise of their demise could be seen as fleeting joy in the Faceless City. Fu Ran and Tian Han brushed shoulders with dozens, and not even one moved out of the way.
In the rush, Fu Ran couldn't completely block out the words that hit his ear as the crowd clamored:
"Did you see him?"
"That man is from Bei Zangli…"
"—But he looks half-dead."
He nearly skidded to a stop, straining to catch the rest of the conversation, but before he could, someone near the gates shouted.
"They're all dead! I saw them! They looked like they just crawled out of a grave!"
No, Fu Ran thought. Are we too late? Why is this happening in the daytime? Shouldn't this have waited until night?
If his fears were true, then that plume of smoke rising from the temple was the clearest sign that the buried residents of Bei Zangli had reached their breaking point. After so many endless days of being repeatedly awoken, their spirits had withered and torn.
Just days ago, the people had been seen sharing food, drinking, laughing—celebrating the end of the spring in their small farming village. But now…
The sea of people parted one by one, revealing the large red entrance gates. A man, broad-chested and staggering, ran towards the crowd, his movements desperate. He barely made it more than a few steps before something struck him.
A clawed hand—pale, bloodless, and jagged at the tips—shot through the man's chest. His breath left him in a wet, rattling gasp, red spilling from his lips as he stared down at the thing impaling him.
The crowd shrieked and stumbled backward. Someone knocked into Fu Ran, but he barely noticed. He couldn't look away from the gruesome sight.
The hand twisted and ripped an exit through the flesh.
The man was entirely covered in blood before he likely even realized what had happened. His eyes, once filled with fear, glazed over before he hit the ground with the disgusting slap of wet meat.
With the drop of the deceased, another man was revealed behind his form. He was dressed starkly in comparison to the rainbow of the crowd—pure white mourning robes. Though, now an entire sleeve had been painted crimson.
Evil spirits had already made their way to the Faceless City, and they seemed just as bloodthirsty as a Fall Corpse.