“From the very first day I stepped into Lingyong Academy, people told me that Lady Lyra Whitmore was the most distinguished of the Whitmore family, someone entirely beyond our reach. I sneered at the idea when I was young, but when I saw you during the Banquet of Immortals parade, I finally understood the meaning of the phrase ‘born of golden branches and jade leaves.’”

“And now, Lyra Whitmore, to see you in such a sorry state.”

Snow blanketed the night skies of Immortal Capital, piling three feet deep on Mistshadow Mountain.

Lyra lay in the soft snow, a fatal wound just beneath her heart bleeding profusely, staining the ground beneath her crimson.

Her gaze shifted slightly, moving past the blood-soaked tip of the black-clad youth’s sword to the figures looming behind him.

Many of the prodigies from great immortal families were present, their forms standing in the desolate wind and snow, forming a dark, oppressive mass.

Lyra’s eyes swept briefly over the crowd, recognizing faces that had once flattered her in her youth.

“What’s the point of saying all that?”

A sharp voice from a young woman in the crowd cut through the air.

“Lyra Whitmore, you’re well aware how effective the Law Sect’s punitive techniques are. Before Damien Crowell strikes again, I suggest you reveal Fiona Marwood’s whereabouts. The Lockridge family promises to ensure your safety.”

“She won’t talk,” another voice interjected. The young man in dark attire crouched beside Lyra Whitmore, his fingers gripping her soft, almost fragile neck as he scrutinized the twisted scars that marred her once beautiful face.

"To stop Adrian Falkner from using this marriage to seize control of Fiona Marwood and the remaining Whitmore loyalists, the oh-so-proud Lyra Whitmore, who cared so much about her looks, actually cut her own face like this. Clearly, she never planned on making it out alive."

Even as he spoke, an explosion of pain shook Lyra from within. A sharp burst of sword energy pierced an inch below her heart, ripping through her insides like countless blades slashing her organs into shreds. Though she clenched her teeth tightly, her body convulsed, trembling violently beyond her control.

"But, I’ve got to admit," his voice floated down, laced with a faint mocking laugh, "I’m curious. Back in the golden days of Celestial Jade Capital, everyone knew about the feud between you and Fiona after your parents adopted her. And let’s not forget all the chaos you stirred up over Adrian Falkner. Be honest—your stunt here today, crashing the wedding… surely there’s some selfish reason behind it, isn’t there?"

Lying motionless as blood pooled under her, Lyra’s breath formed faint white mist that blurred her view of the distant Celestial Jade Capital at the mountain's base.

She had grown up during the peak of the Whitmore family’s glory. Her father, Sebastian Whitmore, had once been celebrated as the "Wind of Celestial Capital" and known as the finest among his generation. Eleanor Perkins, despite hailing from a declining noble family, was a woman of formidable capability. With her husband's unwavering support, she seized leadership within the clan, revitalized the finances of the Whitmore household, and recruited loyal retainers. Her efforts ultimately elevated the Whitmore's standing among the myriad noble families of Da Zhou.

And of course, Lyra Whitmore, groomed with the full resources of the family, lived up to their expectations.

She opened her Qi Sea at the mere age of five, entered Lingyong Academy at thirteen, and by sixteen, had taken the top honors at the Sacred Dao Tournament hosted by the institution.

The day of her triumph was nothing short of legendary—cranes led the procession, phoenixes glided by, and a white-clad youth played elegant melodies on flute and zither. Even the Young Emperor from the Zhou capital came to witness the spectacle. As for the number of noble heirs gathered around her golden chariot that day—they were far too many to count.

The Whitmores’ pride; the epitome of a noblewoman—Lyra's life was untouched by hardship, born into privilege that others could only dream of.

Before her family's downfall, there was but one regret she harbored in life.

—Fiona Marwood, the pesky sister she could never manage to chase out of their home.

The Marwood family served the Whitmores as loyal retainers, and Fiona was the orphaned daughter of a fallen hero. From the moment Fiona and her mother Clara entered their household, everyone expected Lyra to extend kindness and magnanimity toward them—it was simply what great families did.

But Lyra couldn't stand Fiona’s false air of gentleness and obedience, detested how she tattled to Eleanor behind her back, and loathed her mother Clara’s previous attempt to seduce her father.

