The morning after their arrival, the mist had not lifted. The world beyond Cloud Rest Inn lay hushed in pale frost, the air heavy with the scent of pine and iron. Two carriages waited in the courtyard, their wheels edged with ice.
Ling Xiuyuan stepped into the first, robes dark against the dim light. Beside him, Mingyue climbed in wordlessly, settling across from him with the same calm composure he had shown since dawn. Behind them, Zhou Qingrong and Wei Jingyan followed in the second cart. The road east wound through frozen fields, thin branches glinting like glass in the morning light.
No one spoke. Even the horses' breath seemed muted.
Reports said the mist there never cleared, and the villagers who heard their names called at night would vanish by dawn. No corpses had been found. No traces of struggle. Only silence.
The carriages halted at the valley's entrance by midmorning. The air was colder here, biting, the mist so thick it swallowed the trees whole. Zhou Qingrong dismounted first, the hem of her robe brushing the frost. "This place feels wrong," she murmured, eyes narrowing. "No spirit should linger this long unseen."
Wei Jingyan followed, drawing his sword slightly to test the air. "It's heavy with yin. But faint—like something hiding just beneath the skin of the earth."
Ling Xiuyuan stepped down last, the motion measured, quiet. His gaze swept the valley, the fog curling around his figure like slow breath. "Let's begin at the village heart," he said softly. "The last disappearance was reported there."
They moved along the narrow path, passing shuttered homes and dried wells. The frost underfoot crackled faintly, echoing too loud in the stillness. Mingyue followed a few paces behind Xiuyuan, his pale robes almost blending with the mist. He carried no weapon, only the small satchel of offerings and talismans Zhou Qingrong had handed him earlier.
Halfway through the valley, they reached a frozen pond. The water beneath the ice was strangely clear—clear enough that shapes seemed to stir faintly below, as though something watched from beneath.
Zhou Qingrong knelt, pressing her palm to the surface. "There's movement," she said quietly. "But it doesn't feel alive."
Wei Jingyan frowned. "An echo, maybe. The residue of a vanished soul."
Ling Xiuyuan stood beside them, his sleeve brushing the air. A faint shimmer of spiritual energy rippled across the pond. The ice responded—not cracking, but breathing, as if something beneath had stirred.
Then, faintly, a sound.A whisper, too soft to catch, curling through the fog like breath.
Mingyue stiffened. He turned toward the sound instinctively, his eyes widening a fraction. "Someone's calling," he murmured.
"It's the spirit," Zhou Qingrong said, rising swiftly. "Don't answer."
The whisper came again, faintly clearer this time—something almost like a name, but the syllables twisted midway, bending into a tone that made the bones ache.
Wei Jingyan drew a talisman and cast it toward the sound, but it burned out before touching the mist.
Ling Xiuyuan's gaze stayed calm. "It's not attacking," he said. "It's…testing us."
He turned slightly, just in time to see Mingyue step backward, his foot slipping on frost. Without hesitation, Xiuyuan reached out and caught him by the shoulder. The gesture was firm but quiet, his grip steady even as the air between them frosted.
"You must not respond," Xiuyuan said, his voice low. "Whatever it says, it is not your name."
Mingyue met his eyes briefly before bowing his head. "Yes, Shizun."
For a moment, their breaths mingled faintly in the cold, the stillness between them weighted with something neither spoke aloud.
Zhou Qingrong's voice cut through. "Ling Xiuyuan—over here."
She pointed toward the northern slope. The earth had sunk inward, forming a shallow hollow where frost gathered thick and white. Etched across the surface were faint marks—circles interwoven with lines, half-buried by snow.
Wei Jingyan crouched, brushing them clear. "These aren't human."
"No," said Ling Xiuyuan. "They're a summoning pattern—meant to call something not of this world."
Zhou Qingrong looked up sharply. "Someone made this?"
He nodded. "A mortal, perhaps. But they didn't survive the bargain."
They searched the hollow carefully, marking sigils to contain the energy. With every step, the wind seemed to follow—soft, dragging, whispering just at the edge of hearing. Once, a faint laugh echoed from the mist. Not mocking—just wrong.
By the time the sun began to fall, the light had turned a bruised gold. The valley was colder now, the mist curling in slow coils.
"We'll set wards at the pond and return after dusk," Zhou Qingrong said, her breath clouding. "Whatever this thing is, it's bound to the night."
Ling Xiuyuan gave a quiet nod. His gaze lingered once on the frozen water—on the faint shimmer beneath its surface, as if eyes watched back from the dark.
As they turned to leave, Mingyue glanced once over his shoulder. The mist behind them moved—just slightly—as though something had shifted inside it.
He said nothing. But the chill that followed stayed long after they reached the carts.
