The morning light sifted through the mist like pale silk, brushing the riverbank in muted silver. Xu Liang shivered, not from the chill, though it was sharp enough to make the reeds quiver, but from the subtle undercurrent of qi that wrapped around the village. The air carried the memory of what had been lost, and Xu Liang, despite his careful cultivation of calm, felt the pulse of unease thrum beneath his ribs.
Rong Yue led the way, his steps measured and deliberate, posture intact for the villagers' eyes. Yet there was a faint softness in his movements, a delicate fluidity that emerged whenever no one dared watch too closely. It was in the tilt of his wrist as they pushed back a strand of hair, in the gentle arch of a brow, in the subtle sway of silk over silk. Xu Liang's gaze followed each motion with quiet admiration, though they did not allow their eyes to linger too long; etiquette and survival demanded discipline, even here in the borderlands of the southern marshes.
Wei Zhen walked at Xu Liang's side, a wall of calm authority. His hand occasionally brushed against the talisman box at Xu Liang's hip, not by accident. He had learned to read the faint tremor in Xu Liang's movements, the way his breath caught in a quiet cough, the imperceptible slackening of his posture when the world pressed too hard. Today, the chill of the morning, the scent of river mud, and the distant hum of water spirits combined to press against Xu Liang's chest with more weight than usual. Wei Zhen's presence was a tether, a reminder that they would not falter alone.
The villagers kept their distance, casting wary glances at the trio as they approached the river's edge. Boats, moored at crooked angles, creaked against the current. Nets hung from bamboo poles, still glistening with the night's catch, yet there was a hush over the banks, a sense that life had been subdued in the shadow of what prowled beneath the water. Ning Xue led them, moving with the assurance of one who had walked these waters in darkness, her bare feet slipping silently over the damp soil.
Xu Liang's cough broke again, more forceful this time, and Wei Zhen immediately placed a protective arm across his shoulders, pressing the warmth of his body close enough to drive away the chill that had seeped into their bones. The fabric of his traveling cloak, heavy and soft, was reassuring. Xu Liang leaned subtly into the touch, letting the quiet strength anchor them against the river's malevolent qi.
"The water calls tonight," Ning Xue murmured, her gaze fixed on the gentle swell of the current. "She waits beneath the bank, bound by grief and chains older than any living memory. You must prepare, for she does not recognize the living as separate from the trapped."
Rong Yue closed his eyes, inhaling the mingled scent of riverweed and lotus, tuning into the spiritual vibrations. A faint shimmer rose before his eyelids, colors too delicate for ordinary vision, silver threads twisted with deep azure, coiling like serpents beneath the water. His hands, hidden in the folds of his sleeves, flexed gently as the aura strengthened, tracing the outline of a figure: a bride, translucent and weeping, eternally young, eternally waiting.
"She is lonely," he whispered, barely audible, the words floating across the space between them like drifting petals. "Bound, yearning, but… afraid."
Xu Liang approached the water's edge with slow, fluid movements, every step a meditation on grace and balance. His changpao brushed the reeds, disturbing droplets of dew that glittered in the diffused sunlight. He did not move like a noble on parade nor a warrior preparing for battle; his motions were deliberate, soft, a gentle defiance of the rigid gendered expectations of his gender. Here, amidst the murmuring river and the tremor of unseen chains, his humanity, fluid and precise, became a balm against the oppressive grief that clung to the spirit.
Wei Zhen knelt beside him, slipping an arm around their waist. The gesture was firm, protective, but tempered with tenderness. Xu Liang did not resist; instead, he leaned subtly against the steady warmth, drawing strength from the quiet promise in his touch. They did not speak; words were unnecessary in the language of shared vigilance. The shouwei was an anchor, the wangye's aura a lens, and Xu Liang's insight into talismans and spirits the final key. Together, they formed a triangle of unspoken fidelity, each aware of the other's limits and strengths.
Rong Yue began the ritual. His hands moved in patterns dictated by ancient texts, fingers tracing arcs that coaxed the spirit's essence rather than forcing it. The air quivered with latent qi, ribbons of color weaving like molten glass through the mist. Xu Liang added his own seals to the process, delicate talismans infused with subtle inks and brush strokes, each one a whisper of connection, not command. Wei Zhen positioned protective wards around the perimeter, each carefully planted to ward against harm while allowing the spirit to reveal itself fully.
