Somewhere in the Necropolis, a black‑robed figure slipped through a crowd of undead, like smoke gliding down the main avenue.

No breath of the living clung to him; a ghost among ghosts, a cold shadow blending into the dead tide.

His loose robe veiled most of his face; only pale lips, a fine-cut chin, and a left hand’s eerie mark showed, like a bloom drawn in ash.

The well-traveled would turn away at once, as if a chill wave had hit their spine.

It was the sigil of the cult called the Flower of the Other Shore, a scarlet petal stamped in silence.

This twisted cult held no normal souls; to join, you cast off the breath of life, like leaves stripped by winter.

Every creature among them was half-dead, half-living, reed-still and grave-cold.

They once flourished, a dark bloom that dazzled the streets.

Then the wind changed like a storm turning the sea; people saw their true aim.

The whole continent, even the coasts, pushed back like waves against a jagged reef.

Several empires hunted the Flower of the Other Shore, pruning it with warrants and blades, and it faded like dusk swallowing a road.

Yet they never stopped reaching for their final star: rebirth through death, a world seed buried in a graveyard.

“May the King of Hell grant our desire,” they prayed, wind through tomb grass.

They meant to open the hellway that once nearly shattered this maimed plane, a black river returning to the abyss.

For that alone, they stood against the continent, a thorn set against a rolling plain.

After several turns, he checked the paths like a fox in briars; no undead trailed him.

He touched the wall. Black light rippled like ink on water, and he vanished.

He reappeared in a lightless chapel. Darkness pooled like oil; faint blue ghostfire blinked in and out.

Only the far front glowed, a pale island on a night sea.

At the front stood a giant gate carpeted in Flowers of the Other Shore, scarlet blossoms like blood on stone.

Beneath the gate, a gray‑robed acolyte knelt, her prayer rising like mist.

Sensing him, she spoke, her voice soft as silk, a girl of twenty. “How is it? Did Ling Yehan head to the sea?”

The black robe dropped to his right knee, left hand to chest, a gesture like a folded wing.

Respectful as winter rain, he said, “Reporting, Bishop, Ling Yehan has boarded a cargo ship bound for sea.”

“Is that so…” Her tone drifted like a feather on cold air.

“That should do. With him around, the Flower of the Other Shore gets snagged at every turn, like vines hooked on thorns.”

“Every peak-tier below godhood is swamped, busy as ants. Only he roams the continent free.”

She clicked her tongue, a flake of ice on iron. “Let the sea’s monsters handle that annoying man.”

“If Ling Yehan falls out there, all the better—like a storm swallowing a torch.”

“It’ll leash that Demon Lord ruling the demon lands. Their ties run deep, roots under black soil.”

“As expected of you, Bishop. You wield two birds with one stone like a blade tempered in fire.”

She waved a hand, flattery scattering like smoke. “Enough. On to the next step.”

“We’ve traced the Key’s rough location—near Starfate City, a pebble lost in dunes.”

“But the exact spot is unclear, sand under shifting wind.”

“Bishop, should we clear the people there, like sweeping leaves before the gate—”

“No. Our moves are shackled everywhere, wrists in iron.”

“The Key’s area is too broad; even with all of us, searching would take years.”

“Besides, we don’t need the Key yet. The Divine Maiden hasn’t grown.”

“Our final vision must wait, dawn behind a mountain.”

“To open Heaven’s Gate, the last piece is a divine core. It must belong to the Blood Clan.”

“Back then, a Blood Elf powerhouse joined with that harlot of the Church to close the Gate, sealing it with their own blood.”

“To crack the outer seal, we need a Blood Clan divine core thick with Vampire blood.”

“Best would be a pure‑blood Vampire.”

Silence fell across the hall, frost on glass.

Pure‑blood Vampires are long gone.

In recent years, the divine core released from the seal got smashed by Ling Yehan, that madman.

Where would we find any Vampire now?

After a brief hush, a purple‑robed figure stepped from the dark, like dusk walking.

He sank to both knees, devout as a candle. “Bishop, regarding a pure‑blood Vampire, I have a discovery—”

“Oh? Is that so? Speak.” Her words slid out like a blade from a sheath.

“…”

After a brief exchange, the Bishop fell silent, snow settling.

“The Queen of the Blood, huh…”

“She’s hard to negotiate with, a woman deadly as a winter blade.”

“Still, the plan’s worth a try.”