The day after Old Man Zhang's warning, the village awoke to a silence that did not belong.
It began at the well.
For as long as anyone in Qingshan could remember, the stone-ringed well in the village square had been its heart. Dawn always drew a crowd—women carrying buckets, children splashing mischievously, old men sitting on its rim while trading stories. The sound of water was as familiar and reassuring as the beat of a drum.
But that morning, when the first bucket was drawn, something was wrong.
The young mother who had lowered it frowned when she raised the rope. The water inside was cloudy, its surface dull instead of clear. Curious, she touched it to her lips, only to spit at once and shove the bucket away.
"It tastes foul!" she exclaimed, wiping her mouth.
Others crowded around. A boy, braver than most, dipped a finger and licked it. He gagged, scrubbing his tongue on his sleeve as villagers muttered nervously.
"Has it spoiled?"
"Water cannot spoil."
"Perhaps… perhaps the spirits are offended…"
By then, a larger crowd had formed. Old Man Zhang was summoned, his cane tapping across the stones. He looked into the bucket, then ordered another drawn. He poured a cup and drank it in front of everyone. Gasps rose from the crowd, but Zhang lowered the cup with his face unreadable.
"The water is safe," he said firmly. "The mountain veins shift from time to time. This taste will pass."
Yet Shen, standing at the edge of the crowd, noticed the elder's hand linger on the rim of the well, knuckles pale. He also saw the way Zhang's gaze darted quickly into the depths before he turned away, as if afraid of what he might see there.
The villagers dispersed reluctantly, carrying their buckets home under cloths as though the water itself might betray them. The well, once alive with chatter, felt cold and abandoned. Even children avoided it, their games muted.
At dusk, Shen returned alone. Mist curled low around the square, and the well's stones gleamed faintly in the dim light. He leaned over, peering down.
No reflection met him. Not his face, not the pale sky—only blackness, shifting as if it breathed.
His chest burned suddenly. The silver mark pulsed beneath his robe, spilling faint light across the stones. It seemed to call to the darkness, and the darkness answered.
Shen stumbled back, heart pounding. For the briefest instant, he thought he heard a sound rising from the depths—not water, not wind, but something heavier. Something alive.
That night, he dreamed of the well again. This time the water churned violently, swallowing the silver light that spilled from his chest. And from below came a slow, deliberate sound. Breathing.
He woke to wolves howling in the distance. The village dogs barked wildly, chains rattling.
For the first time since his return, Liang Shen felt sure: Qingshan was not safe.