Dawn crept across the estate in pale swathes of mist, silvering the tops of roof tiles and the edges of the courtyard stones. Xu Liang's hands still bore the faint tremor of the night's ritual, though they moved now with steadier purpose, gathering the talismans and tools with practiced care. Wei Zhen kept watch, eyes scanning every window and gate, alert to the world waking and the dangers that never truly slept. Rong Yue followed silently, a composed figure in a pale robe, carrying both the weight of duty and the strain of unspoken emotion.
The body of the concubine, carefully wrapped in silk, was borne through the quiet lanes of the estate. Xu Liang's gaze did not waver; even in death, there was dignity to preserve. They arrived at the marquis's hall, a grim silence settling over the assembled servants and guards. The marquis himself appeared, freshly bathed, dressed in ornate robes whose gilded embroidery caught the morning light like trapped fireflies.
Rong Yue stepped forward, his voice even, resonant with authority tempered by careful grace. "This woman has been found dead under circumstances most foul. Her body bears the marks of violence. Do you recognize her?"
The marquis's eyes flickered over the silk bundle. "I… I know her. But I swear, I had no hand in her death. Why would I harm her? She was my concubine."
Xu Liang's hand tightened around the folded talisman they still held. "Yet she was silenced, buried, and bound by chains. That is a fate none should meet by accident."
The marquis's lips pressed thin. His wife, the lady of the hall, appeared behind him, her face a pale mask, hands folded tightly before her. Xu Liang's keen gaze rested on her. She did not speak at first, and the air seemed to coil tighter around them, as if the walls themselves waited for the confession.
Finally, with a tremor that betrayed her inner turmoil, she spoke. "I… I did it." Her voice was quiet, but the weight of it fell like iron on the hall. "I feared for my position. The marquis… he favored her above me. I believed that removing her would preserve the family's order, preserve my place."
The marquis's eyes widened, shock etching sharp lines into his otherwise composed features. "You—"
"I acted alone," she interrupted, her gaze dropping. "I protected the family, as I believed I must."
Rong Yue inclined his head. "The law of the empire is clear. Crimes against life cannot be mitigated by fear or jealousy. You will answer for your deeds."
Guards stepped forward, and the lady was taken, her protests muted beneath the weight of justice. Xu Liang exhaled slowly, though their relief was tempered. The truth had been unearthed, but the price had been high, and the reverberations of this crime would not fade with her removal.
When the hall emptied of all but the three of them, Rong Yue gestured for Xu Liang and Wei Zhen to follow. They returned to the palace in silence, the city waking around them. The morning light was pale and soft, yet the shadows of the previous night's ritual lingered, a quiet reminder that some darkness could never fully be banished.
In the palace gardens, Lady Xue awaited them. She was a familiar presence to Rong Yue, a childhood friend whose wisdom and insight often bridged the gulf between the mortal and the mythic. Her eyes, dark and luminous, scanned them with subtle gravity.
"The concubine's death is not merely a matter of family intrigue," Lady Xue said. Her voice carried easily across the garden, calm but heavy with portent. "It touches on an older story, one of Yesha, a demon who emerges to right wrongs and purge the world of evil qi."
Xu Liang exchanged a glance with Wei Zhen, who nodded subtly, understanding the implication. The talismans and ritual from the night before had disturbed more than just the spirit of one woman; they had awakened threads in the unseen world, threads that Yesha might follow wherever injustice lingered.
"The ghost mentioned a chain in the black riverm Xue guniang" Xu Liang asked.
Lady Xue inclined her head, the morning breeze teasing her hair like smoke. "The river is not a place of water, but of qi, corruption and violence pooled over decades, bound and seeping through the land. Those who commit grave wrongs may find themselves traced by it, until Yesha appears. Your concubine's death may have sown a seed that draws the demon's attention."
Rong Yue's hand brushed Xu Liang's briefly, a gesture of unspoken reassurance.
The three of them stood together, framed by the blossoming branches of early spring, the weight of mortality and the spectral world pressing against them. Each understood the delicate balance: to pursue justice in the living world, to navigate the webs of family and politics, and to confront the forces that might answer to a law older than any emperor's decree.
