By ArkGodZ | DaoVerse Studio
The darkness was not empty.
It breathed.
It pulsed.
It remembered.
Jian Yu floated through that endless void, the weight of broken promises pressing against his soul like invisible chains.
He saw flashes—
Silver petals falling into a sea of fire.A girl's tearful eyes under a blood-soaked moon.A garden collapsing into ash and silence.
The Sutra inside him pulsed with each vision, not violently, but with a steady rhythm—As if stitching the broken pieces of his spirit back together.
He stirred.
The world returned slowly—Not with pain.
With weight.
The heavy, aching weight of survival.
He gasped as his eyes snapped open.
Above him, a ceiling of dark stone stretched into shadow, etched with carvings of blooming lotuses intertwined with ancient symbols he could not yet understand.
A soft, pale light filtered down from unseen sources, painting the room in hues of silver and blue.
The air was thick—not oppressive, but sacred.
Every breath tasted of old memories and lingering sorrow.
It was a place built not merely with stone and spirit—but with vows.
"You're awake..." a soft voice whispered.
Jian Yu turned his head.
Yuan sat beside him, her knees drawn to her chest, her robe torn and dust-streaked, but her spirit shining through the exhaustion.
Her eyes were rimmed red, but she smiled—small, trembling, and real.
"You scared me," Yuan said, voice cracking slightly.
Jian Yu tried to sit up.
Pain flared along his ribs, sharp and immediate.
Yuan moved quickly, steadying him with hands gentler than the petals that once floated in the Garden now lost.
"Slowly," she said, almost chiding, but her hand lingered longer than necessary against his back.
He managed to sit upright, the world tilting slightly before steadying around him.
Only then did he truly see where they were.
The chamber was vast—not a simple cave, but a sanctuary.
Massive pillars carved into the shapes of entwined lotuses rose toward the high ceiling, where ancient murals depicted scenes of cultivation, war, and sorrow.
Around the edges of the room, relics lay enshrined:Cracked swords, faded banners, shards of broken artifacts—each resting atop small pedestals, each vibrating faintly with old, forgotten power.
At the center of it all, behind where Jian Yu had lain, stood a stone altar.
Upon it, a carving:
A single lotus in full bloom—its petals black as night, its heart a brilliant crimson.
The same symbol that now marked his spirit.
His breath caught.
The Sutra pulsed again, harder this time.
A slow, resonant beat, like a heart remembering its first song.
The altar responded.
Its carved lotus glowed faintly, as if recognizing him.
"What is this place...?" Jian Yu whispered, voice raw.
Yuan looked around, her own eyes wide with awe.
"We don't know everything yet," she admitted. "But Shen Mu said... it's a place built long ago. For someone like you."
She hesitated.
"Someone... who carries what you carry."
Jian Yu's gaze fell back to the altar.
The carvings along the stone floor formed spiraling patterns, leading outward like veins from a heart.
He realized then—this wasn't just a refuge.
It was a graveyard of promises.
A tomb built to outlast forgetting.
And somehow, impossibly, he had been brought here.
Preserved.
Chosen.
His hand drifted to his chest, where the invisible lotus of the Sutra pulsed under his skin.
It no longer felt foreign.
It felt...inevitable.
"You're not alone anymore," Yuan said, her voice softer now.
She placed her hand gently atop his.
"You never were."
He looked at her—really looked.
Through the dirt, the exhaustion, the scars forming along her spirit,she was radiant.
A star refusing to be snuffed out by a crumbling sky.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
The silence between them was not heavy.
It was sacred.
Like the first breath after drowning.
Footsteps approached.
Heavy, deliberate.
Shen Mu entered the chamber, his crimson robes torn and bloodstained, but his presence still radiating that same quiet authority.
Several other Rememberers followed behind him, their faces solemn, their bodies bearing wounds both seen and unseen.
They carried scrolls, relics, fragments of banners—pieces of a world Jian Yu had not yet begun to understand.
"You've awakened," Shen Mu said, stopping a few paces away.
His voice was low, but threaded with something new:
Hope.
Real, painful, beautiful hope.
Jian Yu opened his mouth to ask a thousand questions—but Shen Mu raised a hand.
