"How have you fallen... from the heavens above..."
A whisper. Distant, heavy.
"Qinghui..."
"Qinghui!"
"QING—"
The youth bolted upright, eyes snapping open as cold sweat slid down his temples. His breath came shallow and uneven, as though dragged from the depths of some vast abyss.
His vision blurred for a moment before settling on a shadowy figure looming nearby—someone kneeling beside the bed, their hand poised mid-air with a long, gleaming acupuncture needle.
And—he was naked.
"Gah—!" The scream came fast and high-pitched as he lunged for the blanket, wrapping it around himself like a frightened squirrel. His ears burned a furious red.
The man, dressed in the robes of a healer, blinked calmly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with faint amusement.
"You've awoken just in time. I was about to begin the treatment to unblock your dantian." His voice was gentle, aged like polished jade.
The youth stared at him. Then stared at the needle. Then back again. If eyes could kill, the daifu would've dropped dead on the floor.
His thoughts ran frantically. Black Qi... I was leaking black Qi before I passed out. If it's seen—
He gripped the blanket tighter. Black Qi wasn't just rare—it was forbidden. It corrupted the meridians of others on contact, a creeping venom to any righteous cultivator. If this man saw it...
He shook his head slowly, stubbornly, like a child refusing bitter medicine.
The healer gave a resigned sigh. "It's for your own health, young man."
He inched further back into the corner of the bed, blanketed up like a turtle hiding from the rain.
Seeing that he was no match for such pure terror, the healer merely closed his case of needles with a quiet snap. "You're a strange one," he muttered, glancing once more at the shivering youth—who now looked more like a frightened puppy than a dangerous cultivator.
The daifu stood and turned to leave—but not before the youth caught a glimpse of a symbol beneath his sleeve: a purple lotus, briefly flashing on the wrist before it was hidden away. Suspicious.
He frowned. Something felt off.
"Where... am I?" he rasped.
The daifu paused in the doorway. "The White Sun Sect. You'll have your answers soon. Just rest—and don't resist."
And then he was gone.
The room fell into silence, save for the quiet rustle of wind stirring the paper window screens. The youth sat motionless for a moment, brows drawn together.
Why was I there? Why can't I remember anything...?
He gritted his teeth. The frustration grew sharp in his chest. Even if he tried to knock answers into his own skull, he doubted anything would return.
He glanced toward the window, where disciples in white robes trained in quiet harmony under the rising sun.
He sighed again. It came from somewhere deep and hollow.
"With no name, no past, no memory... what place is there for me in this world?"
Just then, a whisper echoed faintly within his mind.
'Qinghui...'
His breath caught.
He looked around—but there was no one. Just the gently swaying plants in the breeze, and the morning light spilling across the wooden floor.
On instinct, he reached for the folded garments nearby. They weren't his—but neither was anything else. He dressed quickly, not quite understanding the intricate layering of the robes, leaving part of his collar askew and his pale chest partially exposed.
It was just in time.
The door slid open.
Two men stepped in—both clad in pristine robes, their bearing upright and composed. One was older, with serene eyes that seemed to hold entire lifetimes of patience.
The other younger, quiet, and sharp-eyed—though right now, his gaze appeared slightly... locked... on Qinghui's half-worn robe.
The older man spoke first. "I heard you refused the acupuncture. That was unwise."
Qinghui said nothing.
"Do you feel better?"
"I think I am," he replied blandly, tone neutral.
The elder gave a faint smile. "I am Jing Xiao, leader of the White Sun Sect. This is Lan Zeyan, Second Master of the White Sun Sect."
Qinghui nodded vaguely. He didn't bow—mostly because he wasn't sure how. His hands awkwardly hung by his sides.
"And your name?"
Silence.
His mind turned like a dull wheel stuck in sand. There was nothing. Nothing but a single word that echoed in his head like a thread through fog.
Qinghui.
"...My name is Qinghui," he said finally.
The two sect leaders exchanged a brief glance.
"A good name," Jing Xiao said softly, though his gaze lingered a second longer than necessary. "Rest, Qinghui. We'll speak again soon."
The two turned to leave, but Lan Zeyan's eyes darted back once more. This time, not at his robe—but at Qinghui himself.
