Qinghui jolted, nearly falling face-first into the pond.
Startled, he whipped around, sleeves soaked and eyes wide. Behind him stood Lan Zeyan, the White Sun Sect's Second Master, his expression as calm and unmoving as a still mountain.
"I thought you might've drowned," Lan Zeyan said flatly. "Turns out you were admiring flowers."
"...I wasn't touching them," Qinghui said, gathering his dignity. "Not yet."
Straightening, Qinghui squared his shoulders. Lan Zeyan did not avert his gaze—his impassive face remained unreadable as their eyes locked in silence.
"...Your robe is still crooked," Lan Zeyan eventually said.
Qinghui's brow twitched.
Without a word of warning, Lan Zeyan stepped forward and began adjusting Qinghui's sleeves and tying his sash with a surprisingly practiced motion—like an older brother fussing over a disheveled sibling, though his face betrayed no emotion.
Qinghui raised an eyebrow at the forwardness.
"This is the White Sun Sect. Even guests should maintain decorum," Lan Zeyan said, brushing imaginary dust from Qinghui's shoulder.
"I'm not part of your sect," Qinghui replied stiffly.
"But you're still walking inside its grounds," Lan Zeyan countered.
They sounded like quarreling siblings, though only one of them seemed to care.
Irritated, Qinghui slapped Lan Zeyan's hand away. It was a rude gesture, especially toward a high-ranking cultivator, but Qinghui didn't regret it. His caution outweighed courtesy. Even in the face of kindness, trust was not something he could give freely—not anymore.
Lan Zeyan stared at him in silence, then turned his gaze toward the pond, specifically the glowing lotus floating at its center.
"That flower is known as the Jade Spirit Lotus," Lan Zeyan said, his voice quieter now. "It only blooms once every few decades. A sign of divine purity. It is said to purify evil and dispel lingering malevolent spirits. We believe its birth here is Heaven's blessing."
Qinghui followed his gaze.
The Jade Spirit Lotus glimmered atop the water like a living jewel. Its translucent petals shimmered with green and white hues, and the golden filaments at its heart emitted a faint, calming glow. The surrounding ripples never touched it—as if the pond itself held its breath to preserve its serenity. The scent was faintly sweet, yet oddly medicinal.
A moment later, a disciple approached quietly. He cupped his hands and bowed low.
"Lan Shifu, we've gathered the documents regarding the Root of Sentiment. The Sect Leader and the senior masters await you at the Main Hall."
Qinghui's ears perked at the mention of that name. The Root of Sentiment—the very parasitic evil that had latched to him before he lost consciousness. Was that what they were investigating?
Lan Zeyan gave a small nod. "Very well."
As he turned to leave, Qinghui stepped forward instinctively. "Wait wait wait—!"
He moved to block the path.
The disciple's expression shifted immediately. "How dare you obstruct Lan Shishu's way? Show respect, or have you no sense of propriety?!"
Qinghui ignored the rebuke and looked Lan Zeyan straight in the eyes. "Take me with you."
The disciple's brows rose in shock. "This—!"
Lan Zeyan raised a hand. "He is an honored guest. Stand down."
"...Honored guest?" the disciple murmured, glancing between them in disbelief.
Lan Zeyan turned to Qinghui with a calm expression. "Why do you wish to come?"
"I'm a victim of the Root of Sentiment. I saw the cave, I felt its corruption. If your sect is investigating it, shouldn't I be present to give my testimony?" Qinghui's tone was firm, determined.
"...The Sect Leader did say he would speak with you again," Lan Zeyan murmured, considering. "But your Qi—if you attend the meeting, many of our elders may sense its condition. Especially the Grandmasters. They have... keen eyes."
Qinghui frowned. "What do you mean, keen eyes? Can they tell just by looking?"
Lan Zeyan cleared his throat. "They've trained their spiritual perception for centuries. A glance is often enough."
Qinghui narrowed his eyes. "Is that how you knew something was wrong with mine? Did you—touch me?"
"No. I read the healer's report. The daifu merely said your meridians were blocked."
He avoided mentioning the black Qi entirely, likely due to the disciple's presence.
"Who else knows about my condition?" Qinghui asked.
Lan Zeyan glanced at the disciple, then said nothing.
Understanding the unspoken message, Qinghui dropped the question. Instead, he asked, "If I dress properly, perhaps they won't notice anything?"
Lan Zeyan let out a soft sigh. "Then at least fix your robe before you walk into the Main Hall. Appearance matters."
Qinghui smiled faintly—just a twitch of the lips—and began tugging at his robe. He struggled.
Lan Zeyan stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled again. "Step aside. I'll do it."
---
The Hall of Quiet Clarity was built upon the peak of the Azure Cloud Ridge, surrounded by mists that never dispersed. Its high, polished pillars of white sandalwood stretched to the domed ceiling, which was inlaid with celestial diagrams etched in gold. Beneath the soaring ceiling, sunlight spilled through tall lattice windows, illuminating tapestries embroidered with phoenixes and ancient formations.
At the center of the hall was a circular jade platform, ringed with eight crescent seats. These were occupied by the Sect Leader, Grandmasters, and the senior elders. On the ground level, seated in order of rank were elite disciples, masters of subsidiary halls, and finally, a few honored guests.
When the great doors creaked open, all heads turned sharply.
Lan Zeyan entered with his usual cool grace, hands tucked into his sleeves, but his hairpin sat slightly askew and his inner robe was slightly crooked again.
Snickers and mutters rose like wind among reeds.
