The village bells rang at dawn—once, twice, then stopped abruptly.

  Lin Yu opened his eyes.

  Silence followed, thick and unnatural, as if the world itself was holding its breath. He rose from the wooden floor of the abandoned shrine, brushing dust from his dark robes. The air around him felt… wrong. Heavy. Rotting. A familiar warning.

  “They rang the bells,” he murmured. “So they finally noticed.”

  Outside, mist clung low to the ground, crawling like a living thing between broken houses and withered trees. Villagers stood frozen at the edge of the square, clutching charms, prayer beads, anything that might protect them from the curse they believed walked among them. A child’s cry broke the stillness. Lin Yu turned.

  At the far end of the square, a blackened mark spread across the earth—corruption seeping outward, eating life as it went. At its center lay a man, barely breathing, veins darkened as if shadow flowed through his blood. Demonic residue. Lin Yu’s jaw tightened.

  “So the Demon Clan has already been here,” he said quietly.

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  Whispers rippled through the villagers.

  “That’s him…” “The curse…” “The demon who destroys cities…”

  None dared speak his name. Lin Yu stepped forward anyway.

  Each step caused the ground beneath him to crack, the corruption recoiling as if afraid. He knelt beside the fallen man and placed two fingers against his forehead. Dark energy surged—violent, twisted, careless. Not his doing.

  “This wasn’t me,” Lin Yu said, though he knew no one would believe him.

  The man gasped once, eyes flying open in terror. “D-Demon…” he croaked. “He’s coming…”

  “Who?” Lin Yu demanded.

  The man’s body convulsed, then went limp. Dead.

  The corruption vanished instantly, swallowed by Lin Yu’s own aura. Gasps echoed through the square. To them, it looked like proof—like confirmation of every nightmare whispered about him.

  Lin Yu stood slowly.

  “I saved what little I could,” he said flatly. “If I wanted this village gone, there would be nothing left but ash.”

  A stone flew past his head. Then another. Fear turned to hatred far too easily. Lin Yu exhaled, long and tired.

  “Running again,” he muttered.

  He turned away from the village just as a sharp presence brushed against his senses—cold, controlled, powerful. Not demonic. Cultivator. From the forest edge, a figure emerged, robes marked with the sigil of the Heavenly Sect. Their eyes locked onto Lin Yu with unmistakable intent.

  “So the rumors were true,” the cultivator said. “The Demon Clan’s blade walks openly now.”

  Lin Yu’s lips curved into a humorless smile.

  “It seems,” he replied, “that someone wants my name spoken again.”

  The wind howled. And for the first time in years, Lin Yu welcomed the coming bloodshed.