Beyond Virtue

What is right, and what is wrong?

Is righteousness defined by the robes one wears, or the ideals one claims to uphold? If those who stand atop the world abuse their power and silence dissent with bloodied hands, can they still call themselves "righteous"?

And what of those cast into the shadows? If a demonic cultivator wields forbidden power to strike down tyrants, are they truly evil—or merely a reflection of the hypocrisy they oppose?

The lines blur, shifting with the perspective of those who judge. In a world where power defines truth, can morality even exist? 

.....

Hongtian Continent, Southern Region. Blood Fang Sect.

Jagged peaks pierced the heavy gray sky, their sharp edges cutting into the clouds like frozen waves. Below, a barren valley stretched endlessly, cloaked in a restless mist that swirled in muted shades of red and black.

The air was cold and biting, carrying the faint metallic tang of iron. Sparse vegetation clung to the cracked, lifeless ground, twisted and warped by the harsh environment. To the east, a deep chasm lay hidden beneath layers of fog, while to the west, skeletal trees reached toward the sky, their blackened branches brittle and unmoving.

Stone buildings clung to the cliffs like stubborn growths, their sharp edges blending into the rugged mountainside. The structures were harsh and angular, built for function rather than beauty. Black stone walls, weathered and cracked, bore faint traces of ancient carvings. Crimson lanterns hung at intervals, their dim light barely holding back the shadows that pressed against the stone paths.

Cave dwellings dotted the cliffs, carved directly into the rock. Each entrance was marked by jagged, uneven edges, as though hewn in haste. Some were sealed with thick wooden doors reinforced with iron, while others lay open, revealing the dim glow of red light spilling from within. The caves varied in size and depth—simple quarters for common disciples near the base, while higher, larger ones were reserved for the more powerful or ambitious.

These dwellings, cut into the mountain's heart, seemed to embody the sect itself: harsh, unyielding, and willing to take root even in the most inhospitable of places.

Inside one of these laid a young man, by the age of 18. The man opened his eyes, the cold air of the stone chamber biting at his skin. He sat up, his gaze falling on the faint scar across his chest. A reminder.

He rose and stood before the bronze mirror, studying the face that stared back at him. Sharp eyes. A jawline that once carried pride. Handsome, even now. But handsome drew attention. Attention meant danger.

With a flick of his hand, the air around his face rippled. His features blurred and shifted—cheekbones softened, his jaw dulled, his eyes dimmed. Moments later, an ordinary face stared back at him. Unremarkable. Invisible. Perfect.

As his gaze lingered on the reflection, his hand drifted to the pendant hanging around his neck. His fingers curled around it, the familiar weight grounding him. It pulsed faintly with warmth, as though it shared his thoughts.

Letting go, he grabbed the black robes from the nearby table and pulled them over his shoulders. The fabric clung to him, heavy and cold, a stark contrast to the life he once knew.

He glanced at the mirror again, now unrecognizable.

"The world forgets the shadows," he muttered, stepping toward the door. "But shadows never forget."

The heavy door creaked open, and the cold air of the sect grounds brushed past him. Xu Yan took a single step before pausing, his path blocked by a commotion in front of his room.

A group of disciples surrounded a younger boy on the ground, their jeers filling the air. The boy clutched his pouch tightly, his hands trembling.

"Come on," one of the bullies sneered, his voice mocking. "You want to survive here? Then pay your share. Contribution points aren't free, you know."

The boy shook his head, his voice breaking. "I-I need them to—Senior Brother Zhang Wei, I-I—"

"To what?" another interrupted, kicking the boy onto his side. "You think you're better than us?"

"Enough." Xu Yan's voice cut through the noise, cold and sharp.

The group froze, their heads snapping toward him. The lead disciple, taller and broader than the others, sneered. "Are you interfering in this, Xu Yan?"

"I don't care what you do," Xu Yan said evenly, stepping forward, "but don't block my way. Or else I'll have to retaliate."

Zhang Wei glared at him, tension crackling in the air. After a moment, he scoffed and stepped back. "Fine. But don't think that just because you're Elder Mo Ying's disciple, you're untouchable." Without sparing the boy another glance, he waved to his lackeys. "Let's go."

The group moved off, their muttering fading into the distance.

Xu Yan glanced down at the boy on the ground. The boy's face was pale, his hands trembling.

"T-thank you, Senior Brother Xu Yan," he stammered. "I won't forget this."

Xu Yan didn't turn. "Get stronger," he said simply. "In this place, weaklings are rooted out."

As Xu Yan walked away, the boy silently etched his rescuer's face into his memory, his resolve hardening.