The riverbank lay shrouded in a gauze of mist, the early light scattering into muted shafts that danced upon the water's surface. Xu Liang stepped forward, the soft slide of their changpao over dew-laden reeds marking the rhythm of deliberate intent. His talisman box was balanced in one hand, the lacquered surface cool beneath their fingertips, while the other hand traced subtle, fluid gestures in the air, preparing for the ritual needed to interact with the spirit. Each motion was weighted with purpose, yet carried the ease of someone who had long ago mastered the art of motion as meditation rather than mere ceremony.
Rong Yue followed closely, the silk of his robes whispering against the reeds. His public poise remained intact, but his eyes betrayed the shift into perception, pupils dilated, breath slowing, awareness extending beyond mortal sight to the threads of qi coiling in the water beneath. Every ripple, every subtle disturbance of the current, was a note in the river's quiet lament, and he read them with precision and care.
Wei Zhen remained the steady shadow, his tall frame taut, ever ready. He did not speak, but his hand hovered near the hilt of his jian, eyes flicking between the river, Rong Yue, Xu Liang, and the surrounding village. Xu Liang's frailty had become a silent worry for him; each cough, each tremor in their fingers, was a reminder that the poison within them, though hidden, lingered. And yet, he trusted Xu Liang, knew that for all his illness, he was the only one capable of reaching the spirit without being consumed by fear or hesitation.
The ghost bride rose from the river in fragments of shimmering light. Her robes, tattered yet exquisite in their spectral quality, trailed behind her like the memory of silk on stone. Her hair was a dark cascade, floating in the air as if underwater, and her eyes, vast, luminous, and sorrow-filled — fixed on Xu Liang with a mixture of curiosity and anguish.
Xu Liang inhaled softly, letting his breath form a rhythm with the subtle pulse of qi. He moved with careful fluidity, his gestures precise yet unbound by gendered expectation, hands curling and extending as if conducting an invisible orchestra. Each motion was a signal of empathy, a soft plea that bridged the chasm between mortal and spirit.
"Do not fear," Xu Liang whispered, the voice carrying across the shallow mist. "I do not come to command. I came to understand."
The bride's form shivered, chains rattling faintly as though hesitant to respond. Her gaze flicked to Rong Yue, whose expression remained calm but watchful. He had prepared talismans of his own, delicate seals infused with spiritual resonance, and placed them strategically along the bank. The subtle hum of energy from his hands reached the spirit, forming a lattice of qi that coaxed her gently rather than binding her with force.
Wei Zhen stepped closer, slipping an arm subtly around Xu Liang's waist. The touch was firm, protective, and yet soft enough not to interrupt the delicate motions of Xu Liang's hands. Xu Liang leaned into his strength, drawing quiet reassurance from the anchor Wei Zhen provided, and his movements remained steady despite the chill that licked at the edges of the morning.
The spirit hesitated, swaying in the river's current. Her lips parted, faint syllables dissolving into mist. Xu Liang responded with measured movements, hands weaving the talismans through the air, infusing each with warmth and understanding. It was not the command of a cultivator over a spirit, but the language of shared pain, of grief acknowledged and mirrored.
Rong Yue murmured under his breath, his spiritual perception tracing the chains' threads, following their knots to the points of binding. He whispered guidance to Xu Liang, subtle cues in tone and rhythm, and Xu Liang's hands responded without breaking flow. Together, they formed a triad of intent: Xu Liang's empathy, Rong Yue's spiritual acuity, and Wei Zhen's grounding presence.
The bride floated closer, chains rattling faintly. Xu Liang's knees trembled for a fraction of a second, fatigue and illness pressing against the core of their strength, and Wei Zhen's hand tightened imperceptibly, steadying him without comment. Their eyes met, a silent exchange of trust, a confirmation that they were not alone.
The talismans began to glow faintly under Xu Liang's guidance, the inks shimmering as if alive with river-light. The chains binding the spirit shivered, responding to the careful coaxing rather than forceful command. Slowly, ever so gradually, the ghost bride began to relax, the tension in her posture softening as recognition passed through her luminous eyes.
Rong Yue extended a hand, fingers brushing through the air in a series of arcane gestures that drew the spirit's energy into alignment with the talismans on the bank. Each movement was precise, elegant, and unbroken by fear or doubt. The aura surrounding the bride shifted subtly, the water around her stirring in gentle, harmonious ripples.
Xu Liang's voice softened further, the words imbued with the faintest thread of their own vulnerability. "You may rest now. You are not forgotten."
A faint glow emanated from the chains, and they began to dissolve into fine threads of light, unraveling as if memory itself were forgiving the bindings. The bride exhaled a soundless sigh, her form stabilizing in the current, her posture easing from centuries of tension. She lingered, eyes fixed on Xu Liang, and for a heartbeat, the world felt suspended between water, spirit, and mortal presence.
The mist swirled around them, catching fragments of sunlight and refracting it into fleeting rainbows. Xu Liang faltered slightly, weariness pressing against him, and Wei Zhen's arm tightened, a reassuring weight against his side. Rong Yue's gaze softened, tracing the delicate lines of Xu Liang's hands, the subtle strength of his movements, the quiet courage in each gesture.
The spirit's chains fully dissolved, leaving only faint ripples on the water's surface. She lifted her gaze to the trio, recognition and gratitude shimmering in her ethereal form. Slowly, she drifted upward, dissolving into the morning mist, the sorrow and longing she carried dispersed by the careful empathy and skill of the cultivators.
Xu Liang leaned against Wei Zhen, breathing shallow, heart racing. "It is done," he whispered.
Rong Yue approached, hands folded lightly over his robe. "You were remarkable," he said softly. "The way you moved… it was… unbound. Fluid. Free."
Xu Liang allowed a faint smile, eyes still tracing the dissipating light on the river. "I only followed what I felt. The rest… came from you both."
Wei Zhen merely nodded, hand lingering once more at the small of Xu Liang's back before releasing them. His expression was unreadable, yet the warmth in his eyes was a silent commendation of their resilience.
Ning Xue, who had watched silently from the bank, finally stepped forward. Her voice carried a mix of awe and caution. "She is freed, yes. But the river keeps more than one sorrow. You glimpsed the fragments of the chain. It is dark, resilient, and deliberate. Whoever or whatever bound her did not intend for this to end here."
Xu Liang's fingers brushed lightly over his talismans, a habit of grounding himself, feeling the residue of spiritual energy lingering in the air.
The river exhaled softly, carrying with it the faint scent of lotus and mist-laden reeds. The morning light broke more fully, scattering through the mist, illuminating the village and the softened contours of the riverbank. Xu Liang's cough returned, faint and insistent, and
Wei Zhen gaze lingered on Xu Liang, the protective shadow of his vigilance unspoken but understood. Xu Liang inclined his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment of gratitude.
They turned from the river, leaving the mist and the lingering currents behind, yet the memory of the ghost bride, her chains, her sorrow, and her release, remained embedded in each of them. Beneath the surface of the calm water lay fragments yet to be uncovered, threads that would lead to Yesha's imprisonment, dark and unyielding.
As they walked back to the village, Xu Liang realized that the river had taught them much: that sorrow could be soothed, that chains could be undone, and that even in the face of hidden poison and unseen dangers, strength was found not alone, but together.
The morning mist lifted, yet the shadow of what they had witnessed lingered in their hearts. The journey was far from over, and beneath the surface of the calm river lay the next clue — shimmering, dark, and waiting to be unraveled.