Zhu Yan.
He had been the beast Zhao Shuning once gifted to the Viper.
When that gift was first revealed, the uproar it caused was on par with a young lord being granted a city. Zhu Yan had once been maternal by nature. After binding himself as the Viper’s contracted beast, he had shadowed his master through every campaign, giving his strength to the rise of Shui Yunsheng, earning glory after glory.
Now, on the brink of annihilation, the Viper had secretly warned him through their link: no matter what happens, do not come out. He—Du She, the Viper—was destined to die here. Zhu Yan could still run. He still had a chance.
But—
“Zhu Yan! Go!”
With a desperate lunge, the Dragonfang Leopard flung itself forward. Zhu Yan fought back with everything he had and finally sent the leopard skidding several meters away.
He had nothing left.
Zhu Yan collapsed beside the Viper, chest heaving, fur matted with blood. In the Viper’s eyes a remorse that had been buried for years finally surfaced.
“It’s my fault. I was careless. I shouldn’t have underestimated the Seven-Star Alliance,” he whispered. He should never have walked into their trap without thought.
Zhu Yan answered with a long, mournful howl, as if urging his master to be at ease. Contracted beasts and their masters shared a bond of spirit—comfort flowed back and forth without words.
Linlang watched the pair and couldn’t help a cold laugh.
“I always thought you’d never know fear,” he said. “Zhu Yan is innocent. If your Seven-Star Alliance was destroyed, it was because your people, emboldened by their spiritual power, stole Shui Yunsheng’s lands and wounded my disciples. If your alliance hadn’t slaughtered more than twenty of my disciples, I would never have sworn vengeance. In the end, the ruin of your Seven-Star Alliance is of my making, not Zhu Yan’s.”
“Linlang,” the Viper rasped. “Let him go. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it.”
“You offer to ‘do your best’? How laughable. Can you bring my Seven-Star Alliance back to what it was? Xie An, did you ever regret what you did to my alliance?” Linlang’s voice sharpened.
The Viper’s answer was a hiss of hatred. “Do you regret your Seven-Star Alliance slaughtering more than twenty of my disciples?”
“Survival of the fittest. It’s the way of heaven. Those who aren’t strong have no right to split the spoils of the strong. They deserved what they got.”
“My answer is the same,” Linlang replied.
Their eyes locked. Linlang’s face filled with spite; the Viper’s with despair. In the end Linlang only sneered, and let the words drop.
“Then you and your beast will be buried together. No mercy. Feast your fill.” He patted the Dragonfang Leopard by his side; its eyes glittered now with bloodlust. The device at Linlang’s belt recorded everything—the Viper’s suffering, Zhu Yan’s wounds—every detail locked away.
The leopard circled, eager. The Viper understood only too well: even if he begged, the hatred Linlang harbored for Shui Yunsheng made mercy impossible. If there was to be an end, let them keep a shred of dignity.
“Zhu Yan—don’t be afraid. We die together.”
Zhu Yan lifted his head and nodded once. He strained to stand, bearing the Viper on his back. Blood seeped through his fur and trailed down in a crimson wash around his wounds. Yet his eyes held no hint of terror. This was the loyalty of a contracted beast—an oath sealed in spirit that never broke.
The Dragonfang Leopard’s assault had not finished them in a single strike. Years of fighting shoulder to shoulder had made them instinctively synchronized. Even grievously wounded as they were, the two managed to parry dozens of blows together. In the end they could not escape death, but there was a light in their eyes—a fierce, penetrating light that stung Linlang’s face as if slaps had landed there.
“Let me do it.” Linlang raised both hands, chanting under his breath. Symbols of sealing magic flashed before him—seals of containment, one after another. He intended to bind the Viper’s and Zhu Yan’s three souls and six spirits—every ounce of their spiritual power—to this mountain. The seals would break the beast’s contract as surely as burying a body: not only spirit, but the very faith of the beast in its master, would be locked away.
Linlang’s hands came together and spread apart in rapid, practiced motions. Countless seals wove into being, dozens of them, a web of sorcery meant to ensure they never rose again.
He was a leader born for this—ruthless and efficient, cutting the head clean off the snake so no poison could seep into the future.
“You and your beast die together.”
The seals formed into a great Seven-Star pattern in the sky, folding down like an immense shield. The Viper and Zhu Yan threw their remaining strength into a last defense. But they both knew there was nothing left to draw—no extra spirit, no hidden reserve.
Their light shield shattered like glass. The Seven-Star seal pressed down; it met no true resistance and, in the blink of an eye, had settled over them.
The Viper smiled, a bitter, serene thing. Death did not terrify him.
“I, Shui Yunsheng, will not be broken!” he shouted, voice ragged. “The Seven-Star Alliance is petty and small—destined never to become great!”
These were his final words, delivered with raw despair.
Strange, then, that the first person who flashed through his mind in that instant was not Zhao Shuning but Ye Xingchen; Zhao Shuning came only after.
A crisp sound—ding—rang out as the seals landed.
The expected pain never came.
The Viper blinked, startled. A woman stood before him. On both sides of her, dozens of people formed a triangle, encircling and shielding Zhu Yan and the Viper.
Kong Shishuang. The people of Mist-Rain Tower.
Beyond Kong Shishuang the Viper could see their old teachers—Master He, Xie Bo, and Su Nian. They hadn’t been hiding from the world forever, as he’d thought. How had they come so quickly?
There was no time to ask. Xie Bo stepped forward and said, half-jesting: “Boy, remember the debt you owe Mist-Rain Tower for saving you. Su and I only returned to the Tower yesterday and hadn’t even had a moment’s rest before this girl dragged us out to patrol these mountains.”
“Lucky for you—you held on long enough for us to arrive,” Master He said. The Viper felt gratitude well up in him.
Kong Shishuang, however, remained silent. He thought she might still hate him—he remembered vividly how she once cut ties with him.
“Kong—” he began, voice rough with pain.
“Forgive me.” Kong Shishuang didn’t look back. Even so, she spoke the words, then turned her full will to resisting Linlang’s seals with the elders.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was my foolishness. I let myself be misled and I wronged you, Du She. I hope you won’t hold that against me.”
For someone so proud, those words were hard-earned.
The Viper’s chest tightened. They had come for him when he didn’t want them to risk themselves. Linlang was not to be taken lightly. Their arrival eased a part of his heart, but opened another vein of worry—if they fought here, they too would be endangered. They didn’t belong in this battle.
He swallowed the gratitude and the fear, and the mountain held its breath.