Threads of the Unseen

Night had settled over Qīnghuā, masking the looming threat in its velvet shadows. Liàng crept through the twisted bamboo grove, heart pounding. He knew something was off—an unseen force tugged at his mind, urging him to turn back, give up, lash out. It felt like a presence clinging to his soul, but he had no words for it, only a deep, persistent dread.

He clutched the stolen parchment, ink still fresh with the hidden teachings of Yēsū—a wandering sage who claimed that what lay beyond mortal sight was more real than the tangible world. Liàng had spent his life scoffing at unseen realms. Yet an ember of curiosity had flickered upon hearing Yēsū’s words: that human fate was crafted by more than swords and schemes; that words, spoken in trust, could slice through illusions like a finely wrought blade.

Suddenly, that ominous presence coiled tighter around him, a suffocating swirl of toxic thoughts. You are alone. This ‘truth’ is a lie. You owe no allegiance. The voice in Liàng’s head was not his own, though it mimicked his tone. It was insidious, seizing on his doubts. He glanced around. Nothing moved but bamboo leaves rustling under moonlight. Yet he felt the suggestion of serpentine scales gliding across his spirit.

He swallowed hard, forging deeper into the grove, but a flurry of footsteps rushed him from behind. Torches flared. Imperial Guards, clad in lacquered armour, closed in. One of them raised a spear, barking, “Surrender, Liàng! The Emperor condemns all rebels—and thieves.”

Liàng tried to fight. His dao struck sparks from a soldier’s blade, but the guards outnumbered him. They knocked him hard to the ground, binding his wrists. The impact jarred the parchment from his cloak, and a soldier snatched it up, sneering.

“Take him to the ridge,” the captain ordered, voice taut with authority. “By dawn, he’ll hang on the mùjià with the other traitors.”

In Liàng’s mind, the vile presence hissed in glee: Yes, Liàng. You’re mine. No one will rescue you.

Morning broke in a wash of pale light. High on a windswept promontory, three great wooden frames—mùjià—rose against the sky. The ground was scorched from past executions. A silent crowd encircled the ridge, drawn by morbid fascination or fearful duty. Soldiers shoved Liàng forward. His eyes flicked to the middle structure—there hung Yēsū, limbs lashed tight, face battered but strangely serene. To the far side, another captured bandit spewed curses and threats at the onlookers.

Liàng’s stomach twisted as the guards forced him to the remaining frame. Ropes bit into his arms, pinning him upright. Blood pounded in his ears. He remembered how Yēsū had once spoken of an adversary—an invisible oppressor who thrived on people’s spiritual blindness. Now, Liàng felt that enemy’s oppressive swirl of negativity more vividly than ever, as if a sinister observer hovered just outside normal sight.

He heard a leathery whisper in his head, an oily voice dripping scorn: Look at you—caught like a rat. Where is your “sage” now? Liàng squinted against the morning sun, scanning for its source, but he only saw the crowd and—beyond them—shadowy movements in the shifting bamboo.

Then his gaze settled on Yēsū. The teacher looked more battered than Liàng remembered, yet his eyes carried a fierce clarity. Yēsū opened his cracked lips. “Even here,” he rasped, “truth can pierce the darkness.” Liàng felt a tremor in his heart. Was it hope, or foolishness?

A figure robed in black stood near the mùjià, half in the gloom, face partially hidden. Liàng couldn’t be certain if it was a man or something else. The figure twitched its head, as though hearing secret commands. Then it glided closer. This is Lucifer, an inner warning whispered—a being of fallen majesty, doomed to eternal separation from the realm Yēsū spoke of. The presence that had haunted Liàng in the bamboo thrummed in resonance with that figure.

The other thief spat, “If you have any real power, Yēsū, save yourself—and us! Prove your so-called truth!” Lucifer—still hidden from normal sight—slyly cooed approval, feeding that man’s bitterness.

But Yēsū’s voice answered quietly, “Power isn’t always shown in escape. It’s revealed when illusions shatter.” His words, gentle yet sharp, cut through the hush.

A hiss slithered across Liàng’s consciousness: He deceives you, Liàng. Submit to fear, and be done with it. Liàng felt a swirl of despair. For an instant, he doubted everything—his stolen parchment, the Master’s talk of a realm beyond mortal eyes.

Imperial soldiers stepped in, hammers and clubs ready to ensure none of the prisoners lingered alive past sundown. They had orders: the Emperor’s decree demanded a swift death for those deemed subversive. A new wave of pain coursed through Liàng’s bound arms as a soldier struck him. He cried out, voice echoing over the ridge.

A mocking laugh reverberated in his mind, and he glimpsed the robed figure at the edge of his vision. Lucifer’s face flickered, a shifting mask of disdain. Yes, scream, mortal. Your torment is mine.

Then the soldier hammered the bandit’s legs, splintering bone. The man’s scream rang out, fueling the raw tension. Yēsū, too, endured savage blows from whips. Blood stained the dust beneath him. When the guards came for Liàng, he braced himself, but the brutal strike to his shins still tore a wail from his throat.

Lucifer’s hiss saturated the air: You’re done. Plead for mercy, or curse them—just renounce that teacher’s illusions. Liàng clamped his teeth together, trembling in shock.

He glanced at Yēsū, who struggled for breath. The teacher’s side had been pierced by a spear, sending water and blood coursing down his body. Yet beyond the agony, Yēsū seemed to look inward, as though focusing on a realm no soldier could reach. Liàng sensed a clash between that realm and the vile presence swirling near the robed Lucifer.

He’s worthless to you, Liàng, Lucifer’s spectral whisper hammered at his thoughts. His death proves he’s nothing. Surrender to fear—join me in the only fate that’s real.

