Chapter 2: The Fisherman's Eye
Wei Xiaofeng found Chen Feng at the training grounds, working through sword forms with single-minded focus. Sweat darkened his robes despite the morning chill.
"Brother Chen," Wei called.
Chen completed his sequence before turning, breathing hard but grinning. "Xiaofeng! Done cultivating already? The sun's barely past noon."
"I have a mission. Eastern forest investigation. Elder Shen assigned it." Wei paused, performing consideration. "I'd like you to come with me."
Chen's grin widened. "An adventure? Count me in. When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow at dawn. We'll need a third."
"How about—" Chen started, but Wei cut him off.
"Lian Yuehua," Wei said. "Her purification techniques might prove useful if we encounter spiritual contamination."
Chen raised an eyebrow. "The healer girl? I mean, she's talented, but wouldn't another combat specialist be better for beast investigation?"
"Possibly," Wei acknowledged. "But I have a feeling this mission requires more than just swords."
And I need to start training her to detect Shen Qiu's threads, he added silently. This is perfect cover.
Chen shrugged. "Your call. You're the senior disciple here." He sheathed his sword. "I'll inform the Mission Hall we're taking the assignment."
"Thank you, brother."
As Chen walked away, Wei's spiritual sense detected someone approaching from behind. He turned.
Lian Yuehua stood at the training ground entrance, hesitant.
Perfect timing, Wei thought. As if she was waiting for Chen to leave.
"Senior Brother Wei," she said, stepping closer. "I hope I'm not disturbing your preparations."
"Not at all." He smiled—three-second duration, slight warmth, eyes crinkled at corners. "Actually, I was about to find you."
Her face brightened. "Really?"
"I have a mission to the eastern forest. Three days. I'd like you to join the team." Wei tilted his head, performing thoughtfulness. "Your purification skills would be valuable."
"I..." She looked surprised, then pleased. "I'd be honored! I've never been on a proper mission before."
"Consider it training," Wei said. "For the tournament, and beyond."
She nodded eagerly. "I'll prepare right away. What should I bring?"
Wei spent the next few minutes giving her practical advice—herb pouches, purification talismans, emergency rations. Information he'd learned the hard way in the first loop, watching disciples die because they were unprepared.
She listened intently, occasionally asking questions that showed genuine intelligence.
In another life, I would have found this endearing, Wei observed distantly. Her earnestness. Her dedication.
Now it just registered as: Teachable. Capable of growth. Useful asset.
"Meet at the east gate at dawn," he concluded. "Dress for rough terrain."
"I will!" She started to leave, then turned back. "Senior Brother Wei?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For... for thinking of me. For giving me this opportunity." Her smile was soft, genuine. "It means a lot."
Wei's protocol checklist supplied the response: When someone expresses gratitude for inclusion, acknowledge their worth.
"You've earned it, Yuehua," he said warmly. "I see potential in you."
True enough. Just not the kind of potential she thought he meant.
She left, practically glowing.
Wei watched her go, then turned his attention to his actual preparation.
Three days in the eastern forest. The region where he'd stolen spiritual herbs two weeks ago. Where he'd disrupted the natural cultivation grounds that, in the original timeline, would have been discovered by an Outer Disciple expedition.
The butterfly effect was already manifesting.
Good, he thought. Let's see how severe the changes are. Better to learn early.
***
That evening, Wei left the sect grounds and descended into Clearwater Village.
He told himself it was reconnaissance. Checking the mortal settlement for signs of Shen Qiu's influence. Maintaining awareness of the sect's periphery.
But really, he wanted to know why the old fisherman had stared at him.
The village was small—maybe two hundred mortals who farmed rice and served the sect in minor capacities. They existed in the shadow of cultivation greatness, living ordinary lives that would never extend beyond their century of breath.
Wei found the fisherman at the river, exactly where he'd been that morning.
As if he'd been waiting.
The old man didn't look up as Wei approached. Just cast his line into the water with practiced ease.
"Good evening, elder," Wei said, using the respectful address for aged mortals.
"Evening, cultivator." The fisherman's voice was raspy but steady. "Come to tell me to move along? Sometimes your sect brothers don't like us common folk fishing their river."
"The river belongs to everyone," Wei replied diplomatically.
"Generous of you." The old man pulled his line up, checked the bait, cast again. "Though I notice you're watching me like I'm a fish myself. Wondering if I'm worth catching?"
Wei studied him more carefully.
Weathered face, deep-set eyes, gnarled hands. Completely mortal—no cultivation whatsoever. But those eyes...