"Rest," Shen Mu said."Tonight, you live. Tomorrow, we remember."
Jian Yu closed his eyes briefly.
He allowed himself to lean against Yuan for just a moment longer, feeling the warmth of her hand, the steady beat of the Sutra, the sacred breath of a sanctuary built on dreams and defiance.
Outside, far above the hidden sanctuary, the Garden where promises burned lay silent.The Sect that once ruled with pride now trembled in fear.
The stars wheeled overhead.
Somewhere, far beyond the mortal sky, something ancient stirred.
And deep within the cracks of a forgotten heaven—
Ashes began to dream once more.
Warmth touched his skin before memory returned.
A hand—gentle, trembling—brushed across his forehead, wiping away the sweat that clung to him like a second skin.
Jian Yu opened his eyes slowly.
The world swam into view, hazy and slow.Stone walls, soft light filtering from unseen crystals embedded in the ceiling.
The scent of herbs, faintly sweet and bitter, hung in the air.
And there—kneeling beside him—
Yuan.
Her hair was unbound, falling messily around her face.Her robe, torn and dust-streaked, spoke of battles fought and lost.Yet her eyes—those fierce, aching eyes—shone brighter than any star he had ever known.
"You're awake," she whispered, her voice a thread between hope and fear.
Jian Yu tried to speak, but his throat was raw, dry.
Instead, he managed a small nod.
Relief flooded her features, and a soft, broken laugh escaped her lips.
"You scared me," she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from his brow. "You always do."
He gave a faint, apologetic smile.
His body was a battlefield—bruised, battered, drained.
But he was alive.
Yuan reached behind her, lifting a small bowl of water she had prepared.
"Here," she said, voice firmer now.
She dipped a cloth into the cool water and gently pressed it to his face, wiping away the grime of smoke, blood, and despair.
Her touch was careful—almost reverent.
Each stroke spoke more loudly than any words:You are here. You survived. I will not let you fall.
He closed his eyes, letting the simple intimacy anchor him.
For a moment, there was no Garden lost.No promises broken.No Dao abandoned.
Only her.
Only now.
When he opened his eyes again, she was smiling—tired but radiant.
"You need to move," Yuan said softly. "Shen Mu said... there's something you need to see."
She helped him sit up, her hands steady even as his body protested with every motion.
With patience born of battle and love unspoken, she guided him to his feet.
He swayed.
She steadied him.
He nodded in silent thanks.
The door to the small chamber creaked open.
Shen Mu stood there, his robes patched hastily, a long scar marring one side of his face where spiritual backlash had burned deep.
Yet his presence was unshaken.
If anything, it seemed... lighter.
More alive.
"The Santuário awaits," Shen Mu said simply.
His voice carried a weight that made Jian Yu's pulse quicken despite his exhaustion.
This was no ordinary summons.
Something ancient stirred beyond those walls.
Something that had waited longer than any living memory.
With Yuan supporting him on one side, Jian Yu stepped through the threshold and into the greater hall.
The sanctuary stretched out before them, a cathedral of stone and spirit.
Massive pillars carved with entwined lotus vines loomed above.Murals of forgotten wars and oaths long since broken adorned the walls, barely visible under layers of dust and time.
At the center, atop a raised dais, stood the altar—the cracked black lotus, the heart of crimson still pulsing faintly against the gloom.
Jian Yu felt it the moment he entered.
The pull.
The recognition.
As if the very air sighed in relief at his arrival.
Shen Mu did not speak again.He simply bowed low and gestured toward the altar.
The Rememberers stationed around the hall—few in number now, worn by battle and loss—followed his example.
Heads bowed.
Hands over hearts.
Waiting.
Jian Yu's steps were slow.
Each one felt heavier than stone, and yet lighter than breath.
Yuan stayed by his side until the edge of the dais, then reluctantly released him.
This was his path now.
His alone.
Drawn by a force deeper than understanding, Jian Yu climbed the steps.
He reached out.
Fingers—trembling, uncertain—brushed against the cold stone.
The world shifted.
A low hum rose from the altar, vibrating in his bones.
Lines of crimson and gold raced outward along the carvings in the floor, spiraling through the sanctuary like veins of living memory.
