The world did not tremble when Myra Langley died.
But the winds changed.
They carried whispers — not of rumor, but of reckoning.
From the spirit-swept cliffs of the Northern Sky Temple to the sun-scorched outposts of the Scorched Expanse, the tale bled into the air like a karmic contagion.
In the northern borderlands, disciples gathered around dwindling campfires, their voices hushed, afraid that even the flame might eavesdrop.
"Did you hear? Dawnsworn's Sect Master... dead. Executed."
A younger disciple, his robes tattered from training, leaned forward. "By whom?"
No one spoke at first. Then, an older cultivator, his eyes heavy with things seen, whispered, "They call him... The Wandering Executioner."
Across the war-torn fields of the East, amidst charred banners and broken spears, a battlefield cleric unrolled a scroll, the ink still drying with blood-scented qi. He read it once and dropped it as though it burned his hands.
"Impossible," he muttered, backing away. "She was... eternal."
South, in the merchant cities of the Silver Coast, informants ran between tea houses and brothels, carrying more than gossip. In smoky chambers behind silken curtains, sect representatives convened in silence.
"She was one of the Nine Pillars."
"Then one of the pillars has fallen."
In the palaces of the Western Sun Empire, golden-robed ministers stormed into secret archives, tearing down old relics, burning karmic ledgers before the heavens could notice. Spirit-beasts howled without reason. Elders placed suppression seals on altars that hadn't glowed in centuries.
Fear did not descend like a storm. It leaked in like water, silent and inevitable.
For the first time in a hundred years, the cultivation world looked over its shoulder.
Because if a Sect Master could fall...
Then no one was untouchable.
Beneath the earth, far from the shrines and banners of the surface, a chamber breathed in silence and sin.
Its walls pulsed with blood-wrought inscriptions. Its ceiling bore no torches, only lanterns lit by soulflame — flickering red with every impure thought that passed through the minds seated below.
Nine figures surrounded a floating disc of golden light. Each wore a hood, not from fear, but as a rite of their pact. Their voices were modulated by spirit veils, their auras suppressed beneath layers of deception. They were not saints. They were not demons.
They were the powers behind the mask.
And the mask had cracked.
"Myra Langley is dead," spoke the figure seated at the highest seat. His tone was not surprised. It was irritated — as though discussing a servant who had failed a task.
"She was a fool," said another. "To face judgment openly... when we warned her the system had returned."
"Fool or not," came a woman's voice, "her death signals something greater. The System was active. It broke through her veils. Her karmic cloaking failed."
"Which means it can fail again," said a third voice, deeper, ancient. "Even on us."
The floating disc shimmered. Myra Langley's face — serene, imperious — blinked out in a final flicker.
Silence followed.
They did not mourn. There was no need. Myra had served her purpose. What mattered now was containment.
"If the Executioner continues," said the first voice, "he will become more than a threat. He will become a symbol."
"Symbols ignite revolts," the woman added.
A fourth figure leaned forward. "Then we kill the symbol."
"But not through war," said the eldest. "Not openly. That invites heavenly interference."
A slow grin formed beneath a hood. "A bounty then."
A ripple passed through the chamber.
"Gold?" one asked.
"No," said the leader. "Something more valuable."
"Karma."
A new scroll was conjured in midair, its surface blank, glowing faintly red.
"I propose a Blood-Karmic Scroll. Forbidden by the old Tribunal. Designed to seek the eyes of the damned."
"The reward?" someone asked.
"Eternal Spirit Elixirs. Cleansed Divine Souls. And for any sect who delivers his head — ten years of karma removed from their record."
Another pause.
Then nine voices spoke as one.
"Approved."
The scroll pulsed.
And began to multiply.
They spread like disease.
One appeared in a bounty hall beneath the Forest of Mourning — hanging upside down from the rafters, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. Mercenaries with blood on their hands found themselves drawn to it. As they touched it, it shimmered, revealing a name.
Lucien Graves.
Alias: The Wandering Executioner.
Threat Level: Divine Hostile.
Target must be delivered alive for karmic cleansing. Dead for all other rewards.
