The moment the vault doors burst open, an alarm tore through the Listening Court.
A deep, resonant bell toll that echoed not just through the walls, but into the very bones of those who heard it. A warning older than the Sect's current name—older even than the Echo Wardens they'd just defeated.
Yiran wasted no time.
"Move!"
They sprinted through the halls, the entire structure pulsing like a struck drum. Red runes lit up the walls, each one a ward designed to trap intruders in illusions or crush them with sonic force.
Bai led the way, blade drawn, every step precise and deadly. When a formation rune flared in the floor, she slashed it with a ripple of frost, freezing the sigil mid-activation.
"Left!" Yiran called, weaving the group through the labyrinthine passageways.
Wushen clutched the shattered music box's remains, breath ragged but focused. The final note of Verse II still thrummed in his pulse, every beat a reminder of what they'd stolen… and what would come next.
Ding! Emergency Protocol: Disciples in hostile territory.Host Support: Passive only—direct intervention blocked by Sect core wards.Adaptive Objective: Survive and return to Dawnmist Peak.
As they rounded a corner, a squad of inner disciples in silver-trimmed robes appeared, blades drawn.
"Stop!" the lead one barked. "You're trespassing in a restricted—"
Bai didn't let him finish.
A flick of her wrist and a freezing mist burst from her blade, enveloping the front line. Ice snapped around their ankles, their blades freezing to their hands.
A-Yan would have laughed.
But A-Yan wasn't here.
Wushen flinched at the impact of the attack.
"Go!" Bai snapped, her voice ice-cold as she cut down a formation sigil on the door to their left. "I'll buy you seconds—don't waste them."
They darted through.
Yiran paused just long enough to drag a hand across the frame of the door, sealing it behind them with a quick, inverted formation—a one-way lock.
The sounds of combat dulled.
Wushen leaned against the wall, panting.
"They're going to come in waves," he said.
Yiran placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then we'll move faster than the waves."
Bai rejoined them, flicking frost from her blade. "We can't go back the way we came. The main exit is compromised."
Wushen frowned. "There's another way. The old archivist's stairs—they lead to a side exit near the lower music halls."
"You're sure?" Bai asked.
Wushen hesitated.
"…I remember it from a dream."
Yiran met his eyes. "Good enough."
They moved.
Through halls that pulsed with old echoes—voices of teachers and traitors, of songs once beautiful and now dangerous. Each step was like stepping through a memory, one that tried to pull them in and hold them forever.
Yiran's formation sense burned in her mind, guiding them through hidden traps—threads of intention woven into the stone by Sect masters long dead.
Bai's blade never faltered, every cut a rejection of the Sect's control.
And Wushen—he didn't play. Not yet. But he listened. Every corridor had its own song, and he could hear the disharmony that meant danger.
At last, they reached a narrow stairwell that wound down like a coiling serpent.
The air here was colder. Older.
A faint scent of incense and blood.
Wushen shivered. "This is it."
They descended in silence.
Far above, Elder Ji watched the readouts from the listening crystals.
"They're heading for the sub-hall exit," he said.
Another elder sneered. "Cowards. They should have faced the consequences of their actions."
Ji's eyes were cold. "Cowards survive. Pride doesn't."
He turned to a scribe. "Send the Dusk Echo team to intercept. No fatalities—yet. They're still assets."
At the base of the stairs, the air opened into a vast underground hall—an old music practice chamber turned storage area, filled with broken instruments and dust-covered scroll racks.
A single figure waited there.
Mu Lian.
She stood calmly in the center of the room, hands folded in her sleeves.
"You should have left," she said softly.
Bai's blade rose. "Move."
Mu didn't.
"Do you even know what you took?" she asked. "That melody… it's a key to more than just your brother's voice. It's a key to the truth the Sect buried. And the truth doesn't want to stay silent."
Yiran's eyes hardened. "Then it's our job to give it voice."
Mu sighed.
"Then I'm sorry."
She raised her hand.
The air split.
Sound blades—sharp, invisible—lashed out, a chorus of violence that cut the dust from the air and nearly took their heads with it.
Bai met them with ice, her blade weaving a shield that sang with cold. Yiran pushed Wushen back, palms glowing with a protective formation that bent the first wave of attacks around them.
Mu Lian's movements were precise, graceful—every flick of her fingers sending another shard of sonic force across the room.
Wushen clutched the broken music box to his chest.
"This isn't a battle," he whispered. "It's a test."
Ding! Host Warning: Wushen's spiritual resilience at 42%.*Immediate threat: High.System Option: Activate "Harmony of Echoes" temporary sync boost?
Yiran's voice cut through the chaos.
"Do it."
Wushen nodded.
He raised the flute.
Closed his eyes.
And played.
It wasn't Verse II this time.
It was something simpler.
A song he'd learned as a child—an old mourning hymn, meant to guide lost souls to rest.
The sound was soft, almost fragile.
But in the vault of the practice hall, it became something more.
A shield.
Mu's next attack met the note—and wavered, the blade of sound blunted by the resonance.
Bai surged forward, blade gleaming.
Yiran reinforced the formation lines around them, the ground itself glowing faintly.
Mu Lian's eyes widened.
"You're using grief as armor."
Wushen opened his eyes.
"It's all we ever had."
The final clash was brief.
Bai's blade kissed the edge of Mu's sleeve, freezing it solid.
Yiran's barrier snapped tight around Wushen, reflecting the last of Mu's attack.
And Wushen… he stopped playing.
The hall fell silent.
Mu stepped back, breathing hard.
She lowered her hands.
"…You'll make it out," she said quietly. "But the Court won't stop hunting you."
Bai lowered her saber.
"Let them come."
Mu turned away, vanishing into the echoing halls.
They fled through the last door.
Out into the forest beyond the Sect's walls.
The moment their feet touched earth, the air felt… free.
No runes.
No watchers.
Just the sky above, pale and clear.
Yiran exhaled slowly.
"It's done."
Wushen clutched the broken music box.
"No," he said. "It's only just begun."
Back on Dawnmist Peak, Luo Feng watched the sun rise.
Kaelen approached.
"Your disciples will be here by tomorrow," she said.
He didn't look at her.
"Good."
She hesitated. "The name they spoke—the Ashen Gate. You know it."
Luo Feng's hand clenched around the hilt of an old, battered sword he hadn't drawn in years.
"Yes," he said.
"Then what is it?"
He didn't answer.
But in his silence… there was an answer older than any system.