So when Lyra uncovered Fiona’s admiration for her own childhood friend Adrian Falkner, she didn’t hesitate to make Fiona’s life all the more difficult.When Lyra Whitmore sparred at the academy, she purposely set Fiona Marwood up to lose miserably in front of Adrian Falkner, making her a laughingstock. When Adrian got injured, Lyra deliberately sent him running errands, knowing it would upset Fiona. And when the two were alone, Lyra cast a spell in secret to knock over the inkstone, ruining the dress Fiona had spent hours picking out.

She had hated Fiona so much.

But in the end, after the fall of the Whitmore family, those fawning noble heirs from Celestial Capital scattered like frightened birds.

She and Fiona—somehow, they were all that was left for each other.

“—But tell me, you don’t still have feelings for Adrian Falkner, do you?”

The young man in black, Damien Crowell, spoke with an odd satisfaction in his tone, his eyes pinned on Lyra’s face. His words came out just a touch shaky, like his amusement was barely contained.

“That fateful day at Heaven’s Gate, the very Adrian Falkner you and Fiona spent all those years competing over—he used the swordsmanship your parents taught him, the skills they painstakingly passed on, to take both their lives.”

Snowflakes gathered in the unfocused depths of Lyra’s eyes as a ringing filled her ears, drowning out Damien’s cruel voice.

In her mind, the chaos of her family’s ruin took shape once more—the day the Whitmore estate fell to ruin.

She had rushed from the distant Nine Hells in the northern wasteland, only to find her family’s ancestral home reduced to a graveyard, stained with bitter blood.

And there, standing atop the protective formation of the Whitmore clan, was Fiona—the same sister who once shirked her training, relying instead on petty tricks to compete for favor. But now, her jet-black hair had turned ghostly white in an instant, and her once-delicate features had aged grotesquely, shriveling like bark."You’re finally back!" Fiona sobbed, her voice trembling with raw frustration. "Father and Mother are gone! Everyone’s gone! I couldn’t protect them! Sister, why? Why can’t I save anyone?"

Lyra’s jaw clenched tight, but then it gave way like a floodgate bursting. Blood gushed from her mouth, flooding her nose and choking her breath as her lungs spasmed violently.

Maybe they were afraid she’d actually die—the pressure on her neck eased slightly.

The icy air stabbed into her lungs, snapping her thoughts back to the snowy winds of Shadowveil Mountain.

The young woman from earlier walked toward her through the soft, crunching snow.

"If she won’t talk, don’t waste time here. I’ll take her to the Lockridge family myself. You can all head back and report," she said, her tone cold as her gaze landed on the girl sprawled in the filthy snow.

She frowned, looking down with disdain. “You hid yourself for ten years to avenge the Whitmore family, even when surrounded and hunted by countless noble clans. You managed to claw your way out of hopeless situations each time. And yet, in the end, you threw it all away to save a sister who didn’t even get along with you in your youth. Foolish. Absolutely foolish.”

The woman stretched out her hand, only for it to be stopped midway by a sword scabbard.

Her eyes narrowed.

"What… are you playing at?"

Damien smirked, lips curling into a sharp grin. “I caught her. Don’t think for a second the Lockridge family gets to take her.”

"You caught her?” Her tone turned sharp, almost mocking, as if he’d just told the most ridiculous joke she'd ever heard.“Seventy-nine from the Langston family, fifty-eight from the Harcourt family, and even twenty-three elites from the Falkner family—do you really think you'd even touch the hem of Lyra Whitmore's robe if we hadn't pushed her to her limits?”

The young woman from the Langston family fixed him with a sharp, cautionary glare.

“Don't think I don't know what's going through that twisted little mind of yours. Back at Lingyong Academy, she didn't even spare you a glance. And now, just because the noble families handed you a bit of power to play watchdog, you think you can humiliate the heir of the Whitmore family however you like? Remember, she's got a husband in the Nine Abysses—a certain Lucien Blackthorn.”

Damien Crowell's face froze for a split second.

He prided himself on mastering the brutal and uncompromising way of enforcement, unbothered by fear or guilt. Yet, of all people, the one she had to bring up was Lucien.

