CHINESE ARYA STARK meets THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA.
*A Wattpad Featured story*
When everyone wears a mask, who do you trust?
In the unforgiving empire of Erden where the Imperials reign supreme, Sarna is a slave. After escaping the brothel where a m...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"She thought she could contain the High Demons. Her Universe Ring could tie up even the deadliest of weapons, her Red Armillary Sash powerful enough to choke whole armies, and the flaming wheels at her feet allowed her to soar above the Heavens. She charged into the battle thirsty for blood, but it was her own blood that was shed."
Demise of Nezha—An Investiture of High Immortals
CHAPTER EIGHT
Like a giant berating its next meal with a snarl on its lips, Donghwa's statue stared at me out of its cruel purple eyes. The candles on the multiple rusty candelabras flickered and quivered, playing a game of catching shadows with the light and the wall. Brown rust met peeling red flakes of paint crumbing from the pillars, and lacerated yellow ribbons of paper fluttered in the afternoon breeze.
In a room where the stone statues of the High Immortals bore down on its worshipers with a callous glare, I was nothing but an insignificant speck of dust. I lost my home, my friends, and now I was kneeling in front of stone figurines and praying for their help.
I shouldn't cast my hopes on them. They'd broken my trust over and over again, but Zhenjin had faith in them. Biyu believed in them. Why was their faith so strong, even when they weren't rewarded for their loyalty? On what basis was their faith rooted?
I scanned the row of idols on the altar—from the red, angry face of KwanKong to the golden hoop of Nezha, and finally to the statue standing on the far right.
A man in lilac robes, cold eyes that shone violet, a pale hand that held an elaborate fan, white hair that hung past his shoulders, and a sneer on his face.
"Look," I told Donghwa's statue. "I don't care if you're good or evil, or whose side you took during the heavenly wars. I'm begging you, tell me what to do now. I can't go into the Palace like this."
They would kill me on the spot, and everyone I love would be as good as dead. "I've begged you for years, prayed for you. If you ever cared for the mortals, I beg you, show me a heaven-forsaken sign."
The silence of the temple persevered, disturbed only when the wooden tag of the chimes struck the hollow steel bars. In this silence, I heard the chattering of my teeth, felt the tremble of my fingers twisted so hard, they were deathly white, and tasted the bitter taste of crushing defeat.
"Eighteen Hells, you're a High Immortal! You're supposed to help the mortals!"
"That is no way to address the High Immortals, isn't it?"
A monk walked out from the right side of the altar. He was a trivial sight among the bountiful offerings and Credits tossed into the large bronze bowl by the altar. Around his neck rested heavy brown beads the size of chicken eggs where squarish runes were etched onto them in gold letters. The lack of contact with the sun was reflected in the telltale, deathlike pallor of his face. He looked more monster than human.