Strange... the Second Master thought. There's something deeply wrong about his Qi.
As the door shut behind them, Qinghui sat back on the bed, fingers curled loosely over his robes.
However, moments later Qinghui finally stepped out of the room, his bare feet brushing against the smooth stone corridor. Though his Qi was still chaotic and flickering like a broken thread, staying idle felt even more suffocating.
He had no idea why a dark, malevolent Qi pulsed within him—only that it shouldn't be there.
The air outside was cooler, gentle with the scent of herbs and pine. The sect grounds were simple yet well-kept—clean stone paths, red pillars, and white curtains fluttering with grace. Just like any sect should be... he supposed.
He turned a corner.
Thud!
Someone slammed straight into him and tumbled down onto the stone floor with a dull groan.
Qinghui didn't budge.
"Idiot!" a nearby disciple barked. "Why are you walking without looking?!"
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" the one on the ground cried, clearly in pain.
Qinghui blinked, then said coolly, "There's no need to apologize. I'm not the one who hit the floor."
Although he spoke with courtesy, his voice was distant—almost too calm to sound kind.
A third disciple stepped forward, his features soft and sincere. "You're the one we rescued, right? Sorry for the trouble. Are you... alright now?"
Qinghui gave a polite nod. "I am."
But the gentle disciple's eyes swept over Qinghui's disheveled appearance: a loosely tied outer robe, collar half slipping, one sleeve longer than the other. He looked like someone who lost a fight with a laundry line.
The disciple didn't comment. Instead, he respectfully cupped his hands and bowed.
"This humble disciple is Lan Feirong. I pay my respect to the esteemed guest."
The other two paused, bewildered. One of them nudged Feirong with a face that screamed: Why are you bowing to the guy we just dragged out of demonic roots?
But not wanting to be outdone, they quickly mimicked him.
"I'm Ningning," the girl said brightly.
"...Meng Yao," the other muttered, awkwardly avoiding Qinghui's eyes.
Feirong smiled and said sincerely, "If you ever need help, esteemed guest, please don't hesitate to ask. We would be honored to assist you."
Qinghui's gaze lingered on him for a second longer than normal. He didn't expect such manners.
'Help me... with what, exactly?' he thought to himself. Lost memories, unstable Qi, possible inner demon... I'd need a miracle, not three junior disciples.
Still, he gave a short nod. "I'll remember that."
The three bowed again before leaving. Ningning teased Feirong the moment they turned a corner.
"You bowed to him like he was some Immortal Lord!"
"He might be," Feirong replied calmly. "Or worse—someone important pretending not to be."
Qinghui watched them go with a sigh.
He had no memories of who he was, but his understanding of cultivation sects remained intact. Names, practices, dangers—those fragments had stubbornly stayed.
He turned his attention to a massive old tree nearby, its trunk wrapped with white spirit-ribbons and yellow talismans. He furrowed his brows.
Some kind of sealing? Or memorial?
Before he could think further, a faint sound floated through the air—a melancholic, whispering tune from an erhu.
What's that sound? Qinghui tilted his head.
Without realizing it, his legs moved on their own, guided only by the music. Step by step, he followed it through the winding corridors and empty courtyards, the melody weaving through the wind like a memory trying to be remembered.
Then, it stopped.
Qinghui blinked and found himself in a quiet garden.
It was serene—flowering herbs in neat rows, lotuses blooming in a rippling pond, and lavender vines swaying gently. The scent was soothing, almost enough to make him forget everything.
Almost.
The music was gone. The source—vanished.
He let out another sigh.
And then frowned.
"How many times have I sighed since waking up?" he muttered. "Am I a cultivator or a melancholic poet?"
He wandered toward the lake, drawn to a soft glow in the water. A lotus with petals like pale jade floated delicately at the center. Something about it looked... familiar.
He crouched down, trying to reach without falling in, extending his fingers inch by inch.
Then—
"What are you doing?"
Vocabulary:
The word "Daifu" (大夫) has two main meanings in Chinese, depending on its pronunciation and historical context: primarily, it means "doctor" or "physician" in modern colloquial Chinese, while historically, when pronounced "dà fū," it referred to a high-ranking government official.
Erhu: a Chinese two-stringed musical instrument held in the lap and played with a bow.