Mist still churned before the mountain gate. A black banner hung high, its fabric moving without wind. Chen Wuya stood at the top of the steps, one palm pressed to his chest. His tattoo burned hot, the heat spreading through his meridians into all four limbs. His words from moments ago—"Speak your oath"—still hung in the air, unanswered.
After a moment of dead silence, the Blood Banner suddenly shuddered.
An image surfaced on the banner: a young man kneeling atop a stone platform, his back bristling with arrows. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth, and his gaze was unfocused. That face was Chen Wuya's.
The younger disciples all retreated a step. Someone's hand trembled, and his spear nearly fell to the ground. An outer-sect disciple muttered, "He... wasn't he already dead?"
Zhao Tianying roared, "What nonsense are you spouting? Open your eyes and look—he's standing right there!"
But the image was far too real. The tears in the hem of his clothes, the arc of blood droplets falling to the ground—even the old scar on his brow bone matched perfectly. Quite a few people began to waver.
Bai Zhi did not hesitate. She drew her sword, its flash like lightning as it cleaved straight at the banner's phantom image. Sword Qi swept across it, tearing a gash through the scene and revealing the black mist behind it. The illusion swayed, yet did not vanish.
"It's fake," she said. "Don't look."
Chen Wuya closed his eyes. Misaligned Frequency Perception immediately caught the energy flowing through the air. This was no ordinary illusion, nor was it a memory projection. It was a current of emotion condensed from hatred, carrying the stench of blood and murmuring whispers as it tried to bore into people's minds.
He mobilized Misaligned Force and reverse-engineered