The moon hung like a polished jade disc—cold, distant.

Beneath the ink-black sky, starlight glittered; below, a million neon lights shimmered in quiet reply.

At the world’s heart, Luo Qingchuan saw Su Yingsnow smiling at him, eyes crinkled soft. The wind no longer felt cold. Nothing did. Soaring through clouds, drifting through air—it felt like falling into the universe’s deepest void, dancing gently within profound solitude.

Heaven and earth became inverted mirrors, reflecting a breathtaking vista—a masterpiece carved by a grand artist’s hand.

Wind rushed past Luo Qingchuan’s ears, roaring in layered symphony: fierce yet tender, shifting like breath. He heard children’s choir voices, a veiled songstress’s haunting melody, an orchestra’s elegant performance echoing through an empty theater.

They landed softly on a suburban villa’s rooftop, sitting beneath the moon. Su Yingsnow, weary, curled into his arms like a cat. Her eyes held starlight—but none outshone the hazy glow of the youth reflected deep within them. Their silhouettes melted gently into the night.

“I once heard: *Every day you don’t dance is a betrayal of life.*”

“When I read that… tears came. I realized—I’d betrayed life for so long.”

Luo Qingchuan listened in silence, head bowed, gently smoothing wind-tousled strands from her fair cheek, revealing her exquisite, serene features.

“But I regret nothing. Luo Qingchuan—every wasted moment has piled up… and each will make me cherish you more.”

Su Yingsnow’s eyes drifted shut, a faint, sweet smile on her lips as she sank into sleep against his chest. Her waist, delicate as palace silk, curved softly beneath her school uniform; her legs folded in gentle grace, skin pale as translucent jade, faint veins tracing quiet paths. Her breaths rose and fell peacefully.

Radiant. Dignified. A peerless beauty.

Her spiritual energy, drained by flight, had vanished. With no defenses left, she entrusted her entire being to him.

Luo Qingchuan studied her flushed cheeks. *She is mine. She holds nothing back.* Yet mystery still clung to her—endless charm, impossible to count or name.

How much trust did it take to surrender completely—to close one’s eyes, seal consciousness, and feel joy? He had never trusted anyone that deeply. He trusted only himself. Expecting from others felt like selfish bondage. A quiet bitterness stirred. Her love carried warmth… and weight. She cast him as her light, then drowned in it—devotion, yet possession.

He lifted her sleeping form, carried her to bed, and laid her down with care.

After a pause, his fingers found the buttons of her uniform shirt. One by one, he undid them. Smooth skin emerged. Her pink collarbone trembled with each breath; shoulders relaxed against the sheet. Her waist, slender as tied silk curtains, revealed a bare abdomen dotted with faint, star-like marks. He eased the skirt away. Her long legs, slightly curled, traced a breathtaking curve—skin so pale veins showed like delicate ink. Thick lashes rested peacefully; black hair spilled across the pillow.

“Luo Qingchuan…” she murmured, voice drowsy, “sleep with me…”

He could scarcely imagine this pure girl straddling him, hips swaying, face half-hidden by hair, smiling with clear allure—claiming him without hesitation. Youthful bodies entwined; tender lips releasing chirps sweet as a lark’s song, melodies like a solo violin—aching, captivating.

He did nothing improper. Only drew the soft blanket over her, stroked her cheek, and fell silent, thoughts swirling.

Her heart was an arrow shot toward happiness—no turning back. Also fragile porcelain. Joyfully, she placed it in his hands: *Hold it. Don’t let it fall.*

Luo Qingchuan stepped into the courtyard. Cool wind brushed his skin. He stretched, and smiled—a gentle, easy smile.

“Let’s begin.”

Cross-legged on the grass, he summoned the Azure Wraith mask and began consecration.

Today’s hidden clash with Zuo Tian rang an alarm. He must push forward—relentlessly. Or the true Chosen One of Destiny would overtake him. Death would not be kind.

Lu Chuning. Evilbane. His demonic cultivator identity…

Ghouls and shadows lurking in the world’s dark corners, malice coiled tight, waiting to strike.

He shaped spiritual energy into a blade, sliced his right index finger. A single drop of heartblood—*for fingers are linked to the heart*—fell onto the fanged, fearsome mask.

His spiritual sense merged with it. A faint, ethereal thread connected them.

Consecration complete. The Azure Wraith dissolved into shadow, imprinting onto his hand.

He rose. Under the vast night, he plucked the mask from void and pressed it to his face.

Clarity struck like lightning. The world receded. Every leaf, petal, potted plant, tiny insect in the courtyard stood vividly sharp.

Calm. Deeper than ever before.

Thoughts razor-clear. All noise silenced.

As if humanity shed—pure battle instinct.

He understood: even the unskilled, wearing Azure Wraith, became veterans—seizing every opening.

Like scripting a MOBA, or auto-parry hacks in a sword game.

But it granted no raw power. Against overwhelming foes, it offered chances—not miracles.

Only heartblood consecration forged true unity: artifact as limb, as soul, as comrade.

Otherwise—just a tool.

Hence Zuo Tian’s flying sword, severed by the Calamity Blade, left blood on the path.

Azure Wraith was no ordinary artifact. It drained spiritual energy. Without it, it retreated to the dantian.

A cultivator bled dry was a fallen beast.

And Azure Wraith would not aid a beast too weak to rise.

He removed the mask, opened his phone, launched the Evilbane app.

Profile setup for Wayfarer required only realm and alias—no private details.

After pondering, Luo Qingchuan gave up overthinking. *Terrible at names anyway.*

He borrowed the mask’s title.

Wayfarer: Azure Wraith

Cultivation: Foundation Establishment Second Layer

Points: 0

Reputation Stars: 3

“Congratulations on successful registration, esteemed Mr. Azure Wraith. May your martial journey flourish.”

… … …

“This is…”

Inside a towering golden spire, pale-faced Zuo Tian followed the Patriarch’s remnant soul to a wall hung with countless masks.

“Choose one,” the Patriarch sighed. “Luo Qingchuan is guarded. Strike only when he is absent.”

Unexpectedly stubborn, Zuo Tian’s voice dipped with dejection: “He’s just Luo Qingchuan. Even with pills, only Qi Refining Second Layer. Unworthy of me… Must I stoop this low? Is it fair?”

*So unwilling.*

“A gentleman keeps his blade sheathed, waiting for the moment.”

Zuo Tian glanced—and froze. A strange joy sparked in him, like a child finding a cherished toy.

“This one.” He pointed.

The Patriarch looked. A fox-faced mask, eerily beautiful, wore a gentle, mysterious smile—as if the Chosen One of Destiny gazed down upon mortals with quiet disdain.

“Why?”

“It’s pretty.” Zuo Tian’s eyes crinkled faintly. “Even wearing it to kill Luo Qingchuan… it won’t frighten him. If he knew why—he might even thank me.”