The flame danced in Lián Zhen's palm for several heartbeats before he closed his fist, extinguishing it. In the sudden darkness, only the dying candle remained, its wick struggling against the wax. He flexed his fingers, still feeling the phantom warmth that had obeyed his will.
Three echoes. Each one a voice in the symphony that filled what others called his emptiness. Yet as he stared at his hands, a troubling realization settled over him like morning mist.
He was stealing.
Not gold or grain, but something far more precious. Each echo he claimed was meant for someone else—perhaps a cultivator who had trained for years to understand that specific resonance, only to find it beyond their reach because it now resided in his silent vessel.
The thought should have disturbed him more than it did.
[Warning: Prolonged echo absorption without stabilization may cause spiritual fractures.]
[Recommendation: Seek cultivation guidance.]
"Cultivation guidance," he murmured, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. What master would take on a student with Absolute Silence? What sect would open its doors to someone the elders had already written off as broken?
A soft knock at his door interrupted his brooding.
"Zhen?" His mother's voice carried the weight of unspoken worry. "Are you well? I saw light under your door."
He quickly blew out the candle. "Just reading, Mother. I'll sleep soon."
A pause. Then footsteps retreating down the hall.
Lies came so easily now. Another change he hadn't expected.
⸻
**The Wandering Scholar**
Three days passed before the stranger arrived.
Lián Zhen was practicing his echoes in the abandoned mill when he heard footsteps on the path. He quickly dismissed the wind currents swirling around his arms and turned to see an elderly man approaching, his back bent with age, a worn traveling pack slung over his shoulders.
The man's robes had once been fine—silk embroidered with cloud patterns—but years of travel had faded them to muted grays and blues. Most striking were his eyes: pale as winter ice, yet somehow warm with curiosity.
"Forgive the intrusion, young master," the stranger said, bowing slightly. "I am Wei Xuanji, a wandering scholar. I've been seeking shelter for the night, and the villagers directed me here."
Lián Zhen frowned. "This mill has been abandoned for years. Surely they could offer you better accommodations in the village proper."
Wei Xuanji's smile was enigmatic. "Sometimes, young master, what appears abandoned holds the most interesting secrets."
Something in those pale eyes made Zhen's chest tighten. The echoes within him stirred uneasily, as if sensing danger—or recognition.
"I should return to the village," Zhen said carefully.
"Should you?" The old man settled onto a moss-covered stone, seemingly in no hurry. "Tell me, what do you make of the wind patterns here?"
Despite himself, Zhen glanced around. The air moved strangely near the mill's broken wheel, creating small eddies and currents that seemed to follow no natural law. He had noticed it before but thought little of it.
"The wheel disrupts the flow," he said slowly.
"An astute observation. And what of the spiritual currents?"
Zhen's blood went cold. "I don't know what you mean."
Wei Xuanji chuckled. "Peace, child. If I meant you harm, would I announce myself so plainly?" He gestured to the air around them. "This place hums with residual energy. Someone has been practicing here—someone with unusual resonance."
The game was up. Zhen could run, but what would be the point? Instead, he stood straighter, meeting the old man's gaze.
"What do you want?"
"To satisfy my curiosity." Wei Xuanji's expression grew serious. "I sensed an anomaly in the spiritual flows around this village. Something that shouldn't exist, yet clearly does. When I made inquiries, I learned of a boy marked with Absolute Silence. Fascinating contradiction, wouldn't you say?"
Zhen said nothing, but his silence seemed to be answer enough.
"May I?" The scholar gestured vaguely.
Before Zhen could protest, pale light emanated from Wei Xuanji's eyes. It lasted only a moment, but in that instant, Zhen felt something vast and ancient brush against his consciousness—like standing before an ocean and feeling its depth without seeing the bottom.
The old man's eyebrows rose. "Remarkable. Truly remarkable."
"What are you?" Zhen demanded, his hand instinctively moving toward his knife.
"A seeker of knowledge, nothing more." Wei Xuanji's tone remained conversational. "Tell me, how many echoes have you claimed?"
The casual way he said 'claimed' made Zhen's skin crawl. "I don't—"
"Three, at last count. Swift Blade, Wind Step, and Crimson Flame. All of them stable despite your… unique constitution." The scholar leaned forward. "Do you understand what you are, boy?"
"Broken," Zhen said automatically.
"On the contrary. You are perhaps the most dangerous cultivator I've encountered in fifty years."
The words hit like physical blows. Dangerous? Him?
Wei Xuanji continued, seemingly oblivious to Zhen's shock. "Most cultivators are limited by their spiritual nature—their dao, their element, their inherited bloodline. They can only resonate with echoes that match their inner harmony. But you…" He gestured at Zhen as if indicating a rare specimen. "You have no fixed nature. No barriers. No limits except those imposed by the vessel itself."
"That's not possible," Zhen whispered.
"Isn't it? Tell me, when you absorb these echoes, do you feel resistance? Spiritual backlash? The burning sensation most experience when attempting to learn incompatible techniques?"
Zhen thought back to each absorption. The Swift Blade had felt like coming home. Wind Step like remembering how to breathe. Crimson Flame like waking up.
"No," he admitted.
"Because silence is not emptiness, child. Silence is potential. Pure, unlimited potential." Wei Xuanji stood, suddenly seeming less like a frail traveler and more like something far more formidable. "You are not broken. You are unbound."
