Chapter 18
Scene 1: Letter to Xuan Rin — Silent Messages Beneath the Night
Though Baizhu Village seemed calm after the recent unrest, a pang of longing tugged at Xuan Luo for the quiet halls of the Shuilan Pavilion. The thought of remaining here longer—especially with the forest investigation still ahead—pressed uneasily on his mind.
After lingering in thought, weighing the silence around him against the unease in his heart, he decided to send word to his elder brother, Xuan Rin.
At the edge of the high balcony, he stood unmoving, his figure carved from stillness. His gaze wandered yet focused nowhere, thoughts tangled in quiet confusion. Slowly, he drew a slip of specially prepared talisman paper from his sleeve. The parchment shimmered faintly, ink glowing with a soft, protective light designed for swift transmission.
With deliberate, practiced strokes, he summarized the trial so far—the calm at its beginning, the sudden darkness, the collapse of disciples, and the whispers hinting at the curse's resurgence. His brush paused once, a faint hesitation shadowing his hand before continuing, as though weighing whether to share the moment by the cliff—the lapse of control that nearly dragged him to death, and the nameless hand that caught him before the fall. In the end, he left it unspoken, a silence Rin would understand without words.
He noted the next steps: he would accompany several Shuilan disciples to investigate the forest near Baizhu Village, where the dark mist had appeared, searching for any signs of unusual activity. He also asked whether Rin had sensed anything strange near the Shuilan Pavilion—anything that might indicate hidden disturbances.
With a final, fluid motion of his fingers, Xuan Luo traced the magical seal over the talisman. It pulsed, a bright heartbeat of energy, then lifted into the air, glowing briefly as if aware of its destination. Invisible currents carried it, twisting and spiraling before vanishing into the night, bound for his elder brother.
Xuan Luo lowered his hand, stance steady, eyes distant. He waited, tense yet patient, for the first sign of acknowledgment, the quiet anticipation stretching across the terrace like the night itself.
Far away, in the stillness of the Shuilan Pavilion, a shimmer of golden light appeared at the edge of a quiet chamber, hovering before dissolving into awareness. Xuan Rin understood the message instantly, feeling the pulse of his younger brother's words brushing against his consciousness—urgent yet controlled, yet carrying the faintest shadow beneath the surface.
Xuan Rin's fingers traced intricate patterns in the air, shaping a talisman of reply. Soft light coiled along his hands as he composed his response, every stroke deliberate, every symbol carrying both instruction and care:
"Xuan Luo," the message flowed with warmth and authority, "all is calm here in the Shuilan Pavilion. No unusual disturbances have appeared. You need not worry.
Take care in the forest near Baizhu Village. Move cautiously, and do not engage with high spiritual dark powers alone. If danger grows beyond your control, send word immediately—I will come to aid you, or dispatch capable elders to assist. Do not risk more than you must.
Focus on observation first. Keep your wits and spirit clear. If the situation worsens, I will know, and you will not face it alone. Be safe, brother."
The talisman pulsed once, lifted as if carried by invisible hands, and vanished, racing along unseen currents toward Baizhu Village.
A soft shimmer of light pulsed at the edge of the balcony—a reply from his elder brother. Xuan Luo's fingers brushed the space where it had hovered, and the protective ink on the paper hummed faintly before fading. He read the message in his mind: all was calm at the Shuilan Pavilion, and Rin's careful guidance urged caution, offering help if the situation worsened.
A small weight lifted from his chest. The urgency that had knotted his thoughts eased, replaced by a fragile calm. For the first time since the darkness had brushed his spirit—since the silent struggle by the cliff—his breath steadied.
The night wind carried the faint scent of pine through the open balcony, and for a long moment he simply stood, letting it wash over him. Then, quietly, Xuan Luo turned from the terrace, closing the balcony door behind him.