"You looked at me this morning," Wei said directly. "Why?"
"Can't an old man admire young talent?"
"You weren't admiring. You were... analyzing."
The fisherman smiled, revealing gaps in his teeth. "Sharp. Your elders teach you well." He reeled in his line slowly. "I was wondering something, cultivator. Wondering if my old eyes were playing tricks."
"Wondering what?"
"You have the eyes of a fish that's died twice."
Wei went perfectly still.
"I don't know what you mean, elder."
"Don't you?" The fisherman finally looked at him directly. "I've been fishing this river for fifty years, young master. Caught the same fish more than once—catch, release, catch again. Each time, they swim different. Jerky. Skittish. Like they remember the hook, even though fish aren't supposed to remember."
He pointed at his own eyes.
"The eyes give them away. Something in how they look at the world. Older than they should be. Haunted, maybe. Like they've seen their own death and lived anyway."
Wei's hand drifted unconsciously toward where the First Star's scar lay hidden beneath his robes.
"You're speaking in metaphors, elder."
"Am I?" The old man turned back to his fishing. "Then let me be direct. You're young—what, twenty-two? Twenty-three? But your eyes are older. Much older. Older than they were last month, even."
Impossible, Wei thought. He's just a mortal. He can't possibly—
"How many times have you died, cultivator?" the fisherman asked quietly.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the river's flow.
Wei calculated rapidly. This man knew something. Suspected something. But what? How?
Deny? Play ignorant?
Or...
"Once," Wei said carefully. A half-truth. He'd died once in the first loop. Been reborn through the technique.
"Twice," the old man corrected, still not looking at him. "Once in flesh. Once in spirit. The second death is worse—the body walks, but something inside has drowned."
Wei's breath caught.
This wasn't possible. This mortal couldn't see what trained cultivators missed. Couldn't perceive the absence where joy used to be. Couldn't know about the stars, the loops, the—
"You speak as if from experience," Wei heard himself say.
The fisherman was quiet for a long moment.
"My daughter," he said finally, "joined your sect forty-eight years ago. Talented girl. Kind heart. Was going to change the world, they said."
He reeled in his line, examined the empty hook.
"One day she came home on leave. Same face. Same voice. Same memories of our life together. Knew things only she could know—how I taught her to fish on this very spot, the lullaby her mother sang before she died, the scar on her knee from falling out of a tree."
The old man's hands trembled slightly.
"But her eyes were different. The eyes of something that had drowned. Something that wore my daughter's face but wasn't her. Not really."
Wei's mind raced. Shen Qiu's technique. Forty-eight years ago. Before the current conspiracy.
"What happened to her?" Wei asked.
"Returned to the sect. I never saw her again." The fisherman baited his hook with steady hands despite the tremor. "Reported it to your elders, of course. They investigated. Found nothing. Said I was an old fool grieving his daughter's transformation into something greater than mortal."
He cast his line.
"Maybe they were right. Maybe I am a fool. But I've spent forty-eight years watching, young master. Watching your sect. Watching who comes and goes. Learning to see that particular wrongness in people's eyes."
He finally looked at Wei again.
"And I see it in you. Not the same wrongness as my daughter—something different. But wrong nonetheless. Like you've died and been pulled from the water, and now you're swimming different."
Wei should have denied it. Should have laughed it off, played the confused disciple, and walked away.
Instead, he found himself asking: "Why tell me this?"
"Because you're hunting it too, aren't you?" The old man's eyes were sharp despite the cataracts. "The thing that wears familiar faces. I can see it in how you watch your fellow disciples. How you measure everyone you meet. How you're looking for something wrong."
Wei said nothing.
"I may not have your cultivation, young master. But I know how to wait, watch, and see what others miss." The fisherman smiled sadly. "Fish always reveal themselves eventually. Even the cleverest ones."
"Why would you help me?" Wei asked.
"Because you have the eyes of someone who's already lost everything. Just like I did." The old man paused. "And because you're going to lose more before this ends. I can see that too."
Wei wanted to deny it. Wanted to feel indignant.
But the emotion wouldn't come.
"I've already started losing," he heard himself say.
"I know," the fisherman said quietly. "I can see it in how you don't."
They stood in silence, watching the river flow.
Finally, Wei spoke: "What's your name, elder?"
"Gu Weiming." The old man offered a slight bow, as much as his aged back allowed. "And you're Wei Xiaofeng. I asked about you in the village. They say you're talented but unremarkable. A good disciple, but not exceptional."
"That assessment is accurate."
