Chapter 12
The three fell into a tense silence as the distant sounds of the trial grounds returned—soft and steady like rolling waves: the rustle of robes, footsteps shuffling over packed earth, a faint chime drifting through lantern-lit dusk.
Lin Ye sat slightly hunched on the edge of the bench, one hand pressed tightly to his chest as if trying to suppress the slow-burning ache beneath his ribs. His breathing was deliberate but uneven, eyes shut—not from rest, but to focus through the pain curling inside him like smoke.
Lin Shen crouched nearby, one knee touching the ground, his hand hovering close to Lin Ye's back, ready to steady him if needed. His brow furrowed, jaw clenched, and his glance darted between Lin Ye's pale face and the creeping mist that lingered around the trial platform—as if expecting a threat to materialize from it.
Mu Fan sat close on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, body tense. His gaze kept darting to Lin Ye's clenched hand, watching for any tremble or sign of the pain worsening. The usual gleam of mischief in his eyes had dimmed—replaced by a quiet, watchful worry.
None of them spoke. But they shared a weight—heavy, unspoken, undeniable.
A few minutes later, Mu Fan's voice dropped to a low murmur, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "If it makes you feel any better... the Shuilan master's out."
Lin Ye's eyes snapped open. There he was—descending the steps of the ancestral pavilion.
Mu Fan tilted his head toward him with a crooked smile. "Ye, I thought you wouldn't even bother to look at him. He's annoying—could make you feel worse."
Lin Ye didn't answer. He fixed his eyes on the figure ahead, something shifting behind his eyes—not pain this time, but an alert tension. Like something in him recognized this moment as the start of something… significant.
The three of them watched as the Xuan Third Master crossed the courtyard with a quiet urgency. His movements remained elegant—each step measured, composed—but there was a subtle speed to his stride, a tightness in his shoulders that betrayed unease.
His pale turquoise robes, softer than his usual icy blues, caught faint light as they moved around him like drifting water. One hand rested near the hilt of his sword; the other clasped behind his back. His jaw was set, and his sharp eyes scanned the assembly. The disciples following behind mirrored his alertness, steps light but purposeful.
"He seems to be searching for something," Lin Shen whispered.
"Or someone," Mu Fan added, voice hushed.
Lin Ye exhaled slowly, his tone edged with both amusement and weight. "Whatever it is, it must be serious for the highest ranks to come down from their heights."
He glanced at his companions, lips tugging into a faint, crooked smile. Their expressions eased slightly in response—if only a little.
"Are you sure you're not just feeling better because he showed up?" Mu Fan teased.
Lin Ye gave him a sideways look—blank-faced at first, then slowly rolled his eyes. A smile almost tugged at the corner of his mouth, but never quite formed. The gesture was dismissive, but the tight line of his jaw didn't ease.
Lin Shen stepped in closer, concern plain in his creased brow. "How are you feeling now? Should we head back home so you can rest? I can come back later with Mu Fan to check the list."
Lin Ye's palm pressed lightly against his ribs, betraying the lingering pain. "Better," he said softly. "But whatever this is… it carries a darkness." His eyes sharpened with quiet resolve. "Something's coming—I can feel it. That's why I need to stay. I'm not dying yet."
Lin Shen and Mu Fan exchanged startled looks, caught off guard by Lin Ye's steadfastness despite his pain.
Mu Fan's gaze lingered on him, remembering the moment he'd collapsed—how pale and shaken he had looked. Now, Lin Ye wore defiance like armor, but Mu Fan could still see the strain: the stiffness in his posture, the way his hand hovered protectively near his chest, as if bracing for the pain's return.
A soft breath escaped him, his expression falling serious once more.
Then his focus shifted back to the Shuilan master, who was now speaking quietly to a disciple. The disciple nodded sharply and slipped away with silent urgency.
Mu Fan murmured, "What could it be, coming to our quiet and peaceful village? And why does the Shuilan master seem so unsettled tonight?".
His voice dropped further, troubled. "Whatever it is, I just hope it doesn't bring bad consequences."
Lin Ye and Lin Shen met each other's gaze—silent, sharp with tension—and nodded in agreement.
