Chapter 17
The world around him faded, the present giving way to memory.
Four years past, the great cultivation festival unfolded upon Mount Qinglong, the towering peak marking the boundary between Linggu Valley (Valley of the Spirits) and the Hunshe River (Rivers of Souls), where all clans gathered. Sunlight spilled across terraces carved from white stone, gilded with golden inscriptions that shimmered in the morning. Lanterns swayed gently in every hue—crimson, sapphire, jade, amber—casting kaleidoscopic reflections on the mountain streams. Carved stone serpents wound around pillars, their scales catching the light, dragons coiled atop eaves, mouths agape in eternal roar. Every spirit creature, every symbol of the clans' legacies, seemed to breathe with life.
As the disciples arrived, their eyes widened in wonder, faces lighting with joy. Young cultivators bowed respectfully to elders, exchanged nods and smiles, and laughed, their excitement mingling with the ethereal sound of spiritual music—flutes, chimes, and chanting drifting across the terraces. Trees along the paths blossomed in profusion, petals drifting on the breeze. Colorful talismans hung from eaves and branches, inscriptions of protection and blessing glittering like scattered jewels in the sunlight.
The central temple stood immense and resplendent, its roof inlaid with jade and gold, banners embroidered with characters of longevity, fortune, and virtue fluttering in the breeze. Polished floors reflected the daylight, making the walls appear to float, shimmering with paintings of deities and elemental beasts. Each clan's name was inscribed on magnificent stone tablets—jade, crystal, and gold—calligraphy exquisite and humming with power. The air was thick with incense, sandalwood mingling with crushed petals from ceremonial offerings. Elder cultivators moved through the temple, chanting softly, while disciples passed through in awe, reverence tempered by excitement.
He was thirteen then, a boy among boys, dressed in deep blue ceremonial robes. His hair was tied neatly with a simple jade pin; at his side rested a sword almost too heavy for his small frame. Yet he walked with quiet confidence, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight, gaze calm—a child carrying the poise of a wise man. Around him, other children fidgeted or whispered, adjusting robes and swords, but Xuan Luo held still, copying the composed bearing of his elder brother or uncle. Though his face revealed little, a spark of happiness swelled in his chest, a pride he recognized even now.
Elder masters guided the young disciples with small nods, instructing who should stand, who should sit. Laughter, cheer, parchment, fresh fruit, incense, and fluttering talismans mingled with the sacred music drifting from flutes, chimes, and chanting—a festival alive with anticipation.
The memory shifted. He was now performing the Shuilan clan music ceremony, standing behind the platform after his elder brother's turn. The applause still echoed faintly, the nod of acknowledgment from his brother, the respect of elders around the temple.
At first, his notes flowed clear and steady, each tone ringing bright and harmonious. Then he inhaled deeply, centering himself, letting his qi hum in resonance with his fingers. Power surged, a strange clarity guiding the melody, yet within it lurked a force he could barely restrain. His fingers trembled as the music poured through him, as if every string of his being strained against invisible chains.
A low, discordant vibration rippled from the strings, drawing startled glances from nearby disciples. Harmony twisted into something darker, heavier, pressing against the temple walls. Lantern flames flickered as though choked by an unseen wind.
The edges of the memory blurred. He glimpsed his uncle on the judging platform—eyes wide, lips pressed tight, a shadow of fear hidden beneath composure. Other elders leaned forward, unspoken words caught in their throats. Xuan Luo felt their gaze press against his chest, yet his hands would not still, his body refused to obey.
Only his eyes could move. At the far edge of the hall, a dark, indistinct figure wavered like smoke, moving in time with his hands. It seemed to pluck invisible strings binding him. His chest tightened. Was it real, or a phantom shaped by his curse? Even now, he could not be certain.
Then the sky darkened, swallowed by a black wind. Lanterns, decorations, ribbons, banners lifted into the air, animated by furious spirit. Colors twisted, light bent and scattered, and the festival's mirth became chaos. Xuan Luo stood at the center, senses reeling.
A burning pressure gripped his chest—the familiar, terrible pulse of his curse. He clenched his teeth, struggling to steady his qi, but it surged beyond control. His knees buckled, breath rasping, the music that had anchored him now dragging him deeper into torment. Every note was a blade carving through his veins.
Voices called beyond the storm—urgent, trembling: "Third Master! Luo!" "Master Xuan! Luo!" Their cries were distant, muffled, carried from afar. He could not answer. Invisible strings held him in place, another will moving through him.
With a cry from deep within, he could hold no longer. His voice shattered the chaos, echoing against stone and sky. He collapsed, the festival blurring into shadow, faces of elders and disciples twisted into distant echoes. Darkness claimed his vision, leaving him suspended between terror and resignation.
When breath returned and the crushing force loosened, faint whispers reached him—perhaps only he could hear, or perhaps his uncle had heard and concealed it.
"The Third Master… cursed since he was five…"
"No one knows from where… ill fate, forgotten oath…"
"His uncle tried everything—rituals, medicines, talismans—and for a time he seemed whole. But now… see what the curse has wrought."
"Disciples of the Feng clan collapsed under the darkness he had unleashed. Even the Jin heirs fell."
"An omen for the Shuilan. A boy of a great clan, yet destined for ruin."
Whispers lingered, sharp and unavoidable, like judgment carved into his marrow.
The last he remembered of that festival was silence. He stayed in the guest quarters of Mount Qinglong, doors shut fast. Beautiful as it was—walls of polished cedar carved with clouds, pale blue silk drapes embroidered with cranes, lanterns casting soft halos, terrace views of flowering peaks—the chamber felt heavy, pressing down upon him. He played cleansing melodies on his guqin until fingers ached, letting each note rise and fade into emptiness. Only when the festival ended did he rest.
Memory dissolved. Baizhu Pavilion returned, night heavy around him. Xuan Luo's gaze fell to the polished floorboards, eyes holding sorrow, wonder, and unreadable weight. Slowly, he looked up, taking in the room.
The chamber breathed age and reverence. Latticed windows carved with drifting clouds filtered moonlight in pale strands. Prayer stones glimmered faintly, inscriptions pulsing like hidden heartbeats. Faint sandalwood mingled with the cool draft drifting in from the terrace.