Yuren had exactly zero desire to attend a spiritual banquet, especially one hosted by a rival sect known for poisoning their tea and complimenting you while planning your assassination.
But Zhaoyan insisted.
"It's diplomatic," he said.
"It's deadly," Yuren countered, pulling on his robes backwards. "Also, these sleeves are too long. I look like a haunted dumpling."
Zhaoyan didn't respond. He was too busy adjusting his jade hairpin with inhuman elegance. That man could trip over a corpse and still look composed.
They arrived at the banquet just before sundown. The Sect of Falling Snow was notorious for two things: powerful illusions and gossiping grandmothers. Both were deadly in their own way.
As soon as they entered the main hall, a woman with glossy hair and a smile that could kill approached them.
"Ah, Zhaoyan of the Moon Burial Sect," she said smoothly. "We've heard much about you. And your... traveling companion."
Yuren gave a dazzling smile and said, "I'm a figment of his imagination."
Zhaoyan elbowed him. Hard.
They were seated next to an overly perfumed elder who kept leaning over to whisper, "Beware the east wing," while also casually stealing dumplings from Yuren's plate.
Halfway through the banquet, Yuren noticed something.
"Zhaoyan," he whispered. "Everyone's pretending to eat. But they're not chewing. Look."
Zhaoyan's gaze swept across the room—and he saw it too. The chopsticks moved, the tea cups raised, but no one actually swallowed anything.
Illusion.
Suddenly, a low hum echoed through the hall. A pulse of spiritual energy spread out like a ripple in water. The walls flickered.
The banquet... vanished.
What replaced it was a dark, crumbling version of the hall—cobwebs, blood-stained floors, broken lanterns swaying above.
"Okay," Yuren said, standing up slowly. "So I was right. This place is haunted."
Zhaoyan drew his sword. "This isn't a haunting. This is a trap."
Just then, a voice echoed through the broken hall.
"One marked by gold. One cloaked in lies. Bring them to me."
Yuren froze.
"That… voice sounded like it gargles souls for fun."
Figures began emerging from the shadows—ghostly cultivators with empty eyes, their movements twitchy and wrong.
"Oh no," Yuren muttered. "I've seen this opera before. We die in the second act."
Zhaoyan pulled him close, and in one fluid motion, drew a barrier sigil in the air. "Stay behind me."
Yuren blinked. "You're protecting me? Aww—"
"Don't ruin it."
The ghostly figures circled them. One lunged. Zhaoyan moved like lightning, his blade slicing through the spirit with a burst of silver flame. Yuren, not to be outdone, flicked out a handful of golden talismans and yelled, "Go back to therapy, you creepy cursed leftovers!"
The talismans struck, exploding in holy light.
For a moment, the room stilled.
Then a laugh echoed again.
"You cannot run. The pact is alive. The prophecy has begun."
The illusion shattered. They were back in the banquet hall—but this time, the other guests looked just as shaken.
Yuren exhaled. "So… this dinner sucked."
Zhaoyan sheathed his sword. "Someone is testing us. They know about the scroll. About the prophecy."
Yuren glanced at him. "And now they know what we're capable of."
Zhaoyan turned to leave.
"Where are we going?"
"To the east wing."
Yuren groaned. "Why is it always the creepy east wing…"
---
Far away, in the chamber of the masked figure from before, another scroll ignited in blue flame.
"She is with him," the voice rasped. "The liar walks beside the heir of the moon. Soon, the choice must be made."
---
To be continued…