"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 before settling on a shadowed figure kneeling beside the bed, hand poised mid-air, holding a long, gleaming acupuncture needle.
And he was naked.
"Gahhh—!" His voice shot up like a startled rabbit caught in a hunter's snare. He lunged for the blanket, wrapping it tightly around himself, ears burning as red as autumn maple leaves.
The man before him, dressed in the dignified robes of a healer, neither flinched nor frowned. Instead, he observed with calm eyes, the corners faintly crinkling as if amused.
"Gongzi has awoken just in time. This humble one was about to begin the treatment to unblock your dantian." His voice was gentle and steady, like water flowing over polished jade.
The youth stared at him. Then at the needle. Then back again. His gaze sharpened to the point that, had it been a blade, the Daifu might have fallen where he knelt.
Black Qi... I was leaking Black Qi before I passed out. If he's seen it...
His grip on the blanket tightened. Black Qi was not only rare, it was forbidden. It could corrupt the meridians of anyone it touched, or so he believed, a creeping venom to any righteous cultivator.
He shook his head slowly, stubbornly, like a child refusing bitter medicine.
The healer gave a resigned sigh. "It is for your well-being. Please, stay still. This will not be painful if the Gongzi remains calm and relaxed."
But the youth inched farther into the corner of the bed, bundled up like a rabbit hiding from the rain.
Seeing that he was no match for such unshakable resistance, the Daifu quietly closed his case of needles with a snap. "You are a strange one," he muttered, glancing once more at the shivering youth, who now resembled a frightened hare.
As the Daifu rose to leave, the youth caught a fleeting glimpse of a symbol beneath the healer's sleeve, a purple lotus, briefly visible before being hidden away. It stirred a faint suspicion, yet he chose not to press the matter.
"Where... am I?" he rasped.
The Daifu paused at the doorway. "The White Sun Sect. Gongzi's questions will be answered soon. For now, rest and do not resist."
And then he was gone.
The room fell silent save for the wind rustling the paper window screens. Qinghui sat motionless for a long moment, brows furrowed.
Why was I there? Why can't I remember anything...? My mind is blank, not even a dream remains.
Frustration tightened in his chest. Even if he tried to force answers from his own mind, he doubted anything would return.
He looked toward the window, where disciples in white robes trained in quiet harmony beneath the rising sun.
A deep, hollow sigh escaped him. With no name, no past, no memory... what place is there for me in this world?
Just then, a whisper stirred faintly in his mind.
Qinghui...
His breath caught. He glanced around, but saw no one, only plants swaying in the breeze and morning light spilling across the floor.
On instinct, he reached for the folded garments beside the bed. They weren't his, but nothing else was, either. Dressing quickly, he fumbled with the layered robes, leaving part of his collar askew and his pale chest partially exposed.
It was just in time.
The door slid open.
Two sect members stepped inside. Their pristine robes trailed with quiet dignity, their steps steady, posture upright, presence composed.
At the sight of the youth, one stiffened slightly, eyes hardening before quickly masking the reaction. Qinghui caught the look, locking eyes briefly before glancing away, thinking it rude to challenge a stranger with his gaze.
The elder of the two bore a calm expression, his eyes deep and steady, like one who had weathered many lifetimes without haste.
The younger stood beside him, silent, his sharp gaze lingering not on Qinghui's face, but on the loosened robe draped carelessly over his shoulder.
The older man spoke first. "I heard you refused the acupuncture. That was unwise."
Qinghui remained silent.
"Do you feel better?"
"I think so," he replied blandly.
The elder offered a faint smile. "This Master is Jing Xiao, Sect Master of the White Sun Sect. This is Lan Zeyan, Second Master of the White Sun Sect."
Qinghui nodded vaguely, unsure of the proper etiquette, his hands hanging awkwardly by his sides.
"May I inquire the Gongzi's name?"
Silence. His mind turned like a dull wheel stuck in sand. Then, one word surfaced from the fog.
"...My name is Qinghui," he said at last.
The two sect leaders exchanged a glance.
"A good name," Jing Xiao said softly, though his gaze lingered a heartbeat too long. "For now, you are our Esteemed Guest. The senior disciple who brought you here reported that you were a mortal caught in the trouble of the Root of Sentiment. It is unfortunate to be tangled in such a despicable situation. However, once you are healed, the White Sun Sect will personally escort you back to your home."
His tone grew firm. "Mount Yaojing has long upheld a rule. No ordinary mortal may set foot here unless soon to become a disciple or cultivator. In recent years, much has happened. The atmosphere has grown tense, and our members have become wary of outsiders. We cannot allow your stay to be long."
Qinghui nodded faintly. But then, almost without realizing, he murmured, "I don't remember anything."
Jing Xiao's eyes widened slightly, and Qinghui was sure he saw that reaction. It piqued his curiosity, but he hesitated to speak further. Still, he had to explain.
"This one remembers nothing. I only know I woke in that cave and was attacked by the roots, leaking—" He cut himself short.
"We know what you carry," Jing Xiao said quietly. "Black Qi. Though the White Sun Sect is dedicated to purging darkness and impurity, the Daifu could do nothing. If we attempt to purify it, you will die."
