Qinghui jolted, nearly falling face-first into the pond.
Startled, he whipped around, sleeves dripping 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.
"This master thought the Esteemed Guest might have drowned," Lan Zeyan said flatly. "Turns out you were admiring flowers."
"...No, this one is not admiring flowers," Qinghui replied, gathering his dignity. "Not yet."
Straightening, he squared his shoulders. Lan Zeyan did not look away, his impassive face unreadable as their eyes locked in silence.
"...Your robe is still crooked," Lan Zeyan said at last.
Qinghui's brow twitched.
Without warning, Lan Zeyan stepped forward and began adjusting Qinghui's sleeves and tying his sash with practiced ease, like an older brother fussing over a younger one, though his face betrayed no emotion.
Qinghui raised an eyebrow at the forwardness.
"This is the White Sun Sect," Lan Zeyan said, brushing away an invisible speck of dust from Qinghui's shoulder. "Even guests should maintain proper decorum."
"This one is not part of your sect," Qinghui replied stiffly.
"But you are still within its grounds," Lan Zeyan countered.
They sounded like quarreling siblings, though only one of them seemed to care.
Qinghui sighed and glanced aside. "Qinghui. Just call this one Qinghui. It is not as though this one clings to formality when I remember naught of my past... nor even if I am truly mortal, as your sect believes."
Irritated, he brushed Lan Zeyan's hands away. It was a discourteous act, especially toward one of high rank, yet he did not regret it. Caution outweighed courtesy. Even kindness could not so easily earn his trust, for this place was strange from the beginning.
Lan Zeyan simply looked at him for a moment before turning his gaze toward the pond, specifically, the glowing lotus floating at its center.
"That flower is the Jade Spirit Lotus," he said quietly. "It blooms only once every few decades, a sign of divine purity. It is said to cleanse evil and dispel lingering malevolent spirits. We believe its presence here is Heaven's blessing."
"How did it end up here?" Qinghui asked, curiosity in his tone.
Lan Zeyan's lips curved faintly. "There is a tale. It speaks of a god who planted seeds in the Heavens—medicinals and salves for the ailing. Kind of heart, he tended his gardens each day. One day, he heard the cries of mortals below. Moved by compassion, he scattered his seeds to the mortal realm. One took root here, and the Jade Spirit Lotus bloomed, warding away spirits of ill intent. It is said the Spirit Lotus can cleanse all impurity."
Qinghui frowned. "If that god were truly benevolent, he should have cast the seeds into the Sinful Forest, to drive out demonic beasts and foul spirits, not here where strong cultivators may defend themselves. That is not benevolence, that is favouritism."
The Jade Spirit Lotus glimmered atop the water like a living jewel. Its translucent petals shimmered in green and white, while golden filaments at its heart emitted a faint, calming glow. The ripples never touched it, as if the pond itself held its breath to preserve its serenity. Its scent was faintly sweet, with an undercurrent of medicinal sharpness.
Lan Zeyan gave him a long, unreadable look, as if questioning his seriousness, but offered no retort. He merely sighed and turned back to the flower.
"This master does not know the god's intentions," he said after a pause, "but perhaps you were right as well."
Before Qinghui could speak further, a disciple approached and bowed deeply. "Lan Fu Zongzhu, we have gathered the records concerning the Root of Sentiment. The Sect Leader and senior elders await in the Main Hall."
At the mention of that name, Qinghui's ears pricked. The Root of Sentiment... the very parasite that latched onto me before I lost consciousness. They're going to discuss it?
Lan Zeyan gave a small nod. "Very well."
As he turned to leave, Qinghui stepped forward instinctively. "Wait, wait—!"
He moved to block his path.
The disciple's brows drew together. "How dare you obstruct Lan Fu Zongzhu? Have you no sense of propriety?!"
Qinghui ignored the scolding and looked Lan Zeyan straight in the eyes. "Take this one with you, Lan-gongzi."
Lan Zeyan's eyes widened slightly at the familiarity. Perhaps it was because of Qinghui's claimed memory loss, but hearing that address stirred something faint in him. He did not dwell on it.
The disciple bristled. "This—!"
Lan Zeyan raised a hand. "He is our Esteemed Guest. Stand down."
"...Esteemed Guest?" the disciple muttered, glancing between them.
Lan Zeyan turned back to Qinghui. "Why do you wish to come... Qinghui?"
"This one is a victim of the Root of Sentiment. I saw the cave. I felt its corruption. If your sect is investigating it, shouldn't this one be present to give testimony?"
"You are correct," Lan Zeyan said evenly, "but your body is not yet healed. The hall will be tense, filled with sharp eyes. I do not recommend you place yourself before color-seeking wolves."
"Are they that—"
"Aside from myself, the Sect Master will be present, along with the senior elders. The Sect Master has shown you kindness, but I cannot say the same for the rest. If you are determined, it will require patience and restraint."
Qinghui narrowed his eyes. "Then this one will go. The Daifu told me my questions would be answered. I believe this is what he meant."
Lan Zeyan glanced at the disciple, then gave a slow nod. "If Qinghui insists, I will not stop you. But first, you must fix your clothes."
Qinghui blinked, then tried to neaten them—but the layers made little sense. His eyes flicked to Lan Zeyan's robes, trying to mimic them, but they were not the same.
"If this master may," Lan Zeyan said, stepping closer, "..Allow me to adjust it for you."