The cracked pillars flared with light, the murals bleeding color back into their faded forms.
The broken relics shivered and realigned, ancient energies reawakening from their long slumber.
The Santuário breathed.
It remembered.
It lived.
Yuan gasped behind him.
Jian Yu heard the whisper of cloth as Shen Mu and the others fell to one knee, reverence radiating from their every pore.
The Sutra inside his chest pulsed wildly now, resonating with the awakening around him.
Not consuming.
Not commanding.
But harmonizing.
He closed his eyes, surrendering to the pulse.
In his mind's eye, he saw:
Gardens blooming under crimson skies.Disciples laughing under trees heavy with golden petals.Masters weaving vows not as chains, but as wings.
A world where Desire was not a sin—but a promise of freedom.
Tears welled unbidden in Jian Yu's eyes.
This place—this dream—
It had waited for him.
It had endured for him.
And now it sang for him.
The pulse slowed.
Stabilized.
The sanctuary's light softened, no longer frantic, but warm and steady.
A home.
A beginning.
Jian Yu staggered slightly.
Yuan was there instantly, steadying him again without a word.
Shen Mu rose and approached slowly, his expression one of awe and devotion.
"You have awakened it," Shen Mu said, voice thick with emotion. "After all this time... it remembers."
He knelt before Jian Yu, head bowed.
"And so do we."
Jian Yu said nothing.
There were no words that could carry the weight of what he felt.
Instead, he looked around.
At Yuan, fierce and loyal.
At Shen Mu, proud and broken and whole.
At the sanctuary, alive again because he had dared to survive.
And he knew:
This was only the beginning.
From the ashes of forgotten dreams
A new promise would bloom.
The sanctuary's light settled into a steady pulse, like the slow breathing of a being that had slept for too long.
Silence hung heavy in the air—not oppressive.
Reverent.
Jian Yu sat at the foot of the altar, Yuan by his side, her hand still steady against his shoulder.
The Rememberers remained kneeling, heads bowed.
Only Shen Mu moved.
Slowly, he rose to his feet.
His gaze swept across the chamber, lingering on each relic now glowing faintly with renewed life, before finally settling on Jian Yu.
"You deserve answers," Shen Mu said, his voice low, carrying across the vast hall without needing force.
He stepped forward, his every motion careful, respectful.
"For too long, you have carried the burden without knowing its shape."
Jian Yu remained silent.
The Sutra within him pulsed in quiet agreement.
He was ready.
Shen Mu turned slightly, gesturing to the great carvings that spiraled across the floor and walls—veins of light tracing forgotten stories.
"This sanctuary," Shen Mu began, "was built before memory became history. Before kings wore crowns. Before sects pretended to hold the heavens in their fists."
He paused.
"This place was born from a single promise."
He walked slowly around the altar as he spoke, weaving his words into the very air.
"When the Deities of the Silent Heaven foresaw their end, they chose not to rage against the dying of their era.They chose to remember."
Shen Mu's eyes gleamed.
"And so they sowed seeds of memory, of desire, of rebellion—into the mortal world.Into those who would dare to dream beyond the cages built for them."
He stopped, standing before a faded mural where a lotus bloomed not in water—but in flame.
"In time, mortal seers and sages twisted those teachings into something else.They built sects.They wrote rules.They made promises."
Shen Mu's mouth twisted slightly, bitter.
"The Garden of Returning—" he gestured upward, to the unseen world above—"was one such creation."
"It was meant to be sacred.A place where vows made by heart would nourish the spirit.Where each promise would be a bond strengthening the world's breath."
"But mortal hands—" Shen Mu's voice hardened,"—turn purity into chains.They turned the Garden into a prison of obligation.Into a knot of spiritual contracts that bound not the worthy—but the obedient."
Jian Yu's hands clenched slowly atop his knees.
He remembered the Ritual.
The way the petals had resisted.
The way the light had dimmed.
The way the voices had accused without understanding.
"And when you," Shen Mu said, voice softening, "touched the shard of truth—"
He pointed to Jian Yu's chest.
"—the Sutra did not destroy the Garden."
Shen Mu's smile was sad.