Another scroll arrived at the Crimson Rose Guild, sewn into the mouth of a headless corpse left at their gates. When opened, it branded a red eye into the air and whispered, "Judgment hunts those who flee truth."
In a dead city once ruled by a cult, a scroll appeared on the altar, above the remains of sacrificial offerings. The bones turned to ash as the scroll unraveled.
It could only be read by sinners.
And so the worst of the worst came to read it.
And smiled.
Lucien awoke in a ruined temple as sunlight filtered through broken beams.
It had been three days since he walked out of Dawnsworn.
Three days of silence.
Three days of reflection.
Three days of hearing the wind move differently — as if the world had taken a breath and didn't know how to exhale.
He sat at the base of a broken statue — once a deity of truth, now headless — and watched the shadows.
There were no pilgrims anymore. No disciples. Only echoes.
He had chosen this ruin for that reason.
To hear only the truth in his own thoughts.
But fate did not offer him peace.
A faint pulse.
Karma stirred.
Lucien stood silently and followed the thread.
Through cracked stones and faded murals, he entered the western wing of the temple.
There, kneeling before a broken offering table, was a man.
He wore scavenged armor, mismatched and dirty. His hand hovered over a floating scroll — shimmering crimson with glyphs that bent in the air.
The man reached toward it.
The scroll snapped to life.
Its surface flared — and the glyphs formed a blood-red eye.
It lashed out — not physically, but spiritually — searing a brand into the man's palm.
The mercenary screamed and fell backward, clutching his hand as the crimson eye faded, but not before revealing a name:
Lucien Graves.
Lucien stepped forward, his shadow falling across the man.
The mercenary froze.
"Who gave you this scroll?" Lucien asked quietly.
The man stammered, "I—I didn't know what it was! It just... appeared!"
Lucien reached out, touching the man's wrist.
The Heavenly Executioner System activated instantly.
Sin Profile: Moderate.
Crimes: Mercenary aid to blood cults.
Karmic Verdict: Unstable.
Not slated for immediate judgment.
"Where did it come from?" Lucien asked again.
"I swear! It just showed up last night. They say it's appearing all over. Guilds, ruins, dungeons. But you—you're on it."
Lucien's eyes narrowed.
System Alert:
New hostile threat detected.
Lucien Graves is now listed in the Crimson Ledger.
Bounty Type: Karmic Blood Scroll.
Origin: The Crimson Pact.
Risk Level: EXTREME.
First bounty hunters expected within 3 days. Prepare accordingly.
So.
This was how the world responded to justice.
Not with gratitude.
But with price tags.
Lucien looked at the scroll. It still hovered faintly, the blood-red eye pulsing.
He snapped his fingers.
The scroll ignited in golden flame — divine fire born of karmic law — and burned into nothing.
The mercenary cowered, expecting death.
But Lucien turned and walked away.
He returned to the main temple hall, to the broken statue.
He knelt.
Not to pray.
But to remember.
He saw the faces of those who had once trained beside him. Bright-eyed. Idealistic. Dead.
He thought of Jun Lin, who never made it to her Core Formation. Of Elder Cai, who vanished after trying to expose corruption. Of the countless names erased from the sect's rolls so Myra Langley could climb higher.
Their memories sat heavier than the bounty on his head.
He reached into his pouch and drew a small chisel.
On the floor, before the statue, he carved slowly and deliberately.
正
The character for Justice.
When he finished, he looked up at the shattered god above him.
"They've placed a bounty on my head," he whispered.
He stood.
"And I welcome them."
He turned toward the exit, the wind catching his cloak.
"Let them come and see what price justice demands."
Far across the continent, in the Ashen Marches, a blade was being sharpened.
The man who held it had no name anymore.
Only a title.
Shade of Nine Sins.
His karmic profile no longer glowed — it bled. Pure black, slick as oil, thick with murder and betrayal.
He watched as a crimson scroll floated into his chamber.
He read the name.
He smiled.
"Judgment is blind," he said to the silent room.
He lifted his blade.
"But blood speaks louder."