Moonlit Hearts

Chapter 14: In the Arms of Melancholy

Lost in the labyrinth of time, Wangji struggled to grasp its passage. Days, weeks, months—perhaps even years—bled into one another, dissolving into the timeless haze of this ethereal prison. The very concept of time had become elusive, slipping through his fingers like mist. Each day brought a fresh trial, yet the greatest remained the same: resisting the haunting melody of the flute. With every sunrise and sunset—if such things even existed here—the melody grew longer, stronger, more insidious. It was a tether he could not sever, a pulse that measured time where no other markers existed.

Yet time here was a paradox, stretching into eternity even as it vanished in an instant. And as if to deepen his torment, Hel's unpredictable appearances only heightened his turmoil. She came and went like a shadow, stirring unease, stoking anger, and leaving him in the throes of exhaustion.

 Had it been another day? Another cycle of suffering? He could no longer tell. What he did know was that his torment had become routine. Hel had tormented him once more—when, exactly, he could not say—and now, in her absence, the flute's song resumed its relentless whisper. Wangji settled into meditation, retreating into the quiet depths of his own mind, seeking answers to the question that gnawed at his soul. Could Wei Ying truly be in Hel's grasp? Had he come willingly, drawn to the quiet solace of the underworld? Or had fate woven a more intricate web, one Wangji had yet to unravel?

Alone in the silence, Wangji cursed his own recklessness. He had entered this realm with unwavering certainty, driven by the singular belief that he would find Wei Ying. Yet certainty had blinded him. He had not anticipated the weight of his decision, nor the cruel games Hel would play. She was a master of manipulation, delighting in every twist of his emotions, every flicker of doubt, every moment of weakness. Each encounter with her deepened his torment, forcing him to dance to her rhythm even as he resisted.

But now, the truth pressed against him with unrelenting force—Wei Ying was not here. Hel, ever the cunning orchestrator, had played him for her own amusement. The goal had never been to keep him prisoner for the sake of imprisonment. No, there was something far more sinister at play. The melody of the flute was not just a song; it was a snare, meant to lull him into submission. To break him. To mold him into something else. And though the details eluded him, the implication sent a shudder through his being.

Regret sank its teeth deep. How could he have been so foolish? His own impulsiveness had led him here, and now he saw no clear path forward. The weight of his mistakes pressed heavy on his chest, and a part of him longed for punishment—a penance to match the gravity of his failure.

Yet Hel, ever watchful, did not miss the fire that remained in his eyes. She had expected him to yield, to succumb to despair. And yet, despite months—perhaps years—of captivity, Wangji endured. The very thing meant to break him had only steeled his resolve.

Then, in the midst of one meditative trance, something shifted. A fissure cracked open within his mind, a surge of clarity flooding through. The answer had been in front of him all along—Wei Ying was not here, but that did not mean he was lost. If not Hel's realm, then where? Fate did not move in straight lines. If he had been searching in the wrong place, then it was time to search elsewhere.

With renewed purpose, Wangji rose, his prison no longer a cage but a labyrinth of possibilities. Every shadow, every echo, every whisper—each held the potential for answers. Even the flute, his greatest torment, became a guide, its melody laced with secrets waiting to be unraveled.

And Hel, observing this unexpected shift, found her amusement turning into something else. Curiosity. Fascination. The God of the Moon, whom she had viewed as a pawn, was no longer playing his part. He was changing the rules. He was becoming something unforeseen, something unpredictable.