The morning deepened. Somewhere in the city, life continued, oblivious. But for Xu Liang, Wei Zhen, and Rong Yue, the pulse of injustice had become a drumbeat they could not ignore and the shadow of Yesha, silent and patient, lingered just beyond the edge of sight.
---
The court had been a serpent's nest that afternoon whispers curling behind fans, lacquered smiles sharp enough to draw blood. But by the time the trio left the marquis's estate, dusk had already bled into night.
The red lanterns of the courtyard now felt far behind them, yet the final words of the freed concubine's spirit lingered like a bruise in their minds: A spirit bound in chains beneath the black river.
They should have returned to the palace. That was the sensible course. But sense bowed to the pull of unanswered omens.
As night draped the estate in deep indigo, Rong Yue, Xu Liang, and Wei Zhen returned, moving quietly through the gardens now shadowed and unfamiliar under the moonlight. The air had thickened, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something indefinably sharp, a hint of iron and ash that raised gooseflesh along their arms.
The marquis's household lay steeped in the quiet of post-feast slumber; even the guards on duty moved with a certain heaviness, lulled by the deepening dark. The trio came silently to the gardens once more, their robes ghosting over gravel, their shadows long against the ground.
Beyond the main courtyard, the manicured paths gave way to wilder growth — old willows bending toward the water, their drooping branches like strands of mourning hair. The sound of the night here was different: no laughter, no footfalls, only the whisper of reeds shifting in the breeze.
The river, usually a silent trickle hidden behind a grove of twisted willows, now shimmered faintly, an inky vein of darkness threading through the garden. Its surface seemed almost alive, undulating with pulses of qi that the trio could feel in the hollow of their chests. Xu Liang paused, fingertips brushing the water and recoiled as faint ripples coalesced into shapes that dissolved before they could fully focus: a fleeting silhouette of a woman, her face twisted in sorrow and accusation, reflected only for a heartbeat in the black current.
The black river was not truly black, by day it was a dull brown stream, shallow enough to wade across, but under the moon it transformed into something uncanny, a ribbon of ink pooling through the earth. It did not mirror the heavens as other waters did; instead it swallowed the light, as if jealous of the moon's gaze.
Xu Liang stopped at the bank, their pale fingers hovering just above the water's skin. A current of qi pulsed upward, sliding into their arm, cold as the touch of an unburied corpse. The sensation made the fine hairs along their wrist stand on end. Not water, their instincts whispered. Something older.
A tremor rippled through the stream, patterns forming in the reflected dark: the suggestion of a woman's face, veiled, eyes brimming with unspent tears. The vision was brief — no longer than a heartbeat — but it carried the weight of centuries.
Wei Zhen stepped forward, one hand resting lightly near the hilt of his sword. "This is no natural current," he said quietly, voice edged with alertness. "It feels… aware." His gaze flicked toward Xu Liang, a subtle check for any sign of pain or weakness, though his expression remained guarded.
Rong Yue crouched beside Xu Liang, his gaze drawn to a scatter of strange fragments half-buried in the riverbank mud — scorched talisman paper, the cinnabar lines still faintly visible, edges curled like dried petals. "Someone sealed something here once," he murmured. "But the seal is broken."
The air thickened. From somewhere deep within the river's flow, a hum arose — low, resonant, like the sound of silk torn very slowly. It was not a sound that could be heard with the ears alone; it seemed to vibrate inside bone, carrying with it words unspoken but understood: a vow to set right what had been wronged.
A thin mist coiled along the surface of the black water. In it, they glimpsed the outline of a cloaked figure, tall and indistinct, eyes glinting like distant cold fire. The figure did not move toward them, but the weight of its gaze was unmistakable — ancient, deliberate, patient.
Yesha.
The name was not spoken aloud, yet it slid into all three of their minds at once, heavy with recognition they could not explain. The demon's presence pressed against them, neither hostile nor benign — only purposeful.
The mist thinned. The water stilled. The night returned to the ordinary sounds of crickets and wind in the willows.
Rong Yue rose slowly, smoothing the sleeve of his changshan, his expression unreadable. "It's watching us," he said softly. "And it does not yet mean to strike."
They left the river as they had come, quietly, without disturbing the sleepers in the estate but the sense of being observed clung to them like a lingering hand at their backs