"It freed it."
He stepped closer, voice dropping to a reverent whisper.
"The Sutra burned away the false promises.The hollow oaths.The lies clothed in righteousness."
"The Garden didn't collapse because of your weakness."
Shen Mu's eyes locked onto Jian Yu's with unflinching certainty.
"It collapsed because it had nothing real left to sustain it."
Jian Yu's breath caught.
A deep, shuddering tremor ran through his chest.
He thought of the disciples who had glared at him.
The Elders who had spoken of balance and honor while hiding rot behind gilded words.
The silence that had followed the Ritual's collapse.
The fear.
The hatred.
All of it—
Built upon nothing but forgetting.
"You are not their enemy," Shen Mu said."You are their mirror."
The sanctuary pulsed again, the carvings around them shimmering faintly as if affirming the truth.
Jian Yu bowed his head.
The weight of it all—
The destruction.The sorrow.The hope.
It pressed against him until he thought he might break.
But he didn't.
Yuan's hand slid into his, firm and grounding.
He squeezed back—once.
Enough.
He lifted his gaze to Shen Mu.
The old warrior smiled, a thousand years of sadness and pride woven into the curve of his lips.
"You are not merely the heir to a forbidden Sutra," Shen Mu said.
"You are the bearer of every broken vow the heavens tried to erase.You are the flame that refuses to die."
"And one day—" he said, voice soft as prayer—"they will remember."
Jian Yu closed his eyes.
Inside him, the Sutra thrummed like a heartbeat.
Not demanding.
Not consuming.
But calling.
Beyond the walls of the sanctuary, the world trembled.
The Garden had fallen.
The old promises lay in ash.
But here beneath the earth and memory
Dreams began to breathe again.
Far above the hidden sanctuary,the Seita da Flor Eterna bled.
The once-pristine courtyards were fractured, petals of shattered stone scattered like broken memories across the sacred grounds.
The Garden of Returning—the pride of the Inner Sect—was gone.
Only a crater remained, its edges still weeping faint streams of corrupted spiritual energy into the trembling skies.
The heart of the sect had been ripped out.
And now, the body began to rot.
Inside the Hall of the Nine Thrones, silence reigned.
Not the reverent silence of awe.
The thick, suffocating silence of fear.
The Council sat assembled, but none dared to meet the eyes of the figure now standing at the center of the chamber.
Sect Master Xuan Long.
The Lord of the Eternal Flower.
Once a figure of serene, unshakable authority—now a tempest barely contained within human flesh.
His robes of deep crimson and midnight black clung to his frame, the seals of isolation and cultivation still faintly glowing upon his skin.
He had been pulled from his meditation by the collapse of the Garden—an event that should have been impossible.
And now,he demanded answers.
"You woke me," Xuan Long said, his voice low, seething with a restrained fury that made the air itself tremble."For this?"
He gestured toward the shattered world beyond the hall.
No one spoke.
No one dared.
Elder Suen shifted uncomfortably in her throne of violet crystal, the edges of her sleeves singed from failed containment rituals.
Elder Bo remained still, his gaze fixed on the floor.
Elder Zhen—usually a pillar of unwavering composure—clenched the arms of his obsidian throne so tightly that cracks had begun to spiderweb beneath his fingers.
Xuan Long's gaze swept across them.
Disgust flickered in his eyes.
"Explain," he said.
One word.
Enough to make even the most arrogant of the Elders flinch.
Finally, it was Elder Suen who found her voice.
"There was... an anomaly," she said, her voice tight. "During the Ritual of Returning."
"A disciple," she continued, "one who should have perished long before—"
She faltered under the weight of the Sect Master's gaze.
"—he awakened something. A fracture. A rejection of the Ritual itself."
Xuan Long's face remained impassive.
Only his hands, folded behind his back, trembled slightly.
"And the Guardian?" he asked.
His tone made it clear:
This was not a request for information.
This was an indictment.
Elder Bo answered this time, his voice heavy with shame.
"The Guardian... could not be restrained."
He hesitated.
"It continues to roam the Inner Grounds. Its presence destabilizes the sect's spiritual formations."
"And the disciple?" Xuan Long asked finally.
His voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous.
Elder Zhen answered.
"He escaped."
The words hung in the air like a death knell.
But Xuan Long did not move.
He simply waited.
And so the Council began to unravel the truth—bit by bit, their shame bleeding into the air.
"He was... a former servant," Elder Suen said, her voice barely above a whisper."Elevated through the outer ranks without sponsorship, without bloodline."
"Jian Yu," Elder Bo added, as if the name itself soured his tongue."An anomaly from the beginning. His cultivation was... unnatural. Rapid. Inconsistent."
"There were signs," Elder Zhen admitted, his gaze hard."Whispers among the Outer Sect. Strange fluctuations. Spiritual anomalies."
"Xie Lan of the Inner Sect attempted to strike him down in secret," Elder Suen said bitterly."We suppressed the incident, believing the Ritual would resolve the... irregularities."
"And yet," Elder Bo continued, "Lian Fei, one of our brightest prospects, challenged him formally. She fell."
The silence grew heavier.
"And when Elder Rin intervened," Elder Zhen said, voice cracking slightly,"he was defeated. Publicly. Before witnesses."
Xuan Long's fingers tightened behind his back.
A storm gathered behind his stillness.
"So," the Sect Master said, each word sharp as a blade,"you ignored the whispers.You concealed the attacks.You excused the failures.And now you present me a broken Garden... a crippled Sect... and a fugitive bearing a forbidden mark."
The Council remained silent, shrinking under his gaze.
But Xuan Long narrowed his eyes.
"There is more," he said."Speak."
Elder Suen swallowed hard.
"During the Ritual..." she began, hesitating.
Elder Zhen took over, his voice strained.
"When the disciple touched the fragment recovered from the Eastern Sky Realm...""...it resonated."
Elder Bo's voice dropped to a whisper.
"And the Crest of the Li Clan appeared."
The words hit the chamber like a hammer.
For a heartbeat, even the Guardian's distant growls fell silent.
Xuan Long's face darkened.
Visibly.
"The Li Clan," he said slowly, as if tasting blood."The one we erased. The one we buried with fire and silence."
None dared answer.
"He is not merely an anomaly," Xuan Long said, his voice low and deadly."He is a sin reborn."
His gaze turned cold as the void between stars.
"Seal the records," he said."Silence the witnesses.""Strengthen the outer wards."
"And find him."
The Council bowed their heads in silent acknowledgment.
Not out of respect.
Out of fear.
Xuan Long turned his gaze upward, through the fractured dome above.
Beyond the cracks in the heavens,he sensed it.
A ripple.
A scar.
An echo that could not be contained by mortal walls.
Somewhere beyond the reach of their crumbling power,the world had already begun to whisper.
Far to the north,in the cloud-wreathed spires of the White Willow Sect,a Grand Elder paused mid-cultivation, frowning as he felt the tremor in the spiritual lattice of the world.
Across the Jade Vale Empire,court sorcerers whispered rumors of "the Weeping Flower,"an omen unseen for ten generations.
In the depths of the Obsidian Reaches,a woman clothed in midnight silk stood atop a fractured altar,her masked face turned toward the distant horizon.
She felt it.
The thrum of a Sutra not meant for mortal skies.
She smiled beneath her mask.
A slow, cold smile.
"It begins," she whispered.
Back within the fractured sanctuary,
While Jian Yu stirred in his sleep, Yuan sat quietly beside him, her head bowed, hands folded against her lap.
She did not touch him.She did not speak.
But she remained.
A silent promise in the breathing dark.
the Sutra pulsing gently beneath his skin.
Dreams coiled through his minddreams of burning lotuses, shattered mirrors, and a sky that bled stars.
And from somewhere beyond the reach of memory,a voice—not his own—echoed:
"Beyond the ashes of broken worlds...beyond the songs of forgotten gods...
you will rise."
From the shadows of the chamber, Shen Mu watched.
He said nothing.
Only bowed his head slightly.
And thought:
"Soon, you will remember what the heavens chose to forget."
End of Chapter 21
End of Volume 1: The Crimson Bloom
Next Chapter: Volume 2 - Chapter 22: Seeds of Eternity (Part 1)