"Then why do your eyes say otherwise?" Gu Weiming tilted his head. "Why do you move like someone who's fought battles the rest of your sect hasn't seen? Why do you watch Elder Shen like you're waiting for him to reveal something?"
Wei's eyes narrowed. "You're very observant for a fisherman."
"I've had forty-eight years to practice." Gu settled back onto his stool. "And I'll offer you what I couldn't offer my daughter: help. I don't know what you're facing, young master. But I know the look of someone fighting alone against something others can't see."
"What could a mortal possibly do against cultivators?" Wei asked, not unkindly.
"See what cultivators miss, apparently." Gu smiled. "You're all so focused on spiritual energy and techniques and power. You forget that humans lie with more than qi. We lie with faces, with words, with small habits."
He gestured to the sect above.
"I've watched your elders for decades. Noticed when Elder Feng started taking his tea differently three years ago. When Elder Shen began arriving at the Mission Hall five minutes earlier than his usual habit. When the Enforcement Hall captain stopped visiting his favorite tavern on rest days."
Wei's attention sharpened. "Those changes mean something to you?"
"Don't they to you?" Gu countered. "People are creatures of habit, young master. When habits change without reason, something has changed the person."
Silkworm Soul threads, Wei realized. The replaced individuals aren't perfect copies. They mimic memories and skills, but small behavioral patterns shift. Details only someone watching for years would notice.
"These observations," Wei said carefully. "Do you keep records?"
"In here." Gu tapped his temple. "Mortal memory. Imperfect but persistent."
Wei made a decision.
Not because he trusted Gu Weiming. Not because he felt any connection to the old man's loss.
But because strategically, this was valuable.
An observer outside the sect. Someone who'd been watching for decades. Someone who could see patterns Wei's future knowledge couldn't account for.
"Elder Gu," Wei said formally. "I would appreciate your insights. If you're willing to share them."
"On one condition," Gu said.
"Which is?"
"You tell me the truth. Not all of it—I can see you're carrying secrets that would break if spoken. But some of it. Enough that I know I'm not helping a worse monster than the one that took my daughter."
Wei considered this.
What could he say? What should he say?
"There's a conspiracy in the sect," he began slowly. "People being... replaced. Worn like coats, as you said. It's subtle. Patient. I'm trying to stop it."
"How do you know about it?"
"I've seen the future," Wei said. Simple truth. "In that future, the sect burns. Everyone dies. I'm trying to prevent it."
Gu studied him for a long moment.
"You're telling the truth," he said finally. "Or at least, what you believe to be truth. But there's something else. Something you're not saying."
"There is," Wei acknowledged. "And I won't say it. Can't say it."
"The thing you lost," Gu guessed. "The reason your eyes are dead."
Wei nodded.
"Was it worth it?" the old man asked. "Losing whatever you lost, to gain foreknowledge?"
Wei searched for the answer.
Found only the hollow space where the answer should form.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I've lost the capacity to judge if anything is worth anything."
Gu Weiming's expression was sad. "That's the saddest answer you could have given."
"I know," Wei said. And he did know, intellectually. Just couldn't feel the sadness of it.
The fisherman reeled in his line, began packing his equipment.
"I'll help you, young master. Not because I trust you—I'm not sure you can be trusted anymore. But because stopping the thing that took my daughter is worth helping a ghost."
"I'm not a ghost," Wei said.
Gu looked at him with those too-knowing eyes.
"Not yet," he agreed. "But you're becoming one. I can see it happening."
He stood, gathering his things.
"Come find me when you return from your mission. I'll tell you what I've noticed about the elders. The small things. The wrong things." He paused. "And Wei Xiaofeng?"
"Yes?"
"Don't lose any more of yourself than you already have. Whatever you're cutting away to gain power or knowledge or time—there's a point where you won't have enough left to save."
Wei wanted to tell him it was too late.
That the First Star was already gone.
That six more waited.
But he just nodded and said: "Thank you for the warning, Elder Gu."
The old fisherman walked away, leaving Wei alone by the river.
Above, the sect glowed with evening lanterns. Three hundred disciples going about their lives, unaware of the countdown.
Three years, four months, six days.
Wei looked at his reflection in the water.
Gu was right. The eyes were different. Older. Dead.
He wondered what they'd look like after the Seventh Star.
Then he stopped wondering, because wondering implied caring about the answer.
He turned and headed back up the mountain.
Tomorrow: the eastern forest.
The butterfly effect would show its first clear consequences.
And Wei would learn whether his future knowledge was asset or liability.