This time, Qinghui didn't push him away, only looked aside awkwardly as Lan Zeyan adjusted the folds with practiced care.
---
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 First Master, Grandmasters, and the senior elders. On the ground level, seated in order of rank were senior disciples, and the masters of subsidiary halls.
When the great doors creaked open, all heads turned sharply.
Lan Zeyan entered with his usual cool grace, hands tucked neatly into his sleeves. Snickers and mutters rose like wind stirring reeds.
"Lan Fu Zongzhu," a senior elder's tone was 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 his gaze slid past Lan Zeyan to Qinghui, who trailed a step behind. "...I see you've brought our Esteemed Guest," he remarked. His tone was neutral, yet the undercurrent was clear. He even allowed a faint smile, as if expecting this outcome.
Before Lan Zeyan could respond, another senior 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 the air could turn sharper, Sect Master Jing Xiao lifted a hand with quiet authority.
"Enough. Lan Fu Zongzhu may be careless at times, yet he is not without reason. If he has brought this youth, he must see value in it."
Lan Zeyan bowed his head. "This Gongzi is the one who survived contact with the Root. And... I believe he may have insight none of us possess."
Though several elders still looked unconvinced, no one voiced further protest.
A disciple placed a smaller seat beside Lan Zeyan. Qinghui sat quietly, calm yet observant, showing no reaction to the suspicion surrounding him. He was like still water in a porcelain cup, one could not tell whether it was deep or shallow.
Jing Xiao unfolded a scroll and placed it on the table before him, his expression sharpening.
"As you are all aware," he began, "the White Sun Sect exists not merely to cultivate, but to guard the mortal realm against corruption. Recently, the affliction we have named the 'Root of Sentiment' has claimed three confirmed cases of spiritual devastation. Two have been purged. The third remains."
"Purged?" an elder murmured. "It resurfaces without fail. How can the First Master call it purged? This one believes the root is never truly destroyed—merely driven elsewhere."
"Indeed," another elder agreed. "It is like a weed. Cut the stalk, and the seed still lies beneath, waiting to grow again. Unless the host is destroyed, it will endure."
A mustached elder leaned forward. "By 'host,' do you imply that someone is planting them?"
"That is correct," came the reply. "Merely slaying the root changes nothing. We must find the hand that plants and nurtures it."
"Perhaps the danger lies not in the root itself—but in the host," another mumbled within the crowd as well, gravely.
Murmurs stirred the hall.
Lan Zeyan's voice broke through. "According to the daifu's findings, the Root attached to Qinghui-gongzi's back was unusually thin, yet he survived. This suggests that even a weakened root can take hold if the host's spirit is in turmoil. Despair, longing, grief—it feeds upon such sentiments like rot upon damp wood. That is why so many victims were fragile. Though the forest path is sealed, the stubborn still slip inside, only to perish."
"Then we cannot save them," an elder said bitterly. "They line up to be slaughtered like a sacrificial lambs."
"It is not merely stubbornness," Lan Zeyan said. "The forest calls to them. I suspect the voices of past dead lure the living within."
"The forest is a grave," a soft voice cut in, "of course they will call for help."
All heads turned.
Qinghui, who had remained silent until now, had lifted his gaze. "It is not simply a place where people die, but where they die with their hearts heavy. Seal the path as you wish; it will not stop them. If the forest had been cleansed as it should have from the start, none of this would remain."
Lan Zeyan's brow lifted slightly, but he said nothing.
One elder bristled. "And what does a mortal know of cleansing such a place? We have done so more times than you imagine."
"It was not enough," Qinghui said coldly. His voice carried the bite of one who would not yield to arrogance.
Another elder sneered. "Then why were you there? Called by the forest yourself? Seeking death?"
Qinghui's eyes met his, cool and unflinching. He himself did not know why he had been drawn there, but he knew it had not been to surrender his life.
A gentler elder interjected. "Then the danger lies not in the root..."
"But in the host," Qinghui finished, "the one who cultivates them."The kind elder nodded in approval.
Jing Xiao leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "You are suggesting a puppeteer—one who cultivates these roots for a larger purpose?"
Qinghui gave a single, firm nod.
"Your insight is... uncommonly precise," Jing Xiao said.
"They are not solely mine," Qinghui replied.
Lan Zeyan stepped forward and tapped a scroll. "I propose we send scouts not only to afflicted villages, but to grave sites and places heavy with unrest, suicide cliffs, battlefields, abandoned temples. I will personally oversee the Sinful Forest. Senior Disciple Lan Feirong said they subdued the root but found only a victim, not the host. Perhaps I can uncover what they could not."
"If it gathers where pain dwells, then to those wounds we must go," an elder said.
"But to what end?" another countered. "To chase a shadow?"
"We do not need to seize the beast entire," Lan Zeyan replied, "only to find the heart that sustains it."
A thoughtful hum passed among them.
Jing Xiao rose. "Enough for now. Lan Fu Zongzhu, form scouting teams for the southern district. Lan Feirong will lead the field. Qinghui-gongzi, you will remain within the sect's inner grounds."
Qinghui's lips parted, but Jing Xiao spoke first. "You are not bound by our discipline, yet I would not have you risk yourself with your Qi yet unsettled."
The meeting dispersed. Elders bowed to the Sect Leader and filed out.
Lan Zeyan drew near. "You bore their gazes well."
Qinghui's tone was flat. "Lan-gongzi's sect has no shortage of tongues."