Chapter 16
The music drifted into silence, leaving only the faint hiss of lantern wicks and the occasional murmur of cicadas outside. Within the Baizhu ancestral pavilion, the air was steeped in sandalwood and the faint sweetness of pine smoke from the braziers. Shadows stretched long across the polished floor, broken only by the warm flicker of oil lamps set in bronze holders along the carved pillars.
Xuan Luo sat within the great hall at a low lacquered table of dark wood, its surface reflecting the glow of lamplight like a still pond. Around him, several elder disciples and advisors had gathered, their robes rustling faintly as they settled onto cushions arranged neatly in a circle. The remains of the evening meal lay between them—bowls of white rice, steamed river fish garnished with ginger and scallion, bamboo shoots seasoned with salt, and a few untouched dishes already cooling. The meal had been eaten with little appetite, most distracted by the memory of Hu Ming's collapse and rescue.
In that quiet, several Shuilan disciples leaned closer, their voices pitched low—so soft that even the old servant at the far end of the room could not catch them.
"This was supposed to be a regular trial," one whispered, eyes shadowed with unease. "A chance to test the youths of Baizhu—and even those from the neighboring villages—then choose who among them was worthy of training under our pavilion. Nothing more."
"Yet it has turned into something else entirely," another added, his hands tightening around his knees. "Dark mist, strange sickness… we were not prepared for this."
A third disciple's gaze flicked toward the windows, then back to the circle. His tone was cautious, edged with doubt. "What if it is not sudden? What if such things have happened here before—signs we dismissed, small disturbances in the forest, overlooked because they were not as grave as what befell Hu Ming?"
The suggestion left the group uneasy, their glances darting toward their master, though none spoke further. The silence stretched, weighted, as though each disciple felt the shadow of that possibility settle across their thoughts.
Now, fresh tea was being prepared. A clay pot rested at the table's center, steam coiling lazily upward, carrying the fragrance of roasted leaves. The old attendant who served them—his hair tied back in a frayed knot, hands weathered from years of quiet labor—moved carefully as he replaced cups and filled them with practiced grace. The porcelain gleamed pale in the lamplight, fragile against his rough fingers.
Their eyes followed him, though none spoke until he bowed lightly and stepped back, waiting in stillness. One elder disciple, his gaze sharp beneath heavy brows, broke the quiet. His voice was steady, though softened by courtesy:
"Elder brother, at this point we lose nothing if we ask the old man. The Baizhu are his people. If any strange matters have touched this village or the forest, he would know."
A brief pause, then Xuan Luo inclined his head in quiet agreement. His fingers brushed the rim of his teacup, but he did not drink.
The elder turned to the servant, his tone respectful. "Old one, forgive the question. But have you, or any of the villagers, noticed anything unusual of late—sounds, sights, things beyond reason? Or perhaps even in the past, before we arrived? Either in the village, or the forest that lies beyond?"
The man froze, the pot still in his hand. His eyes lowered, shadows pooling beneath his lashes. At last he shook his head slowly. "No, honored sirs. This has always been a quiet village. We live in peace here, raising our children, tending our fields. The only times excitement stirs are during festivals… or when noble guests such as yourselves arrive."
He hesitated, his wrinkled face caught between honesty and fear. "What happened to young Hu Ming… I was there. It chilled me to the bone. But when the Master saved him, when I saw life return to the boy's body, I felt… safe again. Whatever shadow clung to him—it is gone now. Beyond that, I have seen nothing. Truly."
The elder who had spoken inclined his head in acknowledgment. "You have our thanks."
The old man bowed deeply, his lined face illuminated by lamplight, then stepped away to the side, waiting silently in case more service was needed.
The pavilion fell into a heavy quiet. The disciples exchanged glances over their cups, eyes shifting—some uncertain, some grim, others quietly thoughtful. The flicker of the oil lamps caught their gazes: a tightening at the corners, a crease in brows, the stillness of lips pressed firm against unspoken worry.
"One can only hope we find answers deeper in the forest," one disciple murmured. The others nodded in quiet agreement, their expressions reflecting the same cautious resolve.
At last, Xuan Luo rose. His robes fell in a soft sweep as he moved to the open door of the pavilion. The night air spilled in cool against the warmth of the hall, carrying with it the faint scents of moss and damp earth. Beyond, the streets of Baizhu lay empty, lanterns guttering low, only a few silhouettes of Shuilan disciples stationed outside the trial grounds visible in the distance. Their presence was like sentinels carved from stone—silent, steadfast.
Xuan Luo's gaze drifted past them, to where the forest loomed like a black tide swallowing the horizon. His figure stilled against the doorway, posture straight yet heavy with thought.
His closer elder disciples stepped nearer, lowering their voices. "Master… what troubles you?"
Xuan Luo did not turn. His eyes remained fixed on the forest's edge, speaking only to those nearest him. "I fear what we have witnessed—Hu Ming, the dark mists, even the disturbances within the trial grounds… all of it is not the forest alone. I fear it may be tied to me. If not born of my curse… then perhaps drawn here by it."
The room behind them grew still. One disciple, standing discreetly at the far end, lifted his gaze, a flicker of unease crossing his eyes as he sensed the seriousness of what was being conveyed.
Xuan Luo's shoulders lifted faintly with a breath, his gaze unwavering on the shadowed treeline. "It feels the same," he said quietly, almost to himself. "The same as that night, years ago, when the cultivation festival was held on the great mountain… before the sky turned black."
His words fell into silence, leaving only the closest disciples steeped in tension—staring, exchanging wordless glances. Outside, only the forest wind answered, brushing faintly through the trees like a distant whisper.
Xuan Luo inclined his head slightly in quiet respect, signaling the end of the evening. "You may take your rest," he said softly, his voice calm, carrying authority tempered with gentleness. The disciples bowed in unison, murmuring acknowledgments before rising and quietly leaving the hall. The shuffle of robes, the soft thud of slippers on polished wood, and the faint clink of teacups fading into the night marked the hall's return to stillness.
Alone, Xuan Luo moved through the pavilion's corridors with measured steps, the soft click of his heels against lacquered floors echoing faintly. When he reached his chambers, he paused, opening the terrace door. The night wind carried the scent of pine and damp earth, brushing against his robes. His gaze drifted across the trial grounds below, then further, to the forest dark and endless at the edge of Baizhu. Yet his eyes saw nothing of the present; his mind had already departed.