But an inner voice urged him to speak. Remember the teacher’s words, it pleaded. Liàng forced air into his lungs, recalling the quiet power in what Yēsū had said. Finally, in a cracked tone, he mustered: “Re-remember me… Master.”

Those few words struck like lightning in the invisible domain. Lucifer shrieked, eyes blazing in hateful fury. Liàng felt an almost tangible wave of rage battering his thoughts: NO! You belong to me! You can’t slip away now.

Yet Yēsū, hearing Liàng’s confession, exhaled in an anguished but victorious whisper, “Truly—this day, you will share in the place beyond sight, forever shut to the one who has fallen.” His voice carried a dual edge: to Liàng, it was tender reassurance of refuge. To Lucifer, it was a searing condemnation that reminded the fallen spirit he could never return to paradise.

A tortured wail rose from the robed figure. Lucifer’s form flickered and distorted, as though the words burned him. For a terrible instant, Liàng’s eyes crossed that intangible boundary, seeing Lucifer’s twisted visage—a ruined splendour, terrified of Yēsū’s simple promise. The presence battered Liàng’s mind in a last, desperate attempt to make him renounce the confession.

“Give in, or you die in vain!” Lucifer’s rasp battered his psyche.

But Liàng found new clarity, a lens that tore away illusions. Searing pain racked his limbs, yet he sensed life beyond the physical. “Today,” he echoed, “I will be… with Him… in the realm you can never enter.”

The robed shape screeched, fracturing like black glass in Liàng’s peripheral vision. Soldiers hammered Liàng’s legs again to speed his end before dusk. He gasped, body aflame. Yet the dread inside him had shifted into an unearthly calm.

At the central mùjià, Yēsū let out a final breath. His body sagged, the mixture of blood and water dripping from his wound. To mortal eyes, it was the end of a would-be prophet. But Liàng sensed a triumphant undercurrent—something about that last exhale felt like a release of hidden authority.

Lucifer, raging in the spirit realm, howled as if realising his own doom. The Emperor’s men, oblivious to the cosmic struggle, continued their grim procedure. The other thief, still cursing, succumbed to agony. Liàng saw the soldier approaching with a club, but his dread had ebbed. An odd peace welled within him, as though Yēsū’s words unlocked a door to a reality overshadowing the visible world.

He closed his eyes, repeating softly, “Yes. Today, I stand with You… in a realm beyond the shadows.”

Lucifer’s shrieks spiralled away into darkness, powerless to prevent it.

Sunset stained the sky red over the ridge, highlighting the silent frames. The guards departed, certain that all three prisoners were finished. Townsfolk, once curious, now hurried home, uneasy about the swirling rumours of rebels and heresy.

In the forest below, a small group loyal to Yēsū crept closer, hearts heavy as they gazed upon the abandoned site. Among them was Mei-Ling, her sword still streaked with blood from a failed rescue attempt. The Emperor’s might had proven too strong.

She knelt at the foot of the central beam, tears mingling with the dust. “It’s over,” she murmured. Then she glanced at Liàng’s still form. Recalling how he once lived by theft and cunning, she felt a pang of sorrow. What did he whisper before he died? she wondered.

No one answered in words. Yet an odd hush cloaked the clearing, as if it held an echo of something unseen. In that hush, Mei-Ling almost sensed the faint reverberation of Yēsū’s voice: A realm beyond sight… closed to the one who fell.

She swallowed the knot in her throat. “Let’s at least give them dignity in death,” she said. “We’ll do what we can.” Her companions nodded, silently removing the bodies under cover of twilight. They lit lanterns in a hidden grove to perform what rites they could manage.

In the days that followed, the city’s gossip fixated on the Emperor’s ruthless display. But rumours persisted about Liàng’s final act—those close enough to hear him claimed he called out to Yēsū, a confession that shattered his old allegiances. Some ridiculed it as a dying man’s delirium. Others felt an inexplicable resonance.

For those who perceived deeper realities, talk spread of an unseen war at the ridge—a malevolent entity, exiled and seething, who strove to keep people enslaved to illusions. The teacher’s promise—today, you will be with me—carried a double meaning: comfort for the one who believed, and a sword of truth that ripped open Lucifer’s illusions.

Imperial scribes tried to quash the tale, labeling it subversive nonsense. Yet in whispered corners, storytellers recounted Liàng’s desperate plea and Yēsū’s quietly triumphant words. The notion of a hidden dimension—one that overshadowed mortal illusions—sparked hope among those crushed by tyranny.

Seasons passed, and the Emperor himself fell to the cycle of mortal impermanence. Dynasties rose and crumbled. Yet the ridge was never again used for executions in quite the same way. Locals claimed it had been touched by something beyond the world’s normal bounds.

As for Lucifer, the unseen devourer of souls, his rage still prowled. But stories said his control had been irrevocably fractured that day when one thief—deemed irredeemable by all accounts—chose to echo words of an enigmatic teacher. Some insisted they could still feel Lucifer’s venomous influence at times, like a sly whisper urging despair. But they also spoke of a counterforce, a memory of calm assurance from Yēsū’s final vow, stirring hearts to believe there was always more than what the eye could see.

In the end, it wasn’t a grand empire or a clash of armies that defined what happened on that ridge. It was the unseen drama: a once-damned warrior uttering a humble plea; a scorned teacher promising him refuge where no shadow could follow; and a cosmic adversary shrieking in defeat at the gateway he himself could never breach.

Human scribes never quite captured the full dimensions of that battle. Yet those who glimpsed it knew: the real war had raged just beyond the veil, as the realms of visible and invisible collided. And in that collision, Liàng’s quiet words—Remember me, Master—rang with more power than all the Emperor’s threats, echoing a truth that even the fallen angel could not silence.