The halls of Xuanming Sect had not heard music in months, yet tonight the drums beat like thunder.
Lanterns hung in thick clusters, their warm glow pushing the rain's gloom back to the far corners of the courtyard. The tables sagged beneath the weight of dishes — steamed river fish lacquered with ginger, roasted pheasant glazed in honey, baskets of white lotus buns spilling steam into the air. Wine flowed freely, poured from heavy silver jugs into jade cups.
To an outsider, it looked like victory.
Mo Lianyin sat at the head table, back straight, face calm. She had washed away the Beast's blood, replaced the torn battle robes with a dark silk formal robe embroidered in moonlit waves. Her hair, bound with a single silver clasp, shone under the lanternlight.
The disciples cheered her name again and again. "Sect Protector! Moon's Shadow Blade! Slayer of the Abysstone!" Each title rolled through the hall like waves against a cliff.
She smiled when expected, raised her cup when required, but inside her chest, the lotus pulsed — slow, deliberate, like a predator at rest.
---
Zevian sat a few seats down, speaking little. When their eyes met, his gaze was searching, measuring something she didn't want to name.
"Drink, Brother Zevian!" one of the elders called, slamming a cup in front of him. "You fought as fiercely as any!"
He gave the faintest smile, lifting the cup in acknowledgement, but his hand lingered on the hilt of his blade even here, amid the celebration.
---
The feast swelled louder as the wine worked its way into bloodstreams. Disciples retold the battle in fragments — the Beast's roar, the shattering of its armor, the crimson flare that had split the mountain air. Each time they reached that moment, their voices took on a reverent hush, as though speaking of something sacred.
Lianyin felt the weight of their awe like a chain.
She remembered almost nothing of it — only the bloom of heat, the absence of pain, and the terrible clarity that had followed. Her sword had moved as if the world itself bent to make way.
More, the lotus murmured, its voice a thread of silk winding through her thoughts. They love you now. They will follow you anywhere. Let me feed on their devotion.
Her grip on the wine cup tightened until the jade creaked. She set it down with deliberate care.
---
Halfway through the evening, a young disciple approached her table — a boy of perhaps fifteen, cheeks still rounded with youth. He bowed low, holding out a folded paper talisman.
"This was found at the outer gate, Protector," he said.
She took it, sensing Zevian's gaze flick toward the talisman instantly. It was sealed with red wax in the shape of a lotus petal. The scent of iron rose from it faintly — not enough for others to notice, but unmistakable to her.
Her pulse slowed.
"Thank you," she said evenly. The boy bowed again and retreated into the crowd.
Zevian leaned closer, voice low. "Open it later. Not here."
She slid the talisman into her sleeve without a word.
---
By the time the feast began to thin, the air was thick with heat and wine fumes. Lanterns guttered low, casting the hall in molten amber shadows. The musicians played softer now, their strings and flutes weaving something mournful beneath the chatter.
She slipped away without announcing her departure. No one tried to stop her — they were too deep in their cups, too wrapped in their stories.
Outside, the rain had returned, fine and silver. She walked the empty corridor toward her chambers, the talisman burning cold against her wrist.
---
When she unsealed it, the paper unfolded to reveal a single line, written in ink so dark it seemed to drink the lamplight:
The bloom is only the first step. The root waits in the dark.
There was no signature, but she could feel the presence behind the words, as surely as she could feel her own breath. It was not an enemy's challenge. It was an invitation.
---
She didn't hear Zevian until he was almost beside her.
"You're not sleeping tonight, are you?" he asked quietly.
She shook her head.
His gaze moved to the talisman in her hand. "That's Crimson Lotus handwriting. Not one of the common disciples — someone high in their ranks."
She didn't ask how he knew. "Then they're still watching."
"They've never stopped," he said. Then, softer: "And now, neither has it."
He didn't have to name it. The lotus shifted in her chest at the words, almost in acknowledgment.
She tucked the talisman into her inner robe. "The root waits in the dark," she murmured.
Zevian's expression hardened. "Then maybe it's time we go into the dark first."
---
Far below the mountain, in the catacombs where the rain could never reach, a pool of still black water rippled once, though nothing touched it.
Somewhere in that depth, a red lotus petal drifted — and did not fade.