The flute-player's voice hung in the air, a melody half-spoken. Are you ready to see what you look like, Blind Keeper?
Li Ming's fingers, numb from cold and clinging to the gnarled willow root, tightened. To see. It was a word that held only mystery and failure for him. A promise others made that he could never keep.
"I don't see," he said, his voice small against the river's roar.
"All the better," the ferryman replied, his tone unchanged. "The waters we cross show the spirit, not the face. The proud see their pride and drown in it. The angry see their fire reflected and burn the boat. A blind man…" A soft splash as the pole found purchase again. "…sees nothing. And so, he might see everything. Let go."
The logic was strange, but it felt true. Li Ming released the root. The damp bark left rough impressions on his palm. He shuffled forward on his knees until his hands found cold, smooth wood, the gunwale of a shallow boat. It rocked gently under his touch.
"Step down. Carefully. Sit in the middle. Do not touch the water."
Li Ming obeyed, lowering himself into the boat. It was wider and more stable than he'd feared. The bottom was dry, save for a few stray drops. He settled, clutching his small bundle to his chest. The boat swayed as the ferryman stepped aboard with a liquid grace that barely disturbed its balance.
The pole pushed off from the bank. The sound changed. The solid rumble of the river against the bluff fell away, replaced by the gentle lap of water against hull, the hiss of their passage, and the vast, hollow echo of open space. They were on the main river, moving.
For a long time, there was only the rhythmic dip-swish of the pole and the endless song of the water. The flute remained silent.
"The ferryman is a closed book," Lady Silken Death observed, her mental voice a whisper. "His spirit is… smoothed. Like a river stone. No edges to catch the light. Unusual."
"…smells like wet rock and lonely nights… not a drinking man, I'd wager…" Zhao's echo lamented.
"He moves with an economy that speaks of great skill," Bai noted. "Not martial, but… aquatic. He is as much a part of this river as the fish."
Li Ming kept silent, listening to the real world. The ferryman's breathing was even, deep. His movements created minimal sound. He was a man at perfect peace with his element.
"Where is Mirror Lake?" Li Ming finally asked, the question swallowed by the expanse.
"It is not a 'where' you can point to on a map," the ferryman said, his voice carried back on the breeze. "It is a state of alignment. A place where the veil between what is solid and what is remembered is thin. We reach it by following the river's truth, not its course."
"That makes no sense," Li Ming said, frustration bubbling up. He was tired, scared, and sitting in a boat with a cryptic stranger.
A soft chuckle. "Sense is for people who trust their eyes. You must learn to trust the current, Li Ming. The current of events. The current of spirit. You were a stone in a library. The current of a dying man's end dislodged you. The current of persecution pushed you here. My boat is just another part of the flow. Stop fighting it."
"I'm not fighting!"
"Aren't you? You cling to the idea of the library. To the memory of your old master. To the fear of being blind. These are roots you keep grasping for. But you are in the river now. Roots will drown you."
The words hit Li Ming like physical blows. They were true. Every part of him screamed for solid ground, for the known darkness of the Archives, for Master An's guiding presence.
"…the drunkard knows… sometimes you have to fall before you can find your feet…"
"The ferryman speaks wisdom," the Silent Abbot agreed. "To navigate the echoes, you must first be willing to be carried by them."
The boat turned, entering a side channel. The sound of the main river faded, replaced by a quieter, more intimate flow. The air grew stiller, heavier with the scent of still water and decaying leaves.
"We leave the known river now," the ferryman announced. "We enter the Reflection Channels. Stay quiet. The water here… listens."
The dip-swish of the pole became slower, more deliberate. The boat glided forward into a silence so profound it felt thick. Even the forest sounds seemed muffled.
Then, Li Ming heard it. Not with his ears, but in the center of his mind, a faint echo of the psychic space in the Archives, but wilder, less controlled.
…my crop failed… the river took my house… it's not fair…
…she never looked back… the emptiness where her laughter was…
…if only I had been stronger… if only…
Whispers. Sad, lost, human whispers. They rose from the water itself, not as coherent words, but as pure emotion, regret, sorrow, longing.
"What is that?" Li Ming breathed, shrinking into himself.
"The Reflections," the ferryman said, his voice hushed. "All rivers carry memories to the sea. These channels are slow. They let the heavy ones sink. The regrets of those who lived along the banks. The sorrows they poured into the water. We do not cross their surface, Keeper. We cross their collected grief."
The boat slowed further. The whispers grew louder, not attacking, but clinging, like cold, wet weeds against the hull.
…alone… so alone…
…it hurts… it always hurts…
Li Ming felt a crushing weight of despair settle on his chest. It was the collective misery of countless ordinary lives. It was so much heavier than the focused passions of the martial ghosts. This was the dull, endless ache of the world.