"Lan-gongzi," another senior master's tone was like sharp steel wrapped in silk, "do you truly believe time bends for a god-gnawing insect like yourself?"
The Sect Leader, Jing Xiao, raised a brow slightly as he noticed Qinghui trailing behind. "...And you've brought a patient, no less," he remarked. His tone was neutral, but the undercurrent was clear.
Before Lan Zeyan could respond, another senior disciple interjected, voice laced with scorn. "Ruoxian, this hall is not for storytelling or tea with guests. Do you think the Root of Sentiment so trivial that we invite onlookers?"
But before tempers could rise further, Sect Leader Jing Xiao lifted his hand with authority.
"Enough. Fù Zōngzhǔ may be careless, but he is not foolish. If he brought this youth, then he must have his reasons."
Lan Zeyan bowed his head. "He is the one who survived contact with the Root. And... I believe he may have insight none of us do."
Though many still looked unconvinced, no one protested further.
A disciple laid out a smaller seat beside Lan Zeyan. Qinghui sat quietly, his demeanor calm yet observant, not reacting to the hostility or suspicion aimed at him. He was like still water in a porcelain cup—one couldn't tell whether it was deep or shallow.
Sect Leader Jing Xiao unfolded a scroll and placed it on the table before him. His expression hardened.
"As all of you know," he began, "the White Sun Sect exists not only to cultivate, but to guard the mortal realm from corruption. Recently, a new disturbance—what we call the 'Root of Sentiment'—has surfaced. It has already resulted in three confirmed cases of spiritual devastation. Two manifestations have been purged. The third remains unaccounted for."
"Purged," someone muttered. "It burned far too easily."
"Exactly," said another elder, voice lined with suspicion. "If it is so fragile, why did it take dozens of lives before we noticed? Hundreds, even."
One of the Grandmasters, with silver brows and an iron gaze, folded his hands together.
"Perhaps the danger lies not in the root itself—but in the host."
Murmurs passed like wind.
"According to the daifu's reports," Lan Zeyan added, "the Root attached to Qinghui's back was unusually thin. Yet, he did not die. It seems this root, weak as it is, only needs to implant itself within someone emotionally unstable. Despair, grief, longing—it feeds on these sentiments. Like spiritual mold."
A few nodded. One disciple muttered under his breath, "Then why the Sinful Forest? It's already tainted. Of course such things grow there."
Lan Zeyan lifted a hand. "That's the point. Think about it—where do mortals carry the heaviest regret? Where do they take their last breath willingly?"
"The forest is a grave," a soft voice said.
All eyes turned.
Qinghui, who had remained silent until now, finally raised his head. "The forest isn't just where people die. It's where they die full of emotion. That's why it grew there."
Lan Zeyan's gaze flickered in surprise.
Qinghui continued, slowly, his tone calm but cutting. "You're asking why something so weak could kill. It's because it doesn't need strength. It only needs you to feel. And mortals feel deeply."
A beat of silence.
"Desire, jealousy, sorrow. All it takes is one overwhelming thought—'Why did I live such a life?'—and the root feeds."
"Then the true danger isn't the root," said an elder.
"It's what it awakens," Qinghui replied. "It may not be strong, but it awakens what is already there. And once it grows... it can lead something worse to find it."
Lan Zeyan tilted his head. "Worse?"
Qinghui's eyes darkened. "You said there were three sightings. Two purged. One still out there. But none of them moved on their own. What if they are seeds, not weeds? And someone... or something... is planting them."
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Sect Leader Jing Xiao finally spoke. "You are suggesting a puppeteer. One who nurtures these roots for some larger aim?"
Qinghui nodded once.
Jing Xiao steepled his fingers, contemplative. "Your insight is... uncommonly precise."
"It's not mine entirely," Qinghui replied.
Lan Zeyan suddenly stepped forward, tapping a scroll.
"I propose we send scouts not only to the afflicted villages—but to grave sites, places where spiritual unrest lingers: suicide cliffs, battlefields, orphaned temples."
Another master nodded. "If it gathers where pain festers, we must go to the wounds."
One elder frowned. "But to what end? To track what? A shadow?"
"We don't need to find the whole creature yet," Lan Zeyan said. "We find its hunger."
A quiet "Hmm" rippled through the crowd. Then Jing Xiao stood.
"Enough speculation. Second Master, draw up teams for the southern district. Lan Feirong will lead the scouting party. Qinghui... you will remain within the sect's inner grounds."
Qinghui's lips parted to protest.
"You are not under our discipline," Jing Xiao said before he could speak. "But I would not have you risk yourself while your Qi is still unstable. We will speak again—privately."
The meeting was adjourned. Elders stood, bowing to the sect leader before filtering out in clusters of murmuring discussion.
Lan Zeyan walked over and said quietly, "You handled yourself well."
Qinghui gave a flat look. "Your sect has a lot of opinions."
Vocabulary:
"Shifu" translates to "master" or "teacher" in Chinese.
In Chinese, 公子 (gōngzǐ) primarily means "young master", often referring to the son of a wealthy or high-ranking family. It can also be used as a general honorific to address a young man politely, similar to "sir" or "young sir". The term carries connotations of youth and nobility, and can be used in various contexts, including fictional settings like wuxia and xianxia novels.
Fù Zōngzhǔ refers to the second-in-command of a cultivation sect — directly beneath the Sect Leader (Zōngzhǔ). This person holds immense authority, often overseeing discipline, training, or internal affairs. They may act on behalf of the sect master when absent or injured.
若絃 (Ruòxián): Courtesy name of Lan Zeyan.