Rise of The Abandoned Husband

The mask in Clara's hand trembled violently, almost as if it were alive. Dark tendrils of energy began snaking from its surface toward William's coffin. I watched in stunned silence as the mask pulled itself from Clara's grip, hovering momentarily between her and her father's body.

"Clara, step back!" I warned, reaching for her shoulder.

She remained frozen, eyes wide and unblinking. The mask rotated slowly in the air, its empty eye sockets seemingly fixed on William's peaceful face. Then, without warning, it descended onto the coffin, not touching William but floating just above him.

The dark tendrils intensified, creating a web-like pattern that enveloped the entire coffin. They pulsed with an otherworldly rhythm, like a heartbeat that shouldn't exist. I could feel the power emanating from the mask—ancient, cold, and hungry.

"What's happening?" Clara whispered, her voice barely audible.

"I think it's... feeding," I replied, the realization chilling me to the bone. The mask was drawing something from William's remains—energy, essence, or perhaps something more fundamental that I couldn't comprehend.

After several tense minutes, the tendrils retracted, and the mask dropped unceremoniously onto William's chest. Clara immediately snatched it up, clutching it protectively against herself.

"It took something from him," she murmured, staring at her father's face.

I nodded, unsure how to respond. Whatever connection existed between Clara, the mask, and the mysterious masked woman was beyond my current understanding.

We finished preparing William's body in silence, placing him gently in the coffin. As we closed the lid, I watched Clara's expression shift. The grief was still there, raw and painful, but something else had emerged—a coldness that reminded me too much of the masked woman.

Over the following days, that coldness only deepened. Clara spoke less and less, spending hours staring at the mask or wearing it when she thought I wasn't watching. The vibrant, curious girl I had known was fading, replaced by someone—or something—more distant and calculating.

After a week of observing this transformation, I made my decision.

"Clara," I said during a quiet moment as we traveled, "we're going to Jade Moon Villa."

She looked up from the mask she'd been studying. "Your home?"

"Yes. I think you'll be safer there, and... happier."

She shrugged, her eyes returning to the mask. "It doesn't matter where I am."

I sighed, struggling to reach the girl beneath this new, detached exterior. "Clara, I'm worried about you. Since your father's death—since the mask—you've changed."

"Everything changes," she replied flatly. "That's what Dad always said."

"The mask is affecting you. I can see it."

Her fingers tightened around the wooden edges. "The mask is mine. She chose me."

"She?" I asked, seizing on the slip. "The masked woman?"

Clara's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. "I don't know what you mean."

I decided not to press further. "Let's just get to Jade Moon Villa. You need rest and protection."

The journey took three days, during which Clara remained withdrawn. When we finally arrived, however, I noticed the first crack in her icy demeanor. As she took in the sweeping gardens and elegant architecture of the villa, a flicker of childlike wonder crossed her face.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

"It's home," I replied with a smile. "And now it's your home too."

I arranged comfortable quarters for her and made sure she had everything she needed. To my relief, being at Jade Moon Villa seemed to help. By the end of the week, Clara was speaking more, even smiling occasionally. She kept the mask close, but at least she wasn't wearing it constantly.

During this time, I received a message from The Man with the Mustache about our previous arrangement. He had located the corpses I needed—two ancient warriors whose knowledge and power could prove invaluable in my ongoing conflicts.

"I need to leave for a day," I told Clara over breakfast. "Will you be alright here?"

She nodded, pushing food around her plate. "Where are you going?"

"To meet someone about an important matter. Actually..." I paused, considering. "Would you like to come with me? The change of scenery might do you good."

Her eyes lit up momentarily. "Can I bring the mask?"

I hesitated but nodded. "Of course."

We departed mid-morning, heading toward a desolate area several miles from the city. According to The Man with the Mustache, this location was protected by ancient formations that suppressed spiritual energy—the perfect place for discreet, questionable activities.

"What are we doing here?" Clara asked as we entered a barren valley surrounded by jagged cliffs.

"Meeting someone who might help us... restore something lost," I answered carefully.

Her eyes widened. "My father?"

I immediately regretted my poor choice of words. "No, Clara. Not your father. I'm sorry, but that's not possible."

Her face fell, the brief spark of hope extinguished. "Nothing is ever really possible, is it?"

We continued in silence until we reached the designated meeting spot—a flat expanse of cracked earth surrounded by towering rock formations. The air felt heavy, oppressive. I could sense the energy-suppressing formations at work, though they affected me less than most cultivators thanks to my physical strength.

"We need to wait here," I explained. "Our contact should arrive soon."

Clara sat on a boulder, mask in her lap, saying nothing. After several minutes of silence, I decided to try engaging her again.

"May I see the mask?" I asked gently.

She looked up, suspicious. "Why?"

"I'm curious about its design. The craftsmanship seems extraordinary."

