The world outside the mountain was not as Mo Yanluo remembered.
The world had changed—trees had grown taller, the river had cut deeper into the valley, and the ancient walls of the sect wore the marks of time. But Mo Yanluo had changed even more.
His body radiated with power and brimming with vitality, every breath drawing in the essence of the world, every heartbeat resonating with the pulse of the earth. He had spent a decade in the caverns beneath the mountain, cultivating in isolation, pushing himself to the brink of mortality and beyond. Now, he had attained what few cultivators ever could: the Immortal Realm.
The mountain air was cold and crisp as Mo Yanluo descended the spiraling path toward the Heavenly Demon Sect. Ten years had passed since he last set foot in these lands.
As he approached the sect's gates, a strange unease crept in his chest. The courtyard was silent and devoid of life, and the training grounds abandoned.
The usual laughter and clash of weapons that once filled the air were absent, replaced by an eerie stillness. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, but it was faint, as if no one had tended to the altars in days.
Mo Yanluo stepped inside, his boots crunching on the gravel. The silence was oppressive, a weight that pressed down on his shoulders with all its might. He called out, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
"Ming Yue? Xue Lan? Yan Ling?" He called out his disciples' names. No answer. Only the wind, whispering through the empty halls.
"They would usually be here to greet me when I returned"
He remininisced as he searched for his disciples. Eventually he found them in the great hall, gathered together and facing his empty obsidian throne, their backs turned to him. They looked up, turning to face their master, their eyes cold and distant as if staring at a stranger, their expressions unreadable. The sight of them—his disciples, his family—struck a pang of anguish through his heart.
"Master," Ming Yue responded, her voice flat and lifeless. She stood tall, her silver hair glistening in the sunlight that invaded through the windows, her silver eyes cold as ice. "You've returned."
Mo Yanluo's chest tightened. "What has happened here?" he asked, his voice calm and firm.
"We know the truth," Xue Lan responded, her black hair contrasting with her pale face, her blue eyes obscured with sorrow. "About your past. About what you really are."
Mo Yanluo's heart skipped a beat. "Who told you?"
He never spoke much to his disciples, let alone revealing his dark history to them.
"Wei Lian," Yan Ling spat, her crimson hair like a fire, her golden eyes burning with accusation. "He showed us proof. He told us everything. You're a monster, you killed your own master and destroyed the sect that took you in, you're nothing but a heartless murderer who took countless lives."
Mo Yanluo felt a cold wave of dread, his heart arching at her words. "He lied to you," he said, his voice trembling with suppressed anger. "He twisted the truth. He wants to use you."
"He said you would say that," Qing Mei declared, her emerald eyes filled with anger. "He said you would try to trick us, to keep us by your side and use us."
Mo Yanluo's fists clenched. His nails dug into his palm, drawing crimson blood.
"I have killed," he admitted, his words raw with emotion, his usual cold and calm demeanor nowhere to be found. "But not for pleasure, not for power. I killed to survive, to protect those who could not protect themselves, and I killed to eliminate evil. And I have never seen you all as tools. You are my precious disciples and family."
"You never treated us as family," Ying Tao whispered, her pink hair spilling over her face, her pink-violet eyes brimming over with tears. "You were always cold, always cruel. You pushed us away when we needed you."
Mo Yanluo's heart ached even more. He had been harsh, yes—but only because he wanted to protect them. He had never shown them the love he felt, believing that love would make them weak. But now, he saw the cost of his silence, his ignorance.
"I was cold-hearted because I wished to protect you," he answered, his voice breaking. "The world is cruel, and I wanted you to be ready. I never stopped caring for you. I never stopped loving you."
The disciples stood firm, their resolve unshaken. Ming Yue's silver eyes were filled with determination. Xue Lan's misty gaze was clouded with sorrow, but her stance was strong. Yan Ling's fiery spirit burned with anger and conviction. Qing Mei's playful smile was gone, replaced by a cold, unyielding resolve. Ying Tao's gentle heart was torn by pain, but even she did not waver.
"We don't believe you," Ming Yue answered assertively. "Wei Lian told us you would say anything to deceive us. He told us you are a demon that will destroy the world if you are not stopped."
Mo Yanluo swallowed their words, every syllable like a knife to his heart. He had given them everything—his time, his strength, his love—and they had turned against him.
Before he could utter another word, his disciples attacked.
Ming Yue led the charge, her silver sword flying through the air. Mo Yanluo dodged sideways, but the pain in his heart dulled his reflexes as the attack slit his robe, tearing through the fabric with ease.
Xue Lan trailed behind, her steps light as feather, her dagger aimed at his side. He twisted away, but Yan Ling was already upon him, her fists covered in a raging fire.
