A Silent Pact with the Night
The outer disciple quarters were loud by day—arguments over rations, laughter at others' failures, whispered gossip about who would ascend and who would rot nameless. But at night, the place hollowed into silence, save for the distant hiss of the serpent pits.
For three nights straight, Shen Lian did not sleep.
He sat cross-legged in the shadow of an abandoned storehouse, where no patrols passed, his hand pressed to his chest. Each night, he coaxed the black seed inside him to stir, and each night, the whispers grew stronger.
The first time, the voices shouted over one another, fragments of Lu Chen's arrogance, the dagger-boy's fear, overlapping until Shen Lian's teeth ached.
The second time, he tried to ignore them. The seed responded with hunger, dragging qi from the very air around him, leaving him trembling with exhaustion.
The third time, Shen Lian stopped resisting. He listened.
And then he began to order them.
Not all obeyed. Some laughed, some screamed, but a handful bent. They became threads in his hand—weak threads, frayed and unstable, but his to pull.
When dawn broke, Shen Lian looked at his reflection in a rain puddle. His eyes shone faintly, and in the water's surface, for just an instant, other faces looked back.
⸻
A Training in Secret
He began to test what his body could do.
He drew qi from insects, from birds that perched too close, from weeds clinging to the cliffside. Each left behind a trace of memory, a fleeting sensation—beating wings, the taste of damp soil, the panic of being prey.
He practiced the stolen techniques until they blurred into something new. Lu Chen's Venom Palm became sharper, darker, infused with the serpent's venom inside his veins.
One night, he thrust his palm against a boulder. Black cracks spread like roots through the stone, and the rock crumbled into powder.
He stared at his hand, trembling. Power coursed through him, but so did fear.
How much of me is still mine?
⸻
Su Rou's Dilemma
Su Rou watched him. She didn't mean to, but she always found herself near—pretending to write ledgers in the outer courtyard, lingering by the training grounds at dusk.
She saw the way Shen Lian avoided people now, slipping into shadows, returning pale-eyed at dawn. She saw the change in his posture: once beaten, bent, now quietly straight, coiled like a serpent waiting.
And her heart clenched with two truths that gnawed at each other.
One: She had been ordered by Elder Mo Xuan to report Shen Lian's every move. Her loyalty to the sect—and her survival—demanded it.
Two: She could not bring herself to betray him fully.
So her reports became careful omissions. She wrote: He grows stronger. He is reckless. But she did not write: He frightens me because I care whether he lives.
One evening, she cornered him near the cliffside, her breath visible in the mist.
"You're changing," she whispered.
Shen Lian turned, his gray eyes glinting faintly. "So are you. You used to be braver."
Her lips parted in shock. "What do you mean?"
"You still follow me," he said softly. "But now you look at me like prey looks at a serpent. Afraid. Curious. Wanting to see if the strike comes."
Su Rou's chest tightened. She stepped closer, voice trembling. "I don't want you to disappear into… whatever this is. Shen Lian, promise me you'll remember yourself."
He studied her, silent. Then he smiled faintly. "If I forget, then remember for me."
Her heart ached at those words. She hated them. She loved them. And she feared what they meant.
⸻
The Elder's Net
Days later, Elder Mo Xuan summoned Shen Lian again.
This time, the elder stood in the sect's herb gardens, where poisonous flowers bloomed under the moons. Their scents clashed, sweet and rotting, dizzying.
"You've been busy," Mo Xuan said without looking at him. His hand caressed the petals of a black orchid, careful not to touch its deadly stamens.
Shen Lian stiffened. "You've been watching me."
Mo Xuan smiled. "The serpent watches all its children." He turned, eyes gleaming. "Tell me, Shen Lian—does it frighten you? The hunger?"
Shen Lian's jaw tightened. "It tempts me."
Mo Xuan stepped closer, his voice low, almost soothing. "Good. Fear is weakness. Temptation is strength waiting to be seized. The Lotus path is not for cowards."
"The… Lotus?" Shen Lian echoed, that strange word biting at his ears.
Mo Xuan's smile deepened. "Ah. You will learn. For now… I have a task. Beyond the cliff, in the forest, a beast prowls. A Nightfang wolf. Strong, fast, its qi sharp as knives. Kill it. Devour it. And come back stronger."
Shen Lian narrowed his eyes. "And if I don't?"
Mo Xuan's gaze sharpened, serpent-like. "Then it will devour you. And I will know you are unworthy of the serpent's gift."
The elder turned, robe swirling, and left Shen Lian alone with the flowers that smelled like death.
⸻
Into the Forest
That night, Shen Lian slipped beyond the sect walls, mist wrapping him in silence. The forest loomed, trees gnarled and dripping with moonlight.
He moved carefully, senses sharpened. He could feel the qi of living things now—the heartbeat of a rabbit under the brush, the sluggish pulse of a sleeping owl.
And then he felt it.
A predator.
The Nightfang.
It emerged from the shadows like smoke given shape, fur black, eyes burning red, fangs dripping venom. Its qi pressed down on him like a storm wind.
Shen Lian's chest tightened. His lotus pulsed.
The wolf lunged.
He raised his hand, striking with stolen Venom Palm. The beast twisted, faster than a human, its fangs snapping inches from his face. He rolled aside, breath harsh, heart pounding.
The whispers surged in him. Take it. Devour it. Rip it apart!
His hands trembled, his mind pulled between himself and the hunger. For a moment, he almost gave in—let the lotus open fully, let it devour everything in reach.
But then Su Rou's voice echoed in his head. Promise me you'll remember yourself.
His jaw clenched. "I am still me," he growled.
He feinted left, then thrust forward, his palm slamming into the wolf's chest. He didn't just pull its qi—he pulled its heartbeat, its breath, its very life.
The wolf howled, its body shuddering, fur paling as its essence drained. Shen Lian drank deep, the lotus blooming another petal inside him.
When it collapsed, lifeless, Shen Lian stood over it trembling, his veins afire.
Inside, he felt stronger. Sharper. The wolf's instincts flickered in his mind—its speed, its predatory patience. They were his now.
But as the whispers roared triumphantly, he realized something else.
When he devoured beasts, their voices joined the others too.
And tonight, they howled.
⸻
Cliffhanger
Back at the sect, Su Rou lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She had lied in her report again, writing: He spends his nights wandering aimlessly.
But she felt it in her bones—Shen Lian was no longer wandering.
He was hunting.
And in the forest, Shen Lian opened his eyes under the Blue Lantern moon, his breath misting, his hand still trembling from the kill.
The whispers inside him laughed like a chorus of predators.
And for the first time, he laughed with them.