The night hung like silk — pale moonlight spilling over the tiled roofs of Jingshou Peak, wind whispering through pine needles. Most disciples had long since retired to their quarters; only the watch-bells echoed faintly in the distance.
But one figure still roamed above the sleeping sect.
Shen Lianxiu, sleeves fluttering, balanced easily atop the curved tiles, hopping from one roof to another like a restless cat. He had spent the day being scolded — by Shixiong, no less — and now the thrill of sneaking out was too sweet to resist.
"Jingshou Sect is huge," he murmured to himself, gazing at the moonlit pavilions below. "Would be a shame not to see it properly."
He crouched, looking down at the shimmering koi pond. The moon's reflection rippled as he tossed a pebble in. Lianxiu grinned. "Pretty."
A voice came from behind him — low, calm, far too close."Shen Lianxiu."
He froze. The pebble slipped from his fingers. Slowly, he turned.
Ling Xiuyuan stood a few paces away, hands folded behind his back, his long robes barely stirring in the night breeze. His gaze was cool and sharp, silvered by moonlight.
"Ah—Shixiong!" Lianxiu plastered on his brightest smile. "You couldn't sleep either?"
Xiuyuan raised a brow.
"I wasn't… doing anything bad!" Lianxiu said quickly. "Just appreciating the scenery! The moon's beautiful tonight."
"Appreciate it from the ground," Xiuyuan replied.
"But it looks different from up here."
Xiuyuan's expression didn't change.
For a heartbeat, silence — then Lianxiu chuckled, scratching his head. "You're always like that. So serious." He tipped his head, mischievous. "Don't tell me you've never done anything fun?"
Xiuyuan's lips pressed into a thinner line. "Fun is not the purpose of cultivation."
"That's exactly what someone who's never had fun would say."
He started to move closer, stepping lightly along the ridge of the roof. "Don't be angry, Shixiong. If you fall asleep angry, you'll get wrinkles."
Xiuyuan glanced at him sidelong.
Lianxiu tilted his head, studying him under the silver light. "You look… like the moon's favorite person. Cold, a little distant, but hard to stop looking at."
That earned him a long, unreadable stare. For a moment, the breeze carried only the scent of pine and frost between them.
Finally Xiuyuan spoke, voice quiet. "Return to your quarters."
"Or?" Lianxiu asked, smiling.
"Or I will make you run the entire mountain by dawn."
Lianxiu laughed aloud — bright, unrestrained. "Then I'd better go." He hopped down from the roof's edge, landing neatly. Turning back, he waved. "Good night, Shixiong! Don't tell anyone you caught me, all right?"
Xiuyuan watched him go — that reckless boy, vanishing into the courtyard shadows like moonlight slipping through fingers.
High above, the moon hung still and pale — as if it, too, had been watching their brief exchange with quiet amusement.
The morning bell rang thrice, echoing through the courtyards. By the time the disciples gathered in the Hall of Reflection, sunlight had already spilled through the lattice windows, painting the floor in bars of gold.
Two figures stood at the front of the hall — both dressed in dark robes edged with silver thread.
Master Wen Yao, known for his precision and icy composure, adjusted the jade clasp on his sleeve before speaking.Beside him, Master Mu Yichuan sat with an ease that made silence feel like a breeze, his manner calm, voice soft enough that even the younger disciples leaned forward to catch every word.
"Today's lecture," Wen Yao began, his tone measured, "concerns the nature of spirits and ghouls — the distinctions that define them, and the boundaries that bind them."
A hush settled. Ink-scent, candlelight, a hundred disciplined breaths.
"The soul," Mu Yichuan continued, his voice flowing like water, "is light — bound by will and memory. When that will fractures, it gives birth to shadow. Spirits remember; ghouls hunger."
Lianxiu, seated two rows from the front, tilted his head — half-listening, half daydreaming. The senior disciples sat near the side pillars, Ling Xiuyuan among them — upright, attentive, calm as polished jade.
For a while, everything was quiet.
Until a folded paper crane floated past the front row and landed squarely in the ink dish of the disciple beside Lianxiu.
A few stifled laughs rippled through the hall.
Wen Yao's brow twitched. "Cultivation begins with discipline of the mind," he said sharply, gaze sweeping the crowd. "Who finds the need for flight during lecture hours?"
Lianxiu kept his eyes on his own scroll, the picture of innocence — except for the tiny thread of spiritual energy still lingering at his fingertip.
Xiuyuan's sharp glance caught it instantly. Their eyes met across the hall — a warning, cool and precise as a blade unsheathed.
Lianxiu froze. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth curved — a tiny, guilty smile.
Mu Yichuan hid a faint cough behind his sleeve. "Perhaps," he said lightly, rescuing the moment, "even spirits need their wings stretched now and then. But let's keep the paper kind for another time."
A soft wave of laughter broke out again, and even Wen Yao's tone softened."Let that be your last flight of the morning," he said curtly, resuming the lecture.
Xiuyuan exhaled through his nose, barely concealing his irritation. When the class ended and the disciples rose to bow, his gaze found Lianxiu again — steady, wordless.
Lianxiu grinned, hands behind his back. "Shixiong," he whispered as they left the hall, "I was only testing if paper can carry spirit energy properly."
"You can test it," Xiuyuan replied, "after you finish copying The Treatise on Ghost Binding—thrice."
The grin faltered. "Three times?"
"Four," Xiuyuan said smoothly, walking past him.
"No!"
"Serves you right." Nie Xiaohuan murmured.
When the disciples had bowed and filed out, the hall grew quiet again. Only the scent of burnt sandalwood lingered in the air, mingled with the faint scrape of Wen Yao gathering the scrolls.
Mu Yichuan watched him from the dais, chin resting lightly on one hand. "You were too stern today," he said at last, a trace of amusement in his tone. "They're new. Even spirits get restless when made to sit for hours."
Wen Yao gave him a side-long glance. "If discipline bends at every laugh, it ceases to be discipline."
"Mm," Mu Yichuan murmured, rising to help him stack the inkstones. "And yet, if one never laughs, one turns into stone. You do realize most of them think you were born already scowling?"
That earned him a glare — brief, but not entirely convincing. "If I smiled as easily as you, Yichuan, Jingshou Sect would dissolve into chaos."
"Oh?" Mu Yichuan leaned closer, voice low. "Then perhaps chaos wouldn't be so bad."
Their eyes met. For a moment, the candlelight flickered between them — gold glancing off black silk, the air humming with something unspoken.
Wen Yao looked away first, straightening the hem of his robe. "You're incorrigible."
"And you're still pretending not to enjoy it," Mu Yichuan replied easily, his tone half-teasing, half-fond.
Footsteps echoed faintly outside — a disciple passing by. Instantly, both men stepped apart, the practiced ease of long secrecy settling between them again. When the door opened, only composure remained: two dignified masters discussing doctrine.
"Master Wen, Master Mu," came the respectful call. "Sect Leader requests your presence at the courtyard this evening."
"Understood," Wen Yao answered coolly. The disciple bowed and left.
When the doors closed, Mu Yichuan exhaled softly, a hint of laughter escaping. "One day," he murmured, "you'll forget to stop frowning when someone calls you 'dear master.'"
Wen Yao's lips curved — just barely. "And one day," he said, slipping past him, "you'll forget that you're supposed to be subtle."
Their sleeves brushed as they walked out together, silence falling behind them — not empty, but warm, threaded with unspoken understanding.