…pointless… all pointless… why keep going…
A tear, hot and unexpected, traced a path down Li Ming's cold cheek. He saw nothing, but he felt everything. The overwhelming futility. The loneliness he knew so well amplified a thousandfold.
"It's too much," he gasped.
"It is," the ferryman agreed, not unkindly. "It is the truth of the world. Most people build walls so they don't have to feel it. Cultivators build towers of pride to look down on it. You… you have no walls. You have to learn to let it flow through you. You are not a dam for sorrow. You are a channel."
"How?" The word was a sob.
"The same way you hear my voice among the whispers. Focus. Find your own note. The note of the Keeper. What is it?"
Li Ming trembled. His own note? He was nothing. A blind boy in a boat of tears.
But then, he remembered the feel of a scroll under his fingers. The smell of cedar and ink. The sacred silence of the Archives. His purpose, chosen for him, but accepted.
I am the Keeper.
He wasn't just Li Ming. He was the listener. The preserver. He didn't have to feel every sorrow as his own. He had to witness it. To hold it, as the Archives held the echoes of styles, without being broken by them.
He straightened his back. He took a deep, shuddering breath, imagining his spirit not as a solid thing, but as a clear, deep pool. The whispers of regret flowed into it… and through it. They did not fill him. They passed through, leaving their shape, their taste, but not their weight.
The pressure on his chest eased. The cold despair receded, becoming a distant, mournful song instead of a suffocating fog.
The ferryman made a soft sound of approval. "Good. You learn quickly. That is the first lesson of Mirror Lake: to reflect without absorbing."
The boat picked up speed. The clinging whispers faded behind them. The air cleared, growing sweet with the scent of night-blooming flowers and clean water.
After a while, the gentle rocking stopped. The boat nudged softly against what felt like a wooden dock.
"We are here," the ferryman said.
Li Ming climbed out, his legs stiff. The ground underfoot was soft earth and springy grass. The air was utterly still and quiet, but it was a peaceful quiet, not the heavy silence of the channels. A chorus of frogs chirped harmoniously somewhere nearby.
"Where is the lake?" Li Ming asked.
"All around you. You are standing on its shore. But you will not see its whole stretch. You will feel its effect." The ferryman's steps moved away on the dock. "Walk straight ahead from the dock. You will find a path. Follow it. Someone will meet you."
"Wait," Li Ming said, turning toward the voice. "Who are you? Will I see you again?"
"I am the one who rows the lost to where they need to be," the ferryman said. His voice already sounded distant, as if he were back on the water. "As for again… that depends on what you become, Keeper. Will you be something that needs ferrying? Or will you learn to walk on the water yourself?"
There was a soft push against the dock, and the sound of the boat gliding away.
Li Ming was alone again. But this solitude felt different. The air itself felt clarifying. His mind, which had been a jumble of terror, grief, and strange echoes, began to settle. The voices of the ghosts in his head were still there, but they too had grown contemplative, hushed by the atmosphere.
"…quiet place… good for a nap…"
"There is a profound peace here," the Silent Abbot noted. "It muffles the ego."
"It also muffles the edge of a good vengeance," Lady Silken Death added, though she sounded more thoughtful than annoyed.
Li Ming took a tentative step forward, then another. His feet found a well-trodden path of soft dirt. He followed it.
He hadn't walked for more than a few minutes when a new presence made itself known. Not a sound, but a feeling of being observed. It was a gentle observation, without threat.
"Hello?" Li Ming called out.
"You are the one Lao Jiang sent." The voice was female, older, warm as sun-warmed honey. It came from just ahead. "The one who rides the river of regret without drowning. And who travels with… quite a choir."
She could sense them. The ghosts.
"Who are you?" Li Ming asked, stopping.
"My name is Wen," she said. "I am a weaver of stories here at Mirror Lake. And it seems, young Keeper, you have brought us a whole tapestry of unfinished ones. Come. The others are waiting."
"Others?"
"The residents," Wen said. Her footsteps approached, light on the path. A hand, dry and gentle, took his elbow, not to lead him, but to guide. "People like you. People who found that the world of strength and strife was not their world. People who listen to quieter things. You are safe here. For now."
She began to walk, and Li Ming walked beside her, the sounds of the hidden lake lapping softly at the shore beside them. The path turned, and the scent of woodsmoke and cooking herbs reached him. The murmur of calm, low voices. The sense of enclosed, protected space.
He had reached Mirror Lake. Not a place on a map, but a harbor in the spirit.
And as Wen led him into the heart of the hidden community, the first true, untainted feeling he'd had in days bloomed in his chest: not safety, not yet, but the fragile, precious seed of possibility.