The valley was a shroud of mist by the time they returned. A small lodging house stood at the edge of the woods — built for passing merchants, now half-empty, its roof heavy with frost. Pale lanterns hung by the eaves, their light dim and trembling in the wind.
Inside, the innkeeper spoke in whispers, his hands shaking as he poured hot tea. "You shouldn't stay past nightfall, honored ones," he said. "There are voices here after dark. They call from the woods — sometimes from the walls."
Ling Xiuyuan merely inclined his head. "We'll manage."
The rooms were small but clean. Zhou Qingrong and Wei Jingyan took the far chamber to review the sigils they'd found. Ling Xiuyuan and Mingyue were given another — a narrow space with a low brazier and a single shuttered window.
When the door closed behind them, the silence returned.
The brazier crackled faintly, its glow catching in Xiuyuan's eyes as he set aside his outer robe. He seemed untouched by the cold, yet weariness edged the line of his shoulders — the kind of exhaustion that years of restraint had carved into him.
Mingyue poured tea without being told. The steam curled gently between them, faintly perfumed with chrysanthemum.
"Shizun," he said quietly, offering the cup.
Xiuyuan accepted it, his fingers brushing against Mingyue's for an instant. The touch was light — yet it lingered, as though the moment itself refused to fade. Mingyue did not flinch. His gaze remained calm, respectful, almost distant.
"You serve well," Xiuyuan said at last. "Have you always tended to others so carefully?"
Mingyue hesitated a fraction before answering. "It was required of me."
"By whom?"
"My first master," Mingyue replied. "He… valued silence."
The words seemed to hang between them. Xiuyuan studied him — the faint line of his profile, the stillness in his posture. Every breath, every movement was familiar in ways that tightened something deep in his chest.
He set the cup aside. "Help me change these robes," he said quietly.
Mingyue rose at once, unfastening the clasps of Xiuyuan's outer garment. The sound of silk sliding against silk filled the small room. Xiuyuan did not move away. He stood still, watching Mingyue's reflection in the window — the calm precision of his hands, the careful distance he maintained.
In another life, another winter, Shen Liuxian had done the same — laughing softly when Xiuyuan grew embarrassed by the gesture, teasing warmth where now there was only quiet.
But Mingyue's face showed nothing. His eyes, lowered in deference, were clear and unreadable.
"Does the cold trouble you?" Xiuyuan asked, his voice low.
"No, Shizun."
"And the mist outside?"
"It is only mist."
Xiuyuan's lips curved faintly, almost bitterly. "You fear nothing, then."
Mingyue paused. "I have no reason to."
Their eyes met briefly. Something unspoken passed there — a question, perhaps, or an echo. But it was gone before either could grasp it. Mingyue folded the discarded robe neatly and stepped back.
Xiuyuan turned away, his reflection faint in the windowpane. Outside, the frost had begun to creep up the glass, thin as breath.
From somewhere beyond the inn's walls came a sound — a faint, drawn-out whisper, like wind slipping through a hollow reed.
Both turned toward it at once.
Zhou Qingrong's spiritual ward flared dimly down the hall — a warning.
Xiuyuan's composure returned instantly. "Stay here," he said.
Mingyue's voice was calm but firm. "Shizun—if it's that voice again, it called near our room last."
Xiuyuan stilled.
He knew he should have dismissed him — Mingyue was not a cultivator, not trained for such things. But something in his tone, the quiet steadiness, held him back.
A second whisper rose — closer now, tracing the edges of his name.Not "Ling Xiuyuan." Not exactly.But something near it.
Xiuyuan drew a talisman from his sleeve and pressed it against the window frame. "Don't look outside," he said.
Mingyue obeyed, though his gaze flickered briefly toward the frost. In the faint reflection of the window, he saw the frost pulse — expanding like breath.
Then, silence.
The wind fell away, leaving only the crackle of the brazier and the steady rhythm of two heartbeats.
Slowly, Xiuyuan turned back. Mingyue stood still beside the table, his hands folded, his expression perfectly composed. But beneath that stillness, something trembled — not fear, but the subtle ache of a memory neither of them could name.
Xiuyuan approached, stopping just within arm's reach. His voice, when he spoke, was softer than before.
"When the spirit calls," he said, "you mustn't listen. It draws upon the sound of one's heart — the echo of what we wish to hear."
Mingyue's lashes lifted. "And what is it that you hear, Shizun?"
For a long moment, Xiuyuan didn't answer. His gaze lingered on Mingyue's face, on the faint light that caught in his eyes.
"…Something that should have remained silent," he said at last.
The brazier guttered, and the room dimmed. Outside, the frost crept higher up the window, thin veins spreading like writing in the dark.
Somewhere beyond the mist, the spirit waited — patient, listening.
And inside the narrow room, silence thickened, heavy with everything unspoken.