In the year 137 of the Zhaoye era, Lucien Blackthorn emerged in Unseen City and was worshipped by other revenants as their sovereign.

Revenants were neither human nor irredeemable creatures like demons, but descendants born of a grim chapter in history—when dark forces wreaked havoc on Da Zhao four centuries ago and left behind tainted bloodlines through humans.

Both they and their human mothers were regarded as stains on the empire—shameful remnants of an era better left buried when the Zhaoye calendar began anew.

That was, until the day an unstoppable inferno burned Unseen City—a prison for countless enslaved revenants—into a hellscape.Lucien Blackthorn carried the severed head of the Deputy Lord of Colorless City, the roaring spectral flames trailing behind him. With sheer strength, he shattered the siege laid by the prestigious clans of the immortal world, establishing a ghostly stronghold in the northern reaches of the Nine Abysses. From that moment, he stood as an eternal rival to the aristocratic immortals of Dachao.

This lowborn, despicable ghost had clawed his way out of the dark depths of Colorless City and stepped boldly into the grand halls of the Immortal Capital. And who could have imagined? Even Lyra Whitmore, born into the esteemed Whitmore family, pointed her noble finger that day during the summit of the two realms, willingly marrying Lucien and leaving for the Nine Abysses.

Damien Crowell’s gaze darkened, filled with a sinister gleam.

“I swore back in the Lingyong Academy that if I ever rose above the rest, I’d make them pay. Every single one who crushed my dignity and spat on my pride. She deserves every bit of this mess she’s in today—it’s just her arrogance coming back to haunt her!”

The young man looked almost deranged, with his fury pouring out. But to his surprise, Lyra smiled amidst his bloodthirsty, predatory glare.

She had already destroyed her own face to infiltrate the Immortal Capital unnoticed. Yet, that smile somehow brought Damien back to the first time he saw her, riding high on the majestic sedan chair as the spring sunlight gleamed. Back then, she had the untouchable grace of someone who had never known struggle, her eyes half-lazy with contentment. The golden embroidered butterflies on her dress shimmered in the light, almost ready to take flight.

Lost momentarily in his memories, Damien jolted back as Lyra tilted her head at him, her smile light and mocking.

“—Who are you supposed to be?”

Damien’s pupils froze and narrowed.

“Lyra Whitmore!! You’re dead meat!!”

“Damien Crowell!”

Someone in the crowd yelled sharply.

“Remember what the Lords have decreed—Lyra Whitmore must not die!”Someone spoke up, "The position of the Underworld hasn't been clarified yet. At the very least, we need to wait until Lucien Blackthorn openly strips Lyra Whitmore of her title as his queen before we kill her!"

Damien Crowell's gaze was fixed firmly on Lyra's face, his eyes filled with rage:

"I could keep her as a puppet, make her a servant, break her so that she can't live or die! What can Lucien Blackthorn do about it? Does he have the nerve to cross the Demon Wall to end me?"

Despite his bold words, the hand raised in the air hovered hesitantly, as if restrained by some unseen force, unable to strike.

Lyra found it rather amusing.

She had been married to Lucien for a century, and it was no secret their relationship was strained. Ten years ago, when she left the Underworld, she'd publicly destroyed their marriage contract and declared their separation. From that point on, they had nothing to do with each other.

Even so, these people were still so afraid of him, hesitant to take her life.

As Damien remained undecided, Lyra, who had been lying in wait, seized the moment of his lapse. With a sudden burst of energy, she launched herself out of the snow—catching him completely off guard.

"Watch out!"

Damien snapped back to his senses, realizing too late that he'd let his guard down.

Still, he wasn't particularly worried. He knew well enough that Lyra was completely spent, no way she could possibly do him any harm.

—Or so he thought.

Just then, an eerie bell chime rang out from Lyra's chest, breaking the silence across the Mist Veil Mountain.

*Ding.*

*Ding.* As the clear ringing of the bell resounded, an overwhelming force descended from the heavens, leaving everyone present utterly powerless to resist.

This force, known as "The Presence," was the manifestation of a warrior's internal energy field. Those from distinguished backgrounds, like the young heirs of the celestial families present, inherited unique forms of "Set Presence" passed down through generations. Others, like Damien Crowell, had risen from humble beginnings to forge their own distinct Presence through sheer talent and determination.

