Night descended quietly over Xianxiu Peak.The last incense in the Sect Leader's study had burned to a thin line of ash. Ling Xiuyuan stood beside it for a long while, the scent of sandalwood still clinging faintly to his robes. Then, wordless, he rose and stepped into the dark.
The mountain paths were pale with moonlight. Each lantern he passed trembled faintly in the wind, as though bowing to his silent passage. The rear slope was still, the pines motionless except for their sighing crowns.
At the end of the path stood a small clearing — and there, the tomb.
It was spotless.No moss had dared take root upon its surface; the stone was smooth, white under the moon. The ground around it was swept clean, the incense bowl freshly replaced, the offerings renewed. Even the pine needles had been brushed away, leaving a circle of immaculate stillness.
Xiuyuan stopped before it.For a long time, he neither moved nor spoke. His gaze traced the faint carving at the base — a single lotus, cut by his own hand years ago, still clear and sharp. The night air carried the scent of pine resin, cold and pure.
At last, he bowed.
"Liuxian," he whispered, his voice thin with restraint.
The wind moved through the pines like a sigh."I have begun teaching again," he went on quietly.
His fingers brushed the stone, pale against the dark. "There is a servant now. Mingyue. A calm one. He… reminds me of you."
The name lingered in the night, soft as an unsent letter.
Xiuyuan's eyes lowered. "He is not you. I know that. But when he speaks…"He stopped, unable to finish.
From the incense bowl rose a thin thread of smoke. It wavered once, then straightened, climbing toward the stars. For an instant, it bent slightly toward him — as if answering.Xiuyuan's lips curved faintly, a smile that never reached his eyes.
"Still watching, aren't you?"
The wind grew gentle, brushing the hem of his robes. Somewhere beyond the pines, an unseen night-bird called once, then fell silent.
When Xiuyuan turned to leave, moonlight caught on the engraved lotus. It gleamed softly, clean as if newly carved.
Down below, Jingshou Sect slept beneath layers of mist and silence.And high upon Xianxiu Peak, the Sect Leader walked alone through the silver-dark woods, the faint scent of sandalwood trailing like a memory that would not fade.
The night over Tianyin Sect was too still.Mist pooled in the courtyards and slid down the stone steps like breath turned visible. Above the main hall rose the ancient bell tower—its bronze body darkened by age, its ropes long since frayed to dust.
Yet for three nights now, the bell had begun to ring.
At first, only once or twice, faint as a memory.Then, three nights ago, it tolled thirteen times—slow, uneven, as though struck by a hand that had forgotten the weight of life.
Tonight, Meng Chuan, Fan Rongrui, and Lu Zhaoyun stood before it. Their lantern's flame wavered, struggling against the damp air.
"There's no wind," Fan Rongrui muttered. "So what moves it?"
Meng Chuan's eyes stayed fixed on the bell's mouth. "It doesn't move," he said quietly. "It's being called."
Fan gave a short, uneasy laugh. "You think it's a spirit?"
Lu Zhaoyun cut in, his voice low. "Three of our new disciples collapsed at dawn. Their bodies live, but their spirits wander. Whatever calls the bell… calls them too."
The fog thickened, swallowing the edges of the courtyard.A low hum vibrated in the air—distant at first, then sharpening into the faint echo of a bell's tone, stretched thin like a single breath held too long.
They all stilled.
From inside the tower came a sound that was not wind: a slow, ragged inhale.Then an exhale. Wet. Uneven.
Fan Rongrui's hand went to his sword. "Who's there?"
No reply—only the faint creak of wood.
A shadow stood at the base of the steps.A young man in Tianyin robes, barefoot, his head bowed. His hair was soaked with mist, his hands limp at his sides.
"Liang Wen…" Lu Zhaoyun's voice faltered. "That's one of the missing three."
The figure lifted its head.
The light touched its face—and the world went silent.There were no eyes. No mouth. Only smooth, colorless skin, as if the flesh had been erased.
Fan Rongrui staggered back, breath tearing from him. "What—what is that?"
The bell rang once.
The sound rolled through the fog like thunder underwater.The faceless figure's head twisted slightly, and from the blankness, a slit began to open—a suggestion of a smile that didn't belong to any living thing.
"Back!" Fan Rongrui shouted, drawing steel.
Meng seized his arm. "Don't touch it. That's not human!"
The lantern flared, and they saw long strands of black silk hanging from the bell's rim — hair, swaying as though underwater.
A second toll.
The air thickened. Mist surged upward, swallowing the stairs. The bell's chain rattled like teeth.
Then — something dropped in front of Meng Chuan.
Not from above, but from nowhere.It hit the stones with a wet sound, rising slowly on jointless limbs. Two hollow sockets stared up where a face should be.
Meng Chuan froze.
Fan Rongrui's voice cracked. "Shixiong, move!"
Meng Chuan blinked once, very slowly — then turned and ran.So did Fan.So did Lu Zhaoyun, who somehow grabbed the lantern on the way and shouted, "Don't look back!"
They sprinted through the fog, robes flying, footsteps echoing off invisible walls. The bell tolled behind them, once, twice—each note slower, heavier, almost mocking.
When they finally burst into the outer courtyard, all three stopped at once, gasping.
Rongrui bent double, wheezing. "What—what in the world was that?"
Meng Chuan, still pale, managed, "I don't know… but if it wants the bell, it can have it."
Behind them, somewhere in the mist,the bell gave one last, soft ring.