The oil lamp guttered once in the draft, casting shadows like grasping fingers against the paper walls. Xu Liang adjusted the wick with the careful precision of someone for whom control was not simply a preference but a necessity. Each movement was deliberate, not the flourish of courtly showmanship, but the quiet discipline of a junzi trained to let nothing spill beyond its vessel.
Rong Yue had taken a seat across from him, his elbows resting lightly on the lacquered table, long fingers tracing the faint grain of the wood. To anyone else, it would have seemed idle motion, but Xu Liang saw the pattern, a steady rhythm, as if he were grounding himself against whatever lingered from the river's call.
Wei Zhen, silent as stone, polished his blade with slow, even strokes, the muted gleam of the steel catching fire in the lamplight. He did not look at Xu Liang, but each time he coughed, Wei Zhens's hand paused for a fraction of a breath before resuming.
Rong Yue's voice came low, almost reluctant, as though the visions themselves resisted being spoken aloud. "The first," he began, "was a woman in bridal robes, red silk, phoenix embroidery, the kind worn only once, and never again. She stood at the edge of the village, her veil lifted, her finger pointing not toward a person, but toward the land itself. Not in accusation, but in warning. Her eyes… they didn't blink. I think she wanted me to see something buried, something forgotten beneath the fields we walk." He paused, and the silence returned, not empty this time, but heavy with implication. Wei Zhen leaned forward, his brow furrowed, not with skepticism, but with the kind of reverence reserved for omens.
"The second vision came after," Rong Yue continued, his fingers still tracing the wood, slower now. "Chains. Not iron, but something older—bronze, maybe, or bone. They ran down the river like roots, like veins, dragging light with them. I couldn't see what they were bound to, only that they moved against the current, as if something beneath the water was pulling them upstream. And the river… it didn't resist. It welcomed them." His voice faltered for a breath, then steadied. "I think they were binding something. Or someone. And I think it's waking."
Xu Liang didn't speak immediately. Wei Zhen's gaze flicked to the door Ning Xue had left through, then back to Rong Yue.
"Did the woman say anything?" Xu Liang asked.
Rong Yue shook his head. "No words. Just the pointing. But I felt it—like she was asking me to remember something I never knew."
The oil lamp flared again, and this time, the shadows didn't retreat. They gathered. Before any of them could say anything more, Ning Xue returned with fresh tea and poured them a cup, her sleeve falling back to reveal a faint network of old sword scars along her forearm. "When I left Qianye Sect," she said, "I thought I had left the world of spirits behind. But the river remembers. And sometimes, it chains."
Rong Yue's gaze sharpened. "The villagers said nothing of chains. Only disappearances."
"They do not see the chains," Ning Xue replied, her voice low. "Nor would they wish to. But I have walked the bank in the blackest night, and I have felt it, the weight of something old, something bound deep in the silt. I think it was once human. I think it remembers love, though it has been twisted into hunger."
The room held its breath as Xu Liang pulled out his writing tools and blank paper. Xu Liang's brush hovered above the fu zhi, the tip trembling slightly before pressing to the paper. With slow, practiced movements, they drew the first seal, zhenshui fu, the "water-binding talisman." Ink spread into the fibers like ripples across a still pond.
Wei Zhen's eyes flicked up, watching the delicate arcs and sharp angles form beneath Xu Liang's hand. "You intend to bind it?"
"If it can be bound, yes," Xu Liang said without pausing in their work. "But something bound can also be unbound. If this spirit is chained by another force, we must first learn the nature of that chain. And then let it return into the cycle of reincarnation."
Rong Yue's expression softened in quiet admiration. "You speak of chains as if they are threads you can weave or cut."
Xu Liang allowed himself the faintest smile. "And you see more threads than I do."
The air between them held for a heartbeat, then Wei Zhen shifted, a subtle cough in his throat as if to remind them they were not alone. Xu Liang returned to the seal with perfect composure, though the curve of their lips lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
Outside, the wind moaned along the eaves.
By the time the last talisman was set to dry, the moon had risen high, painting the rice paper with a pale sheen. Ning Xue left the table and leaned against the shutter, peering through the narrow gap. "Do you hear it?" she asked.
They fell silent.
It was faint at first; so faint Xu Liang thought it was the memory of sound, not sound itself. But then it deepened: the susurrus of water moving against stone, laced with something like… song. Not the bright trill of a village girl by the well, but a low, aching tone that seemed to coil around the ribs and press inward.
Rong Yue's eyes darkened. "She's restless tonight."
Wei Zhen's grip tightened on his sword hilt. "Then we stay inside."
But Xu Liang's gaze was drawn to the window, to the slip of silvered current just visible between the rooftops. "Restless spirits don't always wait for an invitation," he murmured.
Ning Xue nodded once, grimly. "Lock the door. I'll keep watch until dawn."
---
They did not sleep easily.
Xu Liang lay on the bed, the thick quilt heavy over their frame, listening to the muffled steps of Wei Zhen as he made his slow rounds in the dark. Across the room, Rong Yue shifted occasionally, the whisper of silk marking each turn.
When the cough came, it was sudden and sharp, tearing through Xu Liang's chest. In an instant, Rong Yue was there, kneeling at their side, hand firm against his back. The warmth of Rong Yue's palm seeped through the layers of cloth, steadying them until the fit passed.
"You push yourself too hard," he said quietly, voice roughened by the hour.
Xu Liang did not meet his eyes. "And if I didn't, where would we be?"
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Rong Yue drew the quilt higher around Xu Liang's shoulders, fingers lingering just enough for Xu Liang to feel the unspoken vow there: I will not leave you to face this alone.
When dawn came, it arrived with a pallid light that made the mist glow like milk poured over stone. Ning Xue met them at the door, her hair damp with river spray. "The current is stronger today," she said. "She's waiting."
Xu Liang gathered his talismans. Rong Yue adjusted his robe, slipping once more into the masculine bearing the village expected. Wei Zhen checked the weight of his sword, then gave a short nod