⸻
**The Offer**
"What do you want from me?" Zhen asked again, though he suspected he already knew.
"To make you an offer." The scholar began walking slowly around the mill's interior, his fingers trailing over broken stones and rusted metal. "There is a place, far from here, where your gifts would be valued rather than feared. Where you could learn to use what you have become."
"A sect?"
"Of sorts. We call it the Archive of Whispers. A repository of lost knowledge, forgotten techniques, abandoned paths of cultivation." Wei Xuanji paused at a section of wall covered in ancient carvings. "We are scholars, researchers, preservers of what others would let fade into memory."
"Thieves, you mean."
The old man's laugh was genuinely delighted. "Thieves? Perhaps. Though we prefer to think of ourselves as… collectors. These echoes you've claimed—they were not being used. They drifted, masterless, slowly dissipating back into the spiritual realm. You gave them purpose again."
"And you want me to give you purpose?"
"I want to give you understanding." Wei Xuanji turned to face him fully. "What you're doing—absorbing echoes without meditation, without preparation—it's miraculous. But it's also dangerous. Each echo you claim changes you, adds to the symphony in your soul. Without proper guidance, you risk…"
"What?"
"Dissolution. Too many voices, and eventually, you may forget which one is your own."
The warning resonated with something deep in Zhen's chest. He had noticed it already—small changes in his thoughts, his reactions. The Swift Blade made him more decisive. Wind Step left him restless. Crimson Flame filled him with strange hungers.
"How long do I have?" he asked.
"That depends on how many more you claim, and how quickly. But if you continue at this pace…" Wei Xuanji shrugged. "A year, perhaps two, before the echoes overwhelm what remains of Lián Zhen."
"And your Archive can prevent this?"
"We can teach you to harmonize them. To make the symphony truly yours, rather than simply containing it." The scholar's eyes gleamed. "We can show you how to become not just a collector of echoes, but their master."
Zhen was quiet for a long moment, weighing the offer. Leave his family, his village, everything he had ever known, to follow a stranger who claimed to understand his impossible gift.
"I need time to think."
"Of course." Wei Xuanji nodded graciously. "I'll be staying at the inn tonight. But know this—others will come looking for you, once word spreads. And they will not be as… benevolent in their intentions."
"Others?"
"Sects who would see you as a weapon to be forged. Clans who would cage you as a living treasure vault. Enemies who would kill you to prevent what you might become." The old man's expression darkened. "Your secret cannot remain hidden forever, Lián Zhen. The question is: when it emerges, do you want to face the world as a confused boy with dangerous power, or as a trained cultivator who understands his nature?"
With that, Wei Xuanji gathered his pack and began walking toward the village path. But just before disappearing from sight, he called back:
"By the way—there's a fourth echo resonating in the market square today. Something about stone and earth, if I'm not mistaken. Just thought you should know."
⸻
**Temptation**
Alone again, Zhen found himself torn between fear and desire. The scholar's warnings rang true—he could feel the echoes shifting within him even now, each one whispering its own desires. The blade wanted to cut, the wind wanted to run, the flame wanted to consume.
But the promise of understanding, of finally knowing what he was and what he could become…
His feet carried him toward the village before he consciously decided to move. The market square was indeed alive with activity—another traveling merchant showing off his wares to potential buyers. At the center of the crowd, a burly man was demonstrating something called the Iron Bulwark Echo, his skin taking on a metallic sheen as he invited the strongest villagers to strike him with wooden staves.
The blows bounced off harmlessly, drawing gasps of admiration.
Zhen felt the familiar stirring in his chest as his mysterious guide whispered:
[New Echo Detected: Iron Bulwark (Iron Grade)]
[Assimilate? Y/N]
His finger twitched toward acceptance, then stopped. Wei Xuanji's warning echoed in his mind: *Too many voices, and eventually, you may forget which one is your own.*
How many was too many? How many echoes could his silence contain before it became chaos?
As if sensing his turmoil, a familiar figure appeared at his side.
"Having second thoughts?" Feng Qiao's voice dripped with mock concern. "Not that it matters. Even if you could cultivate properly, you'd still be nothing but a farmer's son playing at being important."
The familiar surge of anger rose in Zhen's chest, but this time it was different. Stronger. The echoes responded to his emotion, harmonizing into something that felt almost like…
Like power.
"You know," Zhen said quietly, his eyes never leaving the demonstration, "I've been thinking about scarecrows."
Feng Qiao frowned, clearly thrown by the non-sequitur.
"They stand in fields all day, watching over the crops. Birds see them and think they're harmless—just straw and cloth, after all. But the smart birds know better." Zhen finally turned to meet Qiao's gaze, and something in his expression made the older boy take a step back. "The smart birds know that even a scarecrow can hide something dangerous underneath."
Before Feng Qiao could respond, Zhen melted back into the crowd, leaving only the echo of quiet menace in his wake.
The Iron Bulwark continued its demonstration, but Zhen was already walking away. He had made his decision.
Some secrets were worth keeping a little longer.
But as he headed toward the inn where Wei Xuanji waited, he couldn't shake the feeling that his time for hiding was running out faster than anyone—even the mysterious scholar—truly understood.
Behind him, in the market square, the fourth echo sang its earthen song to unhearing ears.
For now.