As the Shuilan master approached the judge's platform, his steps slowed. His eyes moved with quiet precision, reading more than just faces. It was as if, in the span of a glance, he weighed thoughts, intentions… even secrets. No greeting passed his lips—only the barest of nods to the disciples waiting at the platform's edge.
True to form, he didn't draw closer—he never did. The Shuilan master watched people from a distance, his gaze doing the approaching for him. He never approached anyone outside his sect.
His attention flicked briefly to Lin Shen and Mu Fan. Both instinctively straightened, their casual postures tightening with quiet alertness. Lin Shen's eyes narrowed slightly, not in fear this time, but in careful attention—his spine held taut, chin lifting subtly as if standing before a teacher rather than a threat. Mu Fan, ever the more expressive of the two, shifted on the bench, one hand brushing against his knee, a flicker of unease passing through his features before settling into composed respect.
The Xuan master gave them a faint nod—polite, distant, but unmistakably deliberate. Lin Shen and Mu Fan nodded in return, not out of fear as before, but with the quiet gravity of those who had come to regard him with a deeper, if wary, respect.
Then the master's gaze slid to Lin Ye.
It was brief—no longer than a heartbeat—but in that passing glance, something shifted.
At first, it seemed he meant to look away quickly, as he always did—dispassionate, distant, as though Lin Ye were no more than another face in the crowd. But his eyes caught on Lin Ye's hand, pressed tightly to his chest.
Their gazes locked for barely a second, but in that heartbeat, countless words passed unspoken.
Lin Ye subtly straightened, chin lifting—a quiet challenge rising in his eyes. He gave the faintest nod, not out of respect, but as if to say: "What are you looking at now? What is it you're searching for with such urgency? You've never looked at me—not even when I saved you. Always so untouchable, always unreadable—like you walk between clouds."
The Xuan master's face remained calm, unchanged—yet for a fraction of a breath, his gaze flickered, like something behind it almost slipped free. Lin Ye's expression tightened—he didn't like that cold, distant reaction. Then his elbow shifted slightly, lips tilting in the barest hint of dry irony—an unspoken weight behind his gaze, a rarity so profound it unsettled him, as if silently reminding the Master Ghost: You still owe me.
Xuan Luo's head turned slowly, deliberately, pulling himself away from the brief exchange. But his gaze lingered a heartbeat longer, and a single gloved finger twitched—barely noticeable, yet betraying a tension, a shadow of something left unsaid.
Something flickered beneath Xuan Luo's calm—thoughtful, restrained… perhaps even faintly unsettled.
Lin Ye didn't move, but his fingers hovered near his ribs. A subtle gesture—enough to betray what the rest of him refused to show.
Perhaps the master noticed. Perhaps that was why, in that final glance, it felt as though he saw not just pain, but something more—something neither of them was ready to name.
Lin Ye watched the Shuilan master retreat. A flicker of tension crossed his face—quiet, controlled, but unmistakable. He had seen the distance in Xuan Luo's eyes, the way he'd pulled back again, as if nothing had passed between them. And now, with the master no longer watching, the strain Lin Ye had been suppressing surfaced: the lines at his mouth tightened, his brow furrowed faintly. The pain—no longer sharp, but still smoldering like an ember—rose to his expression, a reminder it had never fully left.
Beside him, Lin Shen stood unmoving, arms crossed in a posture more thoughtful than defensive. His eyes followed the master's slow retreat with a quiet intensity—not fear, but the kind of deliberate focus that lingered when questions went unanswered. He couldn't shake the feeling that something important had been deliberately withheld.
Mu Fan leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees again, head tilted just a bit. His brows were furrowed now, mischief forgotten. He watched Xuan Luo's retreating form with narrowed eyes, a quiet unease rising in his posture—as though instinctively sensing the shift in the air, the feeling that whatever this was… it wasn't over.
They watched him go, the quiet tension settling like a weight none dared break.
Then—
A sudden sharp cry tore through the night.
"Help! Please!"
Raw and panicked, it cut through murmurs and footsteps.
The crowd froze.
The Shuilan master halted mid-step, robes stilling like stone.
Every head turned. Every voice died.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
The trial grounds—once alive with murmurs—sank into unnatural silence.
As if the very earth had drawn in a breath... and refused to let it go.