Spring arrived in silence, as if Reverent Valley itself was holding its breath. Pale pink blossoms unfolded across the trees, and their petals danced in the wind like delicate ghosts. Mo Lianyin stood at the edge of the water garden, his figure framed by the flowering boughs. Beneath the surface of the lake, koi stirred lazily, unbothered by the turbulence within the cultivator above them.
He had been here for hours.
Listening.
Waiting.
Trying to ignore the whispers.
But the voice had returned.
> "You were not meant to survive, Lianyin."
He shut his eyes, jaw clenched. The whispers were not hallucinations. He had learned that much in the past weeks. They were fragments—echoes of the Seven Forbidden Arts—curling through his veins and pulling at his mind like threads unraveling silk.
He gripped his sword tighter.
"Be silent," he whispered to no one, to everything. "I'm still in control."
A gust of wind swirled around him, scattering petals across the water. It carried a faint scent—iron, blood, memory.
His memories.
He had been trying to suppress them, bury them beneath the meditation, the scrolls, the sleepless nights. But memories don't die when you want them to. They rot in silence, then rise.
---
The day of the massacre came back to him.
A banquet. A celebration. His master smiling. His sect brothers clinking cups of peach wine under lanterns.
Then fire.
Screams.
And betrayal.
He saw her again—Elder Yi.
The one who had called him her favorite student. The one who had plunged her blade into his chest without hesitation.
"You're too powerful," she had said coldly as blood soaked through his robes. "And too dangerous to be left alive."
She had kissed his forehead like a mother before stepping over his crumpled body.
---
Lianyin gasped, dragging himself back to the present. His knees hit the stone floor. The garden blurred through tears he hadn't allowed himself in years.
"Why…?" he choked out. "Why did you spare me only to haunt me?"
> "Because the curse chose you," the whisper replied. "And curses do not forget."
A hand touched his shoulder.
He flinched, instinctively twisting to draw his blade—only to stop.
Standing behind him was Shen Zemin, the youngest disciple of the Valley. His brows were furrowed, but his eyes held a quiet concern.
"You haven't been eating," Zemin said softly. "The Grandmaster noticed."
Lianyin rose shakily. "I'm fine."
"You're not," Zemin said. "But I won't press. I brought you this."
He held out a silk-wrapped package. Inside was steamed bun, still warm, and a flask of ginseng broth. Lianyin stared at it for a moment too long.
"Thank you," he muttered, taking it reluctantly.
Zemin didn't smile. "You're not alone, Lianyin. Even if you think you are."
With that, he left, his steps light across the stone path.
Lianyin sat again, the package untouched in his lap. He didn't cry, but something twisted in his chest. He had forgotten what kindness felt like. Forgotten that someone might care—not out of fear, not out of pity—but out of simple, human compassion.
It frightened him more than the voices.
---
That night, he stood beneath the moonlight once again, robe fluttering in the wind. This time, he spoke to the darkness directly.
"If the Seven Forbidden Arts want me," he said to the silent forest, "then let them come."
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time… he listened without resisting.