The soft glow of the lanterns welcomed him back into the chamber. Folding his robes carefully and setting his sword aside, he finally settled onto the cushion near the window. His eyes, heavy yet still alert, reflected a quiet storm of thought, unreadable to any observer. Fingertips traced the edge of the cushion as memories and possibilities swirled behind his calm gaze. The familiar scent of sandalwood grounded him, but the mind remained half adrift, weighing shadows he dared not name. At last, he allowed sleep to claim him, the echoes of the festival, the dark mist—and the hand that had caught him—slipping into the stillness of dreams.
Scene 2: At Lin Qingshan's House: The Quiet Aftermath
It was still the same night that had draped Baizhu Village in uneasy quiet after the turmoil at the trial grounds. Darkness pooled in the narrow paths, broken only by lanterns flickering like distant stars. Their glow brushed the small courtyard—clay pots stacked by the wall, a bundle of firewood beneath the eaves, and a bucket dripping softly by the well. Beyond the fence, mulberry trees stood like dark silhouettes, their leaves whispering in the silver hush of moonlight.
Outside Lin Qingshan's house, the uncle sat with the three boys, his brows furrowed as they recounted the evening—the boy Hu Ming collapsing, black veins twisting like living shadows, and the Shuilan Third Master driving the corruption away. When they mentioned Xuan Luo's plan to lead his disciples into the forest to uncover its source, a shadow passed over Qingshan's face. Corruption this deep had never touched Baizhu Village before, and the talisman once pressed to Lin Ye's chest had never been meaningless. The thought of Lin Ye's mother, Lin Qianyu, and the sacrifices she had made to protect her son flickered briefly in his mind, a quiet reminder that the boy before him was maybe not yet safe.
His gaze shifted to Lin Ye. "And you?" he asked quietly. "Are you well now? Shen said you weren't feeling yourself earlier."
Lin Ye sat cross-legged on the low stone steps beneath a worn lantern swaying gently from a wooden beam. Where unease had once coiled sharp in his chest, now his breath came easier. A faint grin curved his lips as he nodded.
Satisfied but still troubled, the uncle rose with a sigh. "I'll bring you something warm to eat," he said.
Three faces lit up instantly.
"Yes—thank you, Uncle Qingshan!" Mu Fan was the first to speak, his usual calm cracking into pure relief. "We've barely eaten these past days… all these trials and chaos."
Lin Shen gave a firm nod. "He's not exaggerating. I can hear my own stomach echo."
Lin Ye raised his hand dramatically like a protest banner. "Yeah, yeah, food! Lots of it! Enough to make us feel loved again, Uncle!" His grin widened. "I think hunger counts as emotional damage."
Qingshan chuckled, shaking his head as if this song of complaints had played since childhood. "Alright, alright—I'm going to finish preparing it. Stop whining or I'll make the portions smaller!"
"Never!" Lin Ye gasped, clutching his chest in mock horror.
The uncle's laughter lingered as he disappeared inside. The night settled deeper, cool and still, carrying the faint hum of crickets and the scent of damp earth. Shadows swayed with the lantern's glow as the breeze stirred the leaves beyond the fence.
Lin Shen leaned against a wooden post, arms folded across his chest, face carved in stern patience. Mu Fan sat on a low stool nearby, posture as proper as ever, though his hands resting loosely on his knees betrayed a readiness to pry.
For a while, silence stretched, broken only by a night heron's distant call. Then Mu Fan grinned, sharp under the lantern light.
"Well," he said, tossing a pebble into the dark, "quite the festival night, wasn't it?"
Lin Shen tilted his head. "Yeah, I still can't believe what I saw… the veins, that darkness." His voice lowered as he looked at Lin Ye. "And you—you never told us the full story of what happened by the cliff. How exactly did you save the Shuilan Third Master?"
A shadow of a smirk curved Lin Ye's lips, but he didn't answer right away. He plucked another pebble and rolled it between his fingers as if the question weighed less than a breeze. He knew exactly how curious they were—he could feel it hanging in the air like a taut string—but for now, he had no intention of tugging it.
When he finally spoke, it was quiet, almost dismissive.
