The tower was dim, its only light coming from the ancient runes carved into its walls. Every so often, they flickered faintly.
Like breathing, or a warning.
Wang Xian leaned against the icy tower wall. A black cloth covered his eyes, but his other senses had grown extraordinarily sharp.
He could hear his steady heartbeat and smell the faint traces of blood and decay in the air—
as well as the marks left behind by time and the seal.
And what of Old Zhang from Phoenix City, his master who always carried himself like some otherworldly sage? Did he know the secrets of the Demon Realm?
When he had taken Wang Xian as his disciple and taught him those half-understood tricks, had it been a twist of fate, or had he had some deeper purpose?
Old Zhang was always squinting as he rocked back and forth in his battered wicker chair, spouting vague, cryptic words.
Thinking back now, did his master know some of the Demon Realm's secrets, too?
"No rush. I need to think this through."
Wang Xian gently touched the black cloth over his face. The feel of it beneath his fingertips kept him clearheaded.
For now, he murmured to himself, his voice sending faint echoes through the empty tower. "Monk, are you hiding some other agenda?"
For some reason, Wang Xian had never believed the old monk's story about "waiting for the tower gates to open."
What had lingered in his mind was the woman in black he had glimpsed in the void, somewhere between waking and dreaming—
she had been like a shadow, silent and soundless, yet carrying a chill that made his heart tremble.
The woman in black did not pose a threat to him.
The blood-robed woman conjured by the old monk with a