I have learned two things about secrets.
First: they always make noise at the worst possible time.
Second: they attract people who should absolutely be somewhere else.
Both facts decided to visit me the next morning.
The day began peacefully.
The air smelled of rain and sandalwood. The bells had rung softly at dawn, and the mountain seemed to be stretching after sleep.
I had almost convinced myself things were under control—Heaven's inspectors had left the meditation chamber alone, the relic was quiet, and the Sect Master hadn't said the words "Assistant Lin, we need to talk."
That counted as victory.
Until a crash came from the direction of my office.
It was not a delicate sound. It was the sound of everything important falling at once.
I sprinted down the corridor. My sandals slapped against the stone. A startled disciple bolted out of my doorway, clutching a broom like it had tried to bite him.
"Stop!" I said.
He froze mid-run, broom still raised. "Assistant Lin! I—I can explain!"
"Can you?" I asked. "Because unless that broom owes you money, this looks bad."
"I was just cleaning!" he stammered. "Elder Mei said—she said the inspectors wanted every room spotless!"
"And you started with mine?" I said. "How… dedicated."
He swallowed hard. "The drawer opened by itself! I didn't touch it!"
I stepped into the office.
Scrolls were scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. My desk drawer hung open, half off its track. The small jade seal that should've been inside it sat on the ground, glowing faintly from the spiritual pressure in the air.
And beneath the desk, where the floor tile met the wall, a faint line of light pulsed—thin as a breath, but visible.
A protective charm. Mine.
The relic wasn't here—it was safe in the meditation room—but the energy I'd left behind as a shield was reacting to the noise.
"Out," I said softly.
The disciple blinked. "What?"
"Out," I repeated. "Before something actually opens by itself."
He dropped the broom and bolted down the hall.
I waited until his footsteps faded, then knelt and pressed my fingers against the floor tile. The line of light faded slowly, sighing out like a tired exhale.
"Calm down," I whispered. "You're safe."
The charm stopped glowing.
I sat back on my heels, heart still pounding. My secret stayed intact—but barely.
Someone cleared their throat behind me.
I turned too quickly and almost hit my head on the desk.
Shen Qianhe stood in the doorway.
He looked, as usual, completely unaffected by physics.
"Assistant Lin," he said, eyes sweeping the chaos on the floor. "Are we redecorating?"
"I call it organized disaster," I said, scrambling to my feet. "It's very avant-garde."
His gaze moved to the broken drawer. "I heard the noise."
"Ah. The noise. That was… gravity's fault."
"Gravity?" he repeated.
"Yes," I said solemnly. "It's been aggressive lately."
For a heartbeat, his expression didn't move. Then one eyebrow lifted slightly—the Shen Qianhe equivalent of laughter.
He walked in, kneeling beside the fallen drawer. His sleeve brushed the floor near the faintly cooling charm mark. I held my breath.
He touched the tile once, then withdrew his hand.
"There's residue of spirit energy here," he said.
My pulse jumped. "Probably leftover from incense."
"In your office?"
"It helps me concentrate," I said. "Smells like productivity."
He straightened slowly. "You're very inventive."
"Thank you," I said, choosing to take that as a compliment.
He began gathering scattered scrolls, stacking them neatly. I joined in. Silence filled the room, heavy and oddly companionable.
Outside, the rain started again—a soft drumming on the roof. Drops slid down the paper windows like moving glass.
After a few minutes, he said quietly, "The disciples are frightened."
"Of Heaven?" I asked.
"Of themselves," he said. "The more Heaven watches, the more they wonder if they deserve to be seen."
I looked up from the scrolls. "That's not how sight works."
"No?" he said.
"If you stare at a candle long enough, you see the flame's shadow," I said. "That doesn't mean the light is wrong."
He regarded me for a long moment. "You think differently."
"Occupational hazard," I said.
He placed the last scroll in the pile, perfectly aligned. "Keep your thoughts careful, Assistant Lin. Heaven doesn't enjoy metaphors."
"Then I'll use similes," I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes glinted—just a spark of amusement. Then it was gone. "Be ready at noon. The inspector requested an update."
"Yes, Sect Master."
He turned to leave, then paused. "And make sure the gravity behaves."
"I'll talk to it," I said. "Firmly."
After he left, I slumped into my chair.
The charm line on the floor was fading completely now, hidden again. The relic's distant pulse still hummed faintly at the edge of my awareness, calm but awake.
I ran a hand through my hair. "We really need better timing," I told it quietly. "And fewer dramatic exits."
Of course, the relic didn't answer. It just pulsed once, like a heartbeat saying you're welcome.
Later that day, the inspection resumed. Heaven's aides moved through the halls like polite shadows, touching walls with silver threads and murmuring quiet spells.
I followed at a respectful distance, carrying extra paper and pretending not to calculate every possible route to the meditation chamber.
The sky outside had turned pale again. Rain thinned into mist, rising like breath from the rooftops. The mountain glowed softly through the fog, every lantern a small gold star.
When I reached the main hall, Rui Yan was waiting. His expression could have been carved from glass.
"Assistant Lin," he said. "I've been told you keep meticulous notes."
"I do my best," I said.
"Bring me your incident reports. All of them."
"Of course."
He studied my face. "You're very calm."
"It's an act," I said sweetly.
His mouth didn't move, but the air around him did—a faint shimmer, like heat. "Honesty doesn't suit you."
"Neither does tension," I said. "But here we are."
He turned away with a faint sound that might have been amusement—or warning. "Bring the reports by dawn."
"Yes, Inspector."
By evening, the mountain was wrapped in rain again. Lanterns reflected in puddles, turning the paths into scattered gold.
I returned to my office to copy the reports. The drawer was repaired, the floor charm invisible. Everything looked normal. Safe.
Halfway through rewriting an inspection log, I heard a soft knock.
I opened the door. No one was there. Just a folded slip of paper pinned under a smooth river stone.
I picked it up.
You can't hide it forever.
No signature. No mark.
The paper was slightly damp, the ink fresh.
My stomach sank.
Whoever wrote this knew. Not Heaven—they'd send lightning, not stationery. Someone inside Cloudrest.
I looked toward the meditation chamber, where the relic slept in its box.
The candle flame flickered even though the window was closed.
"Don't worry," I whispered to it. "I'm very good at pretending."
The flame steadied. The relic stayed quiet.
And somewhere beyond the rain, the bell rang once—a clear, careful sound, as if the mountain itself was keeping count.