After a moment's hesitation, she held it out to me. I took it carefully, studying its contours. Despite its wooden appearance, the mask felt neither light nor heavy—it seemed to exist somehow between physical states.

"It's fascinating," I admitted. "I've never seen anything quite like it."

"She shows me things sometimes," Clara whispered. "When I wear it. Places I've never been. People I've never met."

I looked at her sharply. "What kind of places? What people?"

She shrugged. "Ancient places. Battlefields covered in bodies. Palaces made of black stone."

A chill ran down my spine. "And the people?"

"Warriors. Rulers." Her voice dropped even lower. "Victims."

Before I could press further, I sensed movement in the rocks behind us. Someone was approaching—moving stealthily, thinking themselves undetected. I kept my posture relaxed, giving no indication I'd noticed.

From my peripheral vision, I caught a glimpse of The Man with the Mustache slinking between two boulders, his eyes fixed on the mask in my hands. His usual bumbling demeanor was gone, replaced by focused intent. I realized with a jolt that he wasn't coming to meet us openly—he was planning to ambush us.

To steal the mask.

I maintained my casual stance, waiting for him to make his move. If he thought the energy-suppressing formation would give him an advantage, he was sorely mistaken. Even without my spiritual energy, my physical capabilities far exceeded his.

He crept closer, a small dart launcher visible in his right hand—likely coated with some paralytic poison. I tensed, ready to counter when he struck.

But before either of us could move, Clara turned her head, looking directly at the spot where The Man with the Mustache was hiding.

The effect was instantaneous and astonishing. The Man with the Mustache recoiled violently, stumbling backward with such force that he slammed into the rock face behind him. His face drained of color, eyes bulging with primal terror.

"No," he gasped, the single word barely audible. "No, no, no."

I turned fully now, watching as he pressed himself against the rocks, trembling uncontrollably. The dart launcher clattered to the ground from his nerveless fingers.

"Man with the Mustache?" I called out, confused by his extreme reaction. "What are you doing?"

He didn't answer me. His eyes remained locked on Clara, who was still staring at him with an unnervingly calm expression.

"Is he your friend?" she asked me, her voice oddly flat.

"I thought so," I replied, my gaze shifting between them. "Though friends don't typically try to ambush each other."

I moved toward him, careful to keep Clara in my peripheral vision. "What's going on? Why were you sneaking up on us?"

The Man with the Mustache finally tore his gaze from Clara, looking at me with desperate, pleading eyes. "We need to leave, Liam. Now. While we still can."

"Leave? You just got here. And you haven't explained why you were trying to attack us."

"I wasn't—" he began, then stopped himself, swallowing hard. "It doesn't matter now. Nothing matters except getting away from... her."

Clara tilted her head slightly, studying him with detached curiosity.

"From Clara?" I asked incredulously. "She's just a child."

The Man with the Mustache laughed—a harsh, hysterical sound. "A child? Is that what you think she is?"

"I know exactly who she is," I stated firmly. "Now explain yourself. Why were you planning to ambush us?"

His eyes darted nervously to the mask in my hands, then back to Clara. "I... I wanted the mask. I've been searching for it for decades."

"The mask?" I glanced down at it. "What's so special about it?"

"You don't understand what you're holding," he whispered. "That artifact is one of the Nine Sacred Relics from before the Cataclysm. It belongs in proper hands—scholars who can study it, contain it."

"It belongs to Clara," I corrected him.

"No," he insisted, his voice cracking. "It belongs to no one. It uses people, consumes them. And that girl—" His eyes flicked to Clara again, and he visibly shuddered. "She's already gone. Look at her eyes, Liam. Really look."

I turned to Clara, who met my gaze calmly. Her eyes seemed normal enough—the same dark brown I remembered. Yet there was something in their depths, something old and watchful that hadn't been there before.

"I see a girl who's been through a terrible tragedy," I said firmly. "Nothing more."

The Man with the Mustache shook his head desperately. "You're blind. Or you're lying to yourself. What happened when she wore the mask? Did you see? Did you feel the power?"

I remembered all too clearly—the floating form, the casual destruction of three elite assassins, the cold that had nearly frozen my heart when she touched me.

"That wasn't her," I insisted. "It was something else using her body."

"And you think it's gone now?" he asked incredulously. "That it just left because she took off the mask? It's still there, watching through her eyes, waiting."

Clara stood up, taking a step toward us. The Man with the Mustache pressed himself even harder against the rock face, as if trying to sink into it.

"Stay back!" he pleaded.

I looked between them, baffled by his extreme terror. "Man with the Mustache, you seem to be very scared of Clara," I remarked, trying to lighten the tension.

His expression became so unnaturally contorted with fear that it almost seemed comical. But there was nothing funny about the raw terror in his eyes or the way his entire body trembled.