Memory flowers · Phantom Blade Zero

Why should those of one flesh turn against each other? One misguided thought, and madness follows.

Those who could flee had long since gone. Those who remained fell fast asleep, some on their beds, others slumped over their desks. No amount of shouting or shaking could wake them. Later, even the sleepers vanished. Beds stood empty, desks deserted, as though those houses had never sheltered anything but wind and dust.

The lion's head rises, gathering spiritual power to banish evil and bring peace to heaven and earth. Yet today, evil wears human skin. Instead of fleeing the hall, it has taken a seat at the feast.

She knows the voice deep in the well is an illusion, yet still takes each fading echo for her beloved's voice. Plea after plea, sob after sob... Others may be fooled, but how can she deceive herself?

Inherit the legacy, carry on aspirations, and put all that one has learned to use in carving out a place for the sect in the Wulin. When that same purpose is passed down from one generation to the next, a sect may forge a legacy of glory lasting a hundred years... At least, that is how it was supposed to be.

Fame may burn like fire, scorching every moth it draws. But who can hope to rise without staking everything?

Where is Moji? Gradually, no one in the encampment asks anymore, and no one dares answer. Yet some are still waiting, waiting for him to turn the tide; others are still fleeing, fleeing toward that faint hope.

It seems only yesterday that the Pillars of Kunlun were renowned throughout the Wulin, yet now Huangxing alone remains to lead the Mandate in holding the camp. And he has taken up a blade called "Perfect Transcension," cutting open a divide that had long existed within the Mandate.

In the end, the Wulin belongs to those who come after us. But those of the older generation who carry the fate of others in their hearts cannot simply stand aside when the world is in turmoil. Some who came after us are already lost to the long night, while others have yet to find their wings. Someone must be willing to burn what remains of themselves, if only to kindle a ray of dawn that can pierce the darkness.

At the end of the road, some still hold fast to the past. Others have had their pride ground down by these troubled times, casting their weapons aside. The evil presence consuming the village grants no respite. Without a fight to the death, there seems no path but descent and ruin.

After their mother died, their father took every word of his concubine to heart. No matter how often the children spoke, he would not hear a word.

That catastrophe began in the gloom deep within the Discordance, yet it never ended with the ravings of madmen or fragments of broken texts. Now it hides behind a "Rift" in the Waking Realm, looming over the "Heart of the Lake."

Maskwalkers can easily destroy this land, and the Mandate can withdraw when all is lost. But how can those who have been raised by this land for generations abandon their homeland, leave behind loved ones who may never wake, or fight wooden puppets that look like those they hold most dear?

She gathers secrets from across the Wulin and plays upon hearts consumed by anger and obsession. The proprietress of the Gilded Lotus seems to have eyes and influence everywhere. Yet few in the world know that the only thing she truly desires is her daughter's safety.

Decline, injury, cowardice, exhaustion... The fall takes but an instant. Yet the path of righteousness is never easy. It takes rigorous training and endurance, even the resolve to sever old bonds and turn one's sword against former fellow disciples.

Forest reflects forest, mirror reflects mirror. On every side, she sees only her own reflection, with no path leading out of this prison where day and night blur into one.