No tenderness had been spared when the tapestry of his destiny, woven with frayed aureate threads, was crudely transfixed by a hundred wretched needles.

Xie Lian had yearned for the warmth of the sun like he used to yearn for the tender cradle of his mother’s embrace. It was no wonder that the clouds of Heaven parted for him, granting divinity to such a pure and fervent heart. Alas, he had soared too high and was ravaged by the flames of his own risible idealism. Loss upon loss stripped him bare, until there was nothing left to cushion his fall, and he plunged into the inky abyss—a creature condemned who had incurred destiny's wrath.

Now, he nailed himself to the earth in the heart of the city, physical pain becoming but an afterthought. The sword was embedded in his gut, its sleek charcoal blade jutting from his body, tethering him to the ground. However, it was no ordinary weapon—it bore the grief of howling specters abuzz with eagerness to release their war-honed ire upon the mortal realm. By plucking the souls of fallen Xianle soldiers and trapping them within its steel, he intended to use their dudgeon to exact revenge upon the people of Yong'An and afflict them with Human Face Disease—a stratagem born at the zenith of decadence. Much to White No-Face's dismay, Xie Lian hesitated.

As still as a shrine's statue, Xie Lian was planted in the midst of an uneven crater—a coffin of soil, molded by the planes of his body. The sullen sky released its vehemence in the form of celid water droplets, pelting against his jade-like skin with utter indifference, bedewing his parched lips. The fabric of his once-pristine robes clung to his frame, sodden and beddragled. However, this pitiful tableau was deliberate—it was a trial. If even one soul would show him the kindness he'd once given so freely, he would let his rancorous plan crumble. Humanity would have earned its second chance.

From time to time, a shape would materialize, followed by billowing white robes and a grotesque mask; half twisted in glee, half in lamentation, belonging to no other than White No-Face. Venom dripped from Xie Lian's tongue whenever the ghost neared. Crude, biting curses spat with all the scorn he could muster. But White No-Face would cooingly retaliate with ridicule of his own: "You wait in vain, Your Highness. Shall we see how long it takes for hope to wither?"

Footfalls echoed all around him. Some halted to observe, some walked by, yet not many dared to linger or reach forth. Attuned to his surroundings, he watched them all; the wealthy merchants draped in silk, the beggars, the buskers with calloused palms and the frolicking children. Some small fragment of him still stubbornly hoped. But should the world continue to turn its face away... then let it rot in its own indifference.