Morning light filtered through the tall stone windows of Tianyin Sect's great hall, pale and cold like mist on jade. The air smelled faintly of incense and mountain wind — clean, after a storm. The bell that had screamed for days now hung silent.
At the head of the hall sat Sect Leader Yun Shufeng, his white and silver robes catching the light, expression calm but sharp as a drawn blade. His bearing was neither overly stern nor gentle — it was the quiet command of one who had stood through many storms.
Before him stood the gathered company from Jingshou Sect: Ling Xiuyuan, pale but composed, seated at the front with Mingyue beside him. Behind them were Zhou Qingrong, Wei Jingyan, and Lin Wuyue, with the six younger Jingshou disciples standing respectfully in silence.
From Tianyin Sect's side stood Meng Chuan, Lu Zhouyan, and Fan Rongrui, the three younger masters.
Yun Shufeng's deep voice broke the silence.
"The disturbance has ceased. The spirits are at peace. For that—"He rose and gave a formal bow toward Ling Xiuyuan."—Tianyin Sect owes Jingshou Sect a debt it can never forget."
Ling Xiuyuan inclined his head, voice low but steady.
"There is no debt among those who walk the same path. The wicked art has been cleansed — that is all that matters."
Yun Shufeng's lips curved faintly. "Spoken like the man I have long heard of, Sect Leader Ling."
Around them, disciples of Tianyin Sect and Jingshou Sect exchanged glances. The tension that had once hung between the sects seemed to loosen a little, replaced by shared relief.
Zhou Qingrong's gaze softened as she looked toward unconscious xiuyuan earlier now sitting upright. Wei Jingyan, beside her, exhaled quietly, the worry fading from his sharp eyes.
When the murmurs settled, Yun Shufeng turned to address everyone present.
"Now that the dead have been laid to rest, it is right that the truth be known. The man we captured was named Qin Ruo'an — once an outer disciple of Tianyin Sect. Twenty years ago, his wife, He Lan, was banished for practicing forbidden spirit-binding techniques. She trapped wandering souls to fortify her cultivation."
His voice was calm, but each word carried weight.
"When the former sect leader stripped her of her core and cast her from our world, she ended her own life at the foot of this mountain. Since then, Qin Ruo'an lived in hiding, nursing hatred for both sects and for the cultivation world that condemned her."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Lin Wuyue's brows drew slightly together; even Meng Chuan's lighthearted posture stiffened.
Yun Shufeng continued,
"He gathered remnants of her dark arts and began the ritual to call her back — by feeding it the souls of disciples he lured away. The bells of Tianyin rang not with warning, but with mourning. The cries we heard were theirs."
Fan Rongrui lowered his gaze. "A tragedy — born of love twisted into vengeance."
Zhou Qingrong added softly, "Hatred and grief — both are poisons that corrode the heart."
Ling Xiuyuan's quiet voice followed.
"He sought to bring his wife back into the world that destroyed her. In the end, he only destroyed himself."
Yun Shufeng nodded slowly.
"We performed the rites at dawn — every bone buried with incense and prayer. The bells have quieted. The mountain rests again."
A long breath seemed to leave the hall collectively.
Wei Jingyan muttered to Meng Chuan under his breath, "You nearly didn't rest, either. If that spirit hadn't missed—"
Meng Chuan flashed him a grin. "If it hadn't missed, I'd still look better than you do now."
"Keep talking and you'll find out," Wei Jingyan shot back.
Lin Wuyue turned her head slightly, hiding a small smile. "These two truly never change."
Then Yun Shufeng turned solemn again, his voice dropping into the deep calm that always preceded decision.
"The matter is closed. Qin Ruo'an lives, though he lies unconscious. He will be handed to the Council of Elders. His wife's spirit is gone — freed, not reborn. And as for those who aided in cleansing this evil—"
He stepped forward and clasped his fists in salute toward Ling Xiuyuan.
"—Tianyin Sect will forever remember Jingshou Sect's courage."
Xiuyuan rose with dignity, bowing back with equal respect.
"We only walked where duty led us."
Mingyue, silent beside him, lowered his head.
Yun Shufeng looked toward the open doors, where sunlight streamed in.
The two sect leaders exchanged a long, understanding look — the silence between them one of shared burden and respect.
When they finally turned to leave, Zhou Qingrong and Lin Wuyue followed. Wei Jingyan threw one last glare at Meng Chuan, who only grinned wider. Fan Rongrui murmured something about writing a record of the case, and Lu Zhouyan nodded gravely beside him.
And through it all, Mingyue walked silently behind his shizun, sunlight glancing over the faint bruises he'd painted on himself — the remnants of a lie, worn with devotion.
Chapter — Echoes Beneath the Mountain
The court of Tianyin Sect emptied at last.Lanterns guttered low, and the incense smoke thinned into ribbons that drifted through the open doors. Outside, disciples busied themselves loading carriages, while the air carried the faint chill of departing mist.
Ling Xiuyuan remained behind, his hands clasped at his back as he watched the mountain shadows stretch long across the tiles.
Yan Shufeng approached quietly.
Shufeng's gaze wandered toward the mountains — where white mist spilled like rivers through the pines.
"This incident with Shen Weiran — it may not be isolated. The Council has received reports from three other regions: vanished cultivators, broken wards, and places where yin energy gathers unnaturally fast. Someone, or something, is stirring old powers that should have remained buried."
Xiuyuan's brows drew slightly together.
"Perhaps not direct," Shufeng said. "But the timing unsettles me. Too many disturbances in too short a span. The flow of qi across the northern valleys feels… unbalanced. As if the heavens themselves are holding their breath."
The two men exchanged a look — the kind forged through battle and years of shared duty — and then parted without ceremony.
By noon, the Jingshou party descended the mountain road.
The path wound between cliffs where snowmelt dripped in slow rhythm, and the wind carried the faint tang of pine.
Inside one of the rear carts, the curtains swayed softly. Ling Xiuyuan sat within, the faint light of the mountains painting his features in silver and shadow. Mingyue sat opposite, tending to a fresh cut on his palm — a remnant from the fight.
Xiuyuan watched in silence for a while.
He remembered it only in fragments — a shape,
moving with impossible grace and ferocity. The laughter that had rung out then — wild, reckless, achingly familiar — it had pierced through his fogged mind like lightning.
He remembered thinking, Shen Liuxian?
Then darkness.
Now, awake and clear-headed, he told himself it must have been an illusion. His spiritual energy had nearly been spent; exhaustion and pain could conjure anything. And yet…
His gaze slid, without meaning to, toward Mingyue.
The young man's profile caught the light — the same calm, the same serenity as always. But beneath the fall of his sleeve, the one he had glimpsed in the cave, when Mingyue had covered him with his cloak. A scar in the exact same place Shen Liuxian once bore.
Xiuyuan's fingers tightened slightly against his robe.
Mingyue… who are you really?
He did not speak the thought. Instead, he turned toward the window, watching the passing forest blur into shadow. His silence stretched long enough that Mingyue looked up, noticing the distant cast of his expression.
Does shizun suspect me?