The ghostly bride emerged gradually, her form coalescing from the river's reflection. Her robes, once white and embroidered, hung like torn petals; the silver chains at her wrists glimmered with a faint, sorrowful light. She floated above the surface, eyes vast and filled with an aching sorrow that pressed upon the living like a tide. Her lips moved, whispering in tones that carried both longing and warning, but the words dissolved before reaching the mortal ear.
Xu Liang extended his hands, fingers curving softly in gestures learned to soothe rather than command. "I am Xu Liang," he said, voice low and lilting, "and you are not alone. You may rest. You may speak. We will listen."
The spirit's gaze flickered, uncertainty mingling with grief. Slowly, she drifted closer, drawn not by force, but by the gentle persistence of empathy. Xu Liang's movements were a dance — arcs of silk and soft inclinations of the head, each step measured to ease tension, each brush of the air a silent promise of understanding.
Rong Yue watched in quiet awe, his own heart catching at the subtle defiance of expectation. Xu Liang moved not as male or female, not as noble or cultivator, but as a vessel of care. There was a kinship in that freedom, an unspoken admiration that blossomed quietly in the corner of his mind.
The spirit's form shimmered, chains rattling faintly, reacting to the talismans and the gentle gestures. She swayed as if testing the safety of the air around her, the ache of centuries in her posture. Xu Liang faltered momentarily, a brief tremor in their knees, and Wei Zhen's hand was there instantly, steadying, grounding, an anchor against both fear and chill. Their eyes met, no words necessary, and Xu Liang leaned into the strength of that silent vow.
Hours passed in a delicate rhythm of movement, ritual, and observation. The air thickened with the latent energy of the river, curling around reeds and lanterns, teasing the edges of consciousness. Xu Liang's breath grew shallow, coughs pressing against the chest like waves against a cliff. Rong Yue adjusted the cloak around his shoulders, rubbing the fabric gently until warmth spread into their bones. Wei Zhen hummed under his breath, chanting soft incantations to weave the spirit's anguish into visible qi, allowing him to trace and release the knots of sorrow bound in the chains.
Finally, with a slow, resonant sigh that rippled across the water, the chains began to unravel, dissolving like mist in morning sunlight. The bride's form steadied, the pale luminescence softening into a tranquil glow. She glanced once at the living trio, eyes filled with the faintest recognition of care, before drifting upward and fading into the morning haze.
The river exhaled, carrying with it a faint perfume of lotus and dew. Xu Liang slumped lightly against Rong Yue's arm, trembling with relief, fatigue, and the lingering touch of fear. Wei Zhen placed a hand briefly atop his, warm and reassuring, and for a moment the three were bound not by duty, but by shared endurance.
Ning Xue broke the silence, her voice soft but resolute. "She is freed, for now. But the river keeps more than one sorrow. Look to the chains, and you will find their master. I have seen fragments beneath the silt — dark, unyielding, and powerful."
Xu Liang's lips parted, eyes tracing the shimmering surface of the water where the spirit had vanished. His talisman box had been mostly untouched through most of the ritual, yet now every tool within seemed suddenly too heavy with responsibility. "Then we continue," he said.
Wei Zhen's hand remained at their back, steady, unflinching. "Together," he said.
Rong Yue nodded, gaze tracing the faint currents, still sensitive to the lingering qi. "Together," he repeated, almost as a vow to the river itself.
The trio lingered for a long moment on the riverbank, absorbing the stillness that followed the storm of emotion. The wind was softer now, carrying the faint hum of water over stones, whispering of losses and recoveries, of grief eased but not forgotten. The village slept, but the river remembered. And so, too, did they.
Xu Liang's cough returned, faint but insistent, and Ning Xue pressed a small vial of herbal mixture into Wei Zhen's hands. "This may slow the poison that festers in him," she said quietly. "Keep it hidden. Do not speak of it, not yet."
Wei Zhen accepted it without comment, slipping the vial into his sash. His eyes flicked to Xu Liang, measuring, protective, but holding back worry as always. Xu Liang nodded slightly, faint gratitude in the glance they dared spare.
The sun rose higher, scattering mist in fractured shafts across the village. They turned away from the river, the echo of chains dissolving into memory, their minds heavy with the knowledge that the journey was far from over. Beneath the calm waters lay the next thread of Yesha's imprisonment, a dark puzzle that demanded both skill and courage. And in the quiet between them, the bonds of trust and unspoken care had grown, fragile yet unbreakable, a tether against the unknown to come