"I'm still tired," he murmured, gaze angled toward the trees. "Another time. Tonight's had enough surprises. Better to talk when things… settle."
Mu Fan studied him a moment longer, his mind replaying the image of Lin Ye doubled over earlier, sweat beading his pale face. He wanted to press, to ask more—but in the end, he let it drop with a soft nod, though curiosity lingered in his eyes.
The door creaked open, and Qingshan stepped out with a wide wooden tray. Steam curled from the bowls, carrying the rich, savory scent of herbs and slow-cooked broth.
"Soup's ready," he announced, setting the tray on the low stone bench. "Eat before it cools."
"Finally!" Mu Fan sprang up, his calm slipping into eager relief. "Thank you, Uncle Qingshan—your soup is the best."
Lin Shen gave a short nod of agreement, though his hand was already reaching for a bowl.
Lin Ye stretched lazily before snatching one for himself, muttering, "Yeah, yeah… bring more next time if you want us to feel truly loved." His grin widened when his uncle shot him a mock glare, softening only when Qingshan chuckled and shook his head.
He lingered for a moment, watching the three crouched around the tray like half-starved wolves, then returned inside with a smile tugging at his weathered face.
The boys ate quickly, yet with the quiet appreciation only real hunger could bring. The broth warmed their bellies, vegetables melting on their tongues, chased by the gentle bitterness of mountain herbs. For a few breaths, the night's tension eased—replaced by the clink of wooden spoons and the comfort of a simple meal beneath a flickering lantern.
When the last bowl was empty and the steam faded, Lin Ye leaned back on his palms with a content sigh, though the sly glint in his eyes hinted his thoughts were far from done.
The lantern hissed faintly as the wick sputtered. Lin Shen pushed off from the post with a sharp sigh. "Enough for tonight. It's late. Get some sleep." His voice carried that familiar edge of command. "Tomorrow, we'll see if the trial ground is still open—or if they've canceled everything because the Shuilan disciples are heading into the forest." His gaze hardened on Lin Ye. "And I expect you to stay here. With us. No slipping after them when no one's looking."
Lin Ye's grin came back, lazy and bright, though a flash of mischief danced in his eyes. "I heard you the first time," he said lightly. "No need to keep reminding me."
His grin deepened, barely hiding the challenge beneath.
Lin Shen didn't answer—didn't need to. His silence was a blade, sharp and heavy, saying everything words couldn't: Do you understand?
Lin Ye met that look with a smirk, eyes glinting in the lantern glow. For a moment, it felt like the old days—two stubborn wills clashing without a sound, neither willing to bend.
Mu Fan rose, brushing the dust from his robe. "It's late—I should head back," he said, bowing lightly. "Rest well, both of you."
Without another word, he stepped off the porch, his figure melting into shadow as his footsteps faded down the narrow path toward his family's house.
The courtyard softened into silence. Lin Shen exhaled, a low sound almost like a growl, before turning toward the door. "Enough talk. Get some sleep, Ye. Tomorrow will be here sooner than you think."
He didn't wait for an answer—just disappeared inside, the wooden panel closing with a muted thud.
Lin Ye stayed where he was, chin tilting up toward stars half-veiled by mist. The grin lingered, but softer now, his voice a whisper for no one but the night.
"Not follow…" He laughed under his breath, low and sharp. "Who would follow such an annoying clan—especially their oh-so-righteous Third Master?" His smirk tightened as another name lingered unspoken on his tongue. "Annoying… and proud."
The wind rustled the mulberry leaves as if answering him. Lin Ye flicked the pebble away, watching it vanish into the shadows.
"I don't need anyone telling me what to do," he muttered, the curve of his grin curling again like a challenge to the dark. "I decide. Always."
His gaze drifted toward the distant hills where the forest brooded in silence. For a heartbeat, something unreadable flickered in his eyes, then he shook it off with a careless laugh.
"Sleep, before everything happens behind my back."
He rose in one fluid motion, pushed the door open without another glance. The lantern swayed gently in the breeze, throwing long shadows across the empty courtyard.