Lan Zeyan glanced at his sect master, then at Qinghui. "Do not worry, Qinghui-gongzi. Only the Sect Master, this Second Master, and the Daifu know of your Black Qi."
Jing Xiao added, "If you struggle to recall your past, perhaps, I can assist you for the time being, and you will be treated as an Esteemed Guest. Our members will not trouble you with questions."
Qinghui lowered his head. Unsure of the kindness shown to him, he nonetheless nodded, seizing the chance to remain while still in his weakened state.
"This one apologizes in advance if I cause trouble for the sect."
Jing Xiao's expression softened. "Gongzi is not a burden. For now, rest. The Daifu mentioned your stomach was grumbling earlier, so we prepared food on the small table."
"T-thank you."
The two turned to leave, but Lan Zeyan's gaze flicked back once more, not at the loosened robe this time, but at Qinghui himself.
Qinghui...? he thought before following Jing Xiao out.
As the door shut, Qinghui sat for a moment before walking to the table. Without hesitation, he began eating the steamed buns and sipping the tea. Tears pricked his eyes as he chewed.
"This is far better than roots," he muttered between bites.
Moments later, Qinghui stepped out of the room, his bare feet brushing against the smooth stone corridor. Though his Qi remained chaotic, flickering like a frayed thread, the thought of staying idle felt more suffocating than moving.
He still had no idea why a dark, malevolent Qi pulsed within him, only that it should not be there.
The air outside was cooler, carrying the faint scent of herbs and pine. The sect grounds were simple yet well-kept: clean stone paths, red pillars, white curtains fluttering lightly in the breeze. It was just as one would imagine a proper sect to be... or so he supposed.
He turned a corner.
Thud!
Someone slammed straight into him and tumbled onto the stone floor with a dull groan.
Qinghui didn't so much as flinch.
"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 evenly, "There's no need to apologize. I'm not the one who hit the floor."
His tone was polite, but distant, too calm to be truly warm.
A third disciple stepped forward, his features soft and sincere. "You're the mortal we rescued, right? Sorry for the trouble. Is Gongzi... alright now?"
Qinghui inclined his head. "I am."
The gentle disciple's eyes swept over him, taking in the loosely tied outer robe, the half-slipped collar, and the uneven sleeves. He looked as though he had lost a battle with a laundry line.
The disciple said nothing, merely cupped his hands and bowed.
"This humble disciple is Lan Feirong. I pay my respects to the Esteemed Guest."
The other two disciples hesitated, exchanging bewildered glances. One of them nudged Lan Feirong with a look that seemed to say: Why are you bowing to the mortal we dragged out of demonic roots?
But not to be outdone, they quickly mimicked him.
"This one is Ningning," the girl introduced brightly.
"...Meng Yao," the other muttered, avoiding Qinghui's eyes.
Lan Feirong smiled. "The Sect Master instructed us to treat Gongzi as an Esteemed Guest. If you ever needs help, please do not hesitate to ask. We would be honored to assist you."
Qinghui studied him for a moment longer than necessary, not expecting such courtesy. In the end, he gave a short nod. "I'll remember that."
The three disciples bowed again before leaving.
Once they turned the corner, Ningning immediately teased, "Shixiong, why bow to him like he's some Immortal Lord?"
"He might be," Lan Feirong replied calmly. "Or worse, someone important pretending not to be."
Qinghui watched them disappear with a quiet sigh.
He had no memory of who he was, but his understanding of cultivation sects remained intact. Names, practices, dangers, those fragments still clung stubbornly to him.
His gaze drifted to a massive old tree nearby. Its trunk was wrapped with white spirit ribbons and yellow talismans.
A seal? Or a memorial?
As he pondered, a group of passing disciples spoke in hushed tones.
"Heard the Root of Sentiment was found in the Sinful Forest. That thing always appears in impure places. It's already killed hundreds. Think it was the Calamity God's doing?"
"Speaking of the Calamity God... didn't that god die years ago?"
"The Shizun said the body was never found. So there's no proof the god is dead. The Calamity Gods were powerful, what if we have to face it one day?"
"No way."
Qinghui said nothing, though his eyes hardened slightly.
Then, faint and unexpected, a sound drifted through the air—a low, melancholic tune, whispering from the strings of an erhu.
What's that sound?
Without thinking, his feet carried him toward it, guided by the music. Step by step, he followed the melody through winding corridors and empty courtyards. It wove through the breeze like a half-forgotten memory.
And then, it stopped.
Qinghui blinked, finding himself in a quiet garden.
It was serene, flowering herbs in neat rows, lotuses blooming in a rippling pond, lavender vines swaying gently in the wind. The air carried a calming fragrance, enough to soften his thoughts.
Almost.
The music was gone. Its source, vanished.
He sighed, then frowned.
Drawn to the pond, he noticed a faint glow beneath the water's surface. At its center floated a lotus with petals as pale as jade, gleaming softly in the light. Something about it tugged at his memory.
He crouched, leaning closer, fingers stretching toward it inch by inch.
Then...
"What are you doing?"