But then, there were the rare geniuses—one in a million—who not only created their own Set Presence but could also imbue weapons with them, defying natural laws to borrow power from others.

This was precisely the case with the Mountain Ghost Dragon Bell that floated out of Lyra Whitmore's grasp at that moment. Even she hadn’t realized that the bell, gifted to her long ago, held within it an unexpected surge of Presence.

But there was no time for reflection now—the situation demanded action. Bloodied and battered, Lyra lunged forward with the desperation of a cornered beast. Taking advantage of the bell’s suppressive effect, she launched herself at a hunter far stronger than she was, sinking her teeth into his throat in a fearless act of defiance.

The sickening snap from his severed windpipe was audible only to the two of them, followed by the visceral gush of arterial blood splattering across her like a torrential downpour.

Above them, crows surged over the dense woods as gusts howled through Mistveil Mountain.

The entire scene unfolded in a heartbeat, leaving the celestial family heirs staring wide-eyed in stunned silence. Raised in the refined disciplines of philosophy, magic, and warfare, they had never witnessed such a raw, primal method of combat—let alone one so ungraceful.This person… it had to be Lyra Whitmore.

The one they used to praise as "like a goddess stepping out of the mist and gliding on the waves." That Lyra Whitmore.

The young man in black, lying in a pool of blood, was pale and breathless. He let out garbled grunts as his legs twitched aimlessly, searching for any strength.

But even as his last breath escaped him, he remained pinned under the weight of that ringing sound’s power.

Damien Crowell was dead.

And Lyra couldn’t hold on much longer either. Completely spent, she collapsed to the ground.

A faint smile tugged at her lips, revealing bloodstained teeth. No point in worrying about dignity after ten years of chaos and near-death.

She had no clue who this man was. But judging by the sheer pain and hatred in his expression, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to let him keep her company in death.

Shifting slightly, Lyra turned her gaze toward the distant city skyline.

Amidst the biting wind and swirling snow, the outline of Yujing, the Celestial City, stood at the base of Mount Wuying. It was a place she knew better than anywhere else—a place that haunted her dreams time and time again.

But her parents were gone.

That wasn’t home anymore.

As her life force slipped away bit by bit, a faint pang of regret stirred within her.

Life was like that—one misstep, and every path after goes awry.

If only she hadn't been so young and headstrong. If only she hadn’t married into the Netherworld just to save face for the Whitmore family. Maybe then, she could’ve been there to save them when disaster struck. If only she hadn’t let her bitterness hold her back after marrying into the Nine Abyss, she might have paid attention to the affairs of Da Zhao. Maybe then she wouldn’t have naively mistaken an enemy for a trustworthy ally.

If only she had truly looked at Lucien during their hundred years of marriage—taken the time to really see this demon lord she called her husband.

Power is like borrowed breath; how many breaths had she borrowed from that demon lord? And where might he now lie, discarded like dust?

Her final exhale dissipated into the wind and snow of Mistveil Mountain.

Lyra slowly closed her eyes.

*

Perhaps her resentment was just too deep. After her death, Lyra realized her soul hadn't scattered but drifted down from the heavens, carried by the icy winds of Celestial Jade Capital.

She watched her lifeless body being carried back to the city.

She witnessed Fiona and the loyal old servant grieving, overcome by sorrow upon hearing the news of her death.

She even saw Adrian Falkner himself tending to her corpse, carving an epitaph in the isolation of his dim chamber.

But there was one figure that shocked her the most.

—Lucien.

To the world, Lucien Blackthorn was the terrifying demon—powerful and ruthless, shaping the skies and breaking the earth with a mere flick of his hand.

Even the great celestial clans feared him, forging the Demon Wall to keep him in check and forcing him to vow never to cross south of it, making the Northern Wastes of Nine Abyss his eternal prison.

Yet, the day Lyra died, her lingering soul witnessed him single-handedly slay the Twelve Commanders of Celestial Jade Capital, annihilate over a hundred members of the Falkner clan, and cradle her bloodied corpse amid the carnage of Mystic Turtle Way, his tears falling like unrestrained torrents.This husband of hers, always distant and taciturn, showing not a hint of emotion, met his end on the tenth day after her death.

Right in front of her gravestone.