The world felt like it was tilting, the edges of Zhang's vision warping as if the battlefield itself had become unsteady.
He exhaled sharply, his breath uneven, his chest aching with every inhale. Each movement sent sharp stabs of something raw through his ribs—something deeper than pain. His body wasn't just hurting. It was barely holding itself together.
Blood clung to his robes, thick and unrelenting, its scent clogging his senses. It stuck to his skin in damp patches, the warmth fading too quickly against the night air. Beneath the fabric, his wounds burned—hot, blistering, alive.
He pressed a hand to his ribs. Something cracked beneath his palm. Fractured? Maybe. It didn't matter.
He wasn't the only one suffering.
Linglong's shoulders rose and fell, each breath labored. Sweat trailed down her skin, strands of her usually pristine hair clinging to her face. Her fingers trembled around her weapon, knuckles pale with strain. She wasn't steady. She was forcing herself to stand, same as him.
A few steps away, Yun stood still, her expression unreadable. Zhang might have thought she was fine, but he knew better. Her fingers twitched, her shoulders too stiff. Her energy wasn't limitless. None of them had any left to waste.
They were at their limit, that is obvious. They had poured out every last bit of strength they had.
That is what Zhang knows.
….
The battlefield reeked of blood and burned qi. The air was thick with it—a stench of weakness, of warriors too battered to keep standing, of prey on the verge of collapse.
The ghost could feel its own form flickering, the edges of its existence unraveling in ways it did not like. This fight had stretched too long. Even a spirit of its nature had limits, and it had been forced too close to them.
It should leave.
It should run.
That was the rational choice. It had already expended more energy than it should have, already risked too much for a battle that no longer served its purpose. That charm-user bitch, had already fled, and the ones who remained were too wounded to be worth chasing.
But the ghost hesitated.
Its gaze swept over the battlefield, lingering on Zhang's unsteady stance, on Linglong's trembling grip, on Yun's stiff posture. They were at their limit—that was obvious.
And yet.
Something felt wrong.
It could not name the feeling, but it slithered through its core, setting its instincts on edge. The air was too still. The silence stretched too long.
….
Zhang felt it in the silence, in the way the ghost had hesitated instead of lunging at them. It knew. Somehow, even that wretched thing could tell that something in the air had shifted.
And then—
Agony.
White-hot and all-consuming, tearing through him before his mind could even register what had happened. His body jerked violently, his vision blurring as something—no, someone—ripped through his defenses.
Steel.
It was steel that had pierced him. That much was clear through the sheer, numbing shock rattling his bones. But that wasn't what made his breath catch. It wasn't what made his blood run cold even as it poured freely from his body.
No.
It was the hands that held the blades.
Linglong. Yun.
Zhang's lips parted, but no sound came. His body staggered back, his mind struggling to make sense of it—to accept it. But reality didn't wait for him.
Linglong's blade should have carved through his chest, should have ended him, but at the very last moment—
His necklace flared.
A surge of power, uncontrolled and erratic, erupted around him. Not by his will. He hadn't even thought to use it. It was pure, unrelenting luck.
He vanished.
The world twisted violently, space itself warping around his broken body. He barely had time to register the sensation before he was thrown into the void—ripped away from death, but not unscathed.
Agony seared through his nerves as he reappeared elsewhere, his body crashing into the ground, his vision darkening at the edges. His breathing was ragged, uneven—something was missing.
His right arm.
His right arm was gone.
Blood pooled beneath him, the pain so overwhelming that for a moment, he felt nothing at all. Just cold. Just emptiness.
He had survived.
But at what cost?
His vision blurred, but he forced himself to move, to see. His right arm was gone. The wound still burned, as if his flesh had yet to realize it had been severed. Blood soaked the earth beneath him, staining his robes in dark, sticky patches.
Zhang sucked in a breath, his chest rising in a sharp, shuddering motion. He couldn't—he wouldn't—fall here. Not yet.
And then, a sound.
"Tsk."
Sharp. Disappointed.
Linglong.
Through the haze of pain, he saw her take a step forward, eyes locked onto him—calculating, assured, as if she were certain she would finish what she started.
But before she could move another inch—
A blade pierced through her back.
Zhang's breath hitched.
Linglong's body jolted, her expression freezing—not in shock, not in disbelief, but in something colder.
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Only silence.
What was it that flashed in her eyes at that moment? Anger? Regret? Resignation?
Or was it simply acceptance?
Zhang couldn't tell.
But one thing was clear.
Even she had not expected this.
….
From the darkness, eyes gleamed—watchful, unshaken.
Knew it.
The betrayal was expected. Predictable, even. The moment desperation took root, someone was bound to strike first. Survival always came at a cost.
One of them exhaled slowly, their voice a quiet whisper against the tense air.
"Prepare. We're going to start."
No hesitation. No uncertainty.
Her teammates exchanged a look before nodding, their fingers tightening around their weapons. They weren't fools.
The battlefield had shifted. And they would move with it.
….
Torment.
Sharp, deep—yet controlled.
Linglong's breath caught in her throat. Her body seized, her nerves screaming as the blade slid through her back, a clean and measured strike. Too clean. Too measured.
Her mind jolted, but her first thought wasn't rage. It wasn't even shock.
Why?
Not why Yun betrayed her. That was obvious. Trust was always fleeting. She had never truly relied on it.
But why like this?
If Yun had wanted her dead, she should have gone for the throat. The heart. She should have killed her in a single stroke, with the same precision she used to wield her blade in battle.
But she didn't.
The pain was sharp, but it wasn't fatal. It was deep, but not merciless.
This wound wasn't meant to kill.
Linglong's fingers twitched. Not from weakness. Not from fear. But from something colder—something she didn't yet understand.
Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak—but no words came.