Qing Mei and Ying Tao circled behind him, their weapons drawn, their eyes filled with a cold determination.
Mo Yanluo fought back, but his heart was not in it. He could not bring himself to harm them. He parried their attacks, evaded their strikes, but he did not retaliate.
He called out to them, his voice pleading.
"Stop this, I do not wish to harm you. You're being used!"
But they would not listen. Their attacks only grew fiercer, their movements more coordinated and swift. While Mo Yanluo was in his isolated cultivation, his disciples also trained and became stronger, so strong that they began to overwhelm him with their co-ordinated attacks.
As their ferocious assault continued, blade eventually connected with flesh. Pain blossomed in his chest as Ming Yue's sword plunged into his side. He gasped, his robes stained with his blood. Xue Lan's dagger stabbed into his arm, biting deep. Yan Ling's flaming fist smashed into his back, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to collapse onto his knees. Qing Mei and Ying Tao followed closely, their weapons poised for the final blow.
Mo Yanluo looked up at them, his vision blurred with tears. "I'm not your enemy," he whispered. "Remember who I am. Remember what we were."
But their eyes were empty, their hearts closed off to him. They had been indoctrinated, and became infatuated with Wei Lian, their loyalty twisted into hate.
Ming Yue raised her sword, her face a mask of cold determination.
"For the world," she said, her voice hollow.
The blade descended. Mo Yanluo closed his eyes, waiting for the end. But the killing blow never struck.
Instead, a voice rang out, smooth and mocking. "Enough."
The disciples stepped back, their weapons lowering in obedience. Mo Yanluo's eyes snapped open to see a figure standing in the doorway, his golden robes immaculate and clean, his bearing regal, boasting of nobility. He strode forward, a smirk plastered on his lips.
Mo Yanluo recognized him, the owner of the voice was the son of the Orthodox Sect's leader, Wei Lian.
"How does it feel, Demon Lord?" Wei Lian sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "To be betrayed by those you loved? To know that they chose me over you?"
Mo Yanluo coughed, blood staining his lips. "You… poisoned their minds," he gasped.
"I merely showed them the truth," Wei Lian boasted, his eyes glinting with triumph. "They were so eager to believe in me. After all, who would want to follow a demon like you?"
Wei Lian turned to the disciples, his voice soft and coaxing. "You have done well, my dearest friends. The world will be safer now, thanks to you."
The disciples bowed their heads, their faces filled with adoration. Ming Yue's silver eyes shone with devotion. Xue Lan's misty gaze was soft with affection. Yan Ling's fiery spirit burned with loyalty. Qing Mei's playful smile was replaced by a look of reverence. Ying Tao's gentle heart was filled with love—for Wei Lian, not for Mo Yanluo.
Mo Yanluo watched, his heartbreaking. These were his disciples, his family, and they had turned against him. They had believed the intoxicating lies of the orthodox sect, and had allowed themselves to be brainwashed, and had fallen in love with the man who sought to destroy him.
He coughed again, more blood flowing from his lips. The pain in his body was nothing compared to the agony in his heart. He had faced betrayal before, but never like this. Never from those he raised and loved most.
Wei Lian knelt beside him, his voice a whisper. "You thought you could protect them? You thought you could keep them safe? Look at them now. They are all mine."
"I'll kill… you." Mo Yanluo declared as he struggled to muster any strength from his injured body.
He wanted to tear the man who knelt before him into a million pieces, but he couldn't, his body too weak to allow him to. He felt an uncontrollable anger and a hopelessness that he's never felt before.
"I'd like to see you try." Wei Lian replied mockingly, as he approached his disciples. "Don't worry, I'll take care of your disciples for you."
Mo Yanluo's vision blurred. He recalled of the years he had spent with them—the laughter, the tears, the shared struggles. He reminisced of the life they had built together, the future they had envisioned. He recounted of the emotions he never showed, the love he had hidden, the words he had never spoken.
He regretted not showing them more love, and not being able to protect them from this wicked man.
He wanted to tell them that he loved them, that he was sorry, that he had only ever wanted to protect them from the same cruel experiences he underwent. But it was too late. The light was fading, the world growing darker with each breath.
He felt a single tear slip down his cheek. It was not for himself, but for them—for the family he had lost, for the love that had been twisted into malice.
As the darkness closed in, he heard a whisper—a mysterious and alluring voice, promising him a second chance. But for now, he had to endure the pain of betrayal, the burning fury that pulsated in his veins, and the soothing warmth of his own blood.
He closed his eyes, and allowed the darkness to embrace him.