The day seemed deceptively calm, the heavy mist muffling sound and movement like a shroud.
But inside the Black Bamboo Flute Spirit Forest (黑竹笛精森林/ Hēi Zhú Dí Jīng Sēnlín), serenity was a deadly illusion.
Deep within the ancient, tangled woods—the private training ground of the Hán Clan—darkness reigned.A single, pale flower, struggling against the perpetual gloom, seemed a pathetic sentinel for a sliver of light that might never arrive.
Today was a test, a brutal exercise that underscored the Clan's core belief: skill and power were valued more than life and peace.
All the young cultivator brothers from Hán Zǎi's and Hēi Yīng's classes were paired up. High and low-rank alike were thrown into this perilous environment to practice the dangerous balancing act of facing evil spirits. The younger ones, like Huà Yǐng, a seventh-grade student, were tasked with understanding evil spirits, practicing defense with the sword and talisman arts, and identifying spirits by their mannerisms.
The older cultivators, like Hán Zǎi, were to be their anchors—guides, protectors, and mentors—monitored by the elders for their leadership skills.
The danger was extreme. The spirits in this forest, specifically the Black Bamboo Flute Spirit (now simply referred to as the Spirit), possessed the terrifying ability to shift into the exact image of their target's loved ones, friends, or trusted seniors. Safety and peril looked alike; trust was a trap.
A heavy, unnatural fog, thick enough to be soundproof, had rolled in, disorienting the pairs.
"Shīzūn! Where are you?! This spirit is going to kill me! I can't handle him alone!" Huà Yǐng screamed, his voice swallowed instantly by the cotton-like air. He had stumbled, lost contact with his senior guide, and was now alone.
The Spirit attacking him had taken the form of one of the older students—a familiar, trusted face now contorted by malice. Huà Yǐng was only a beginner; prolonged combat was impossible. His mind raced, struggling to distinguish an actual protector from a murderous imitation.
Perched unnaturally on an ancient, knotted tree—like a monstrous spider—the Spirit chuckled. Its eyes were pools of absolute black, its skin a sickening, pale grey, like a week-old corpse.
"No one will come to save you, kid," the Spirit hissed in a dry, rasping tone. "And even if they do, it'll only be us wearing a human mask. So, imagine whomever you want. We'll come to you in that form."
Huà Yǐng's heart pounded, a deafening drum in his ears. Frantically, he reached for his tools—flute, sword, talismans—but his belt felt empty. The forest seemed to have consumed everything. In desperation, he activated a Black Lotus Talisman. It flared with black fire, but instead of striking the Spirit, the flame licked back and burned his palm. He cried out, tears stinging his eyes from the pain.
The Spirit laughed, a brittle, bone-dry sound. "How do you even hope of being a Hán member? You can't even use a simple talisman!"
Huà Yǐng bolted, running blindly and aimlessly. The Spirit pursued him, the cruel mockery following like a shadow. "Where are you going, little one? Come to Shīzūn."
"Shut up! You're not them! Stay away from me!" Huà Yǐng screamed back, tripping over a root and falling hard to the mossy ground.
As he scrambled to stand, his gaze snagged on two objects lying nearby: his sword and his bamboo flute. A fresh wave of icy terror washed over him. He had been running for several minutes without his weapons. How were they here? He looked around: the peculiar twist of the ancient trunks, the specific patch of ghostly moss—it was the exact spot where he had first lost his senior.
He hadn't been running away. He had been running in a circle.
Trapped. The blood drained from his face, his head spinning. If he had looped back to the same spot, it meant he was in the Red Light Area, the forbidden inner circle of the forest. Without an elder's direct intervention, there was no escape.
"Huà Yǐng."
The voice cut through the fog. Calm, utterly confident, and utterly familiar. It was Hán Zǎi's voice. Huà Yǐng's heart leaped with a desperate, painful hope. Had his true Shīzūn, the one who was supposedly sick and absent, truly come for him?
But the relief was instantly replaced by a paralyzing doubt. Hán Zǎi usually spoke in a dual pattern: a crisp command followed by a quiet murmur. This voice, however, echoed only once, unnaturally clear and precise.
That's not him. The spirits could wear a fake face, but they couldn't perfectly replicate the nuances of a person's soul.
Huà Yǐng didn't move forward; he backed away slowly, deliberately, as cold, heavy footsteps crunched on the fallen leaves.
One step. Two steps.
Then, emerging from the mist, the Spirit appeared. It wore the unblemished face of Hán Zǎi. But it was not him. The Spirit tilted its head, a dark, slow grin splitting the beloved features, accompanied by a hideous, wet bone-cracking sound.
Huà Yǐng was frozen. The deep, often severe coldness he knew in Hán Zǎi's eyes was replaced by a look of impossible, boundless cruelty.
The Spirit spoke, its voice carrying Hán Zǎi's authoritative cadence but laced with something rotten. "The Háns aren't what you think... and we aren't what you think. And when you finally know it, you'll wish to die right here!" The laugh that followed was chilling—a victory shriek in the borrowed voice.
The Spirit began to walk toward him, the grotesque grin sickeningly wide.
"Now now, you keep looking at the last face you've remembered while I kill you, okay?" the Spirit mocked, circling him with the predatory grace of a wild beast.
"S-stop saying your nonsense! They can't be like that! I don't believe an evil spirit like you!" Huà Yǐng screamed, pointing his sword, desperately trying to project strength he didn't possess.
The Spirit simply extended a hand, and an invisible force slammed Huà Yǐng backward against a tree. He gasped, the air knocked from his lungs.
"Where is care? Where is responsibility?" the Spirit continued, its tone shifting suddenly, becoming quiet, thoughtful, almost poetic. "Can you tell me, does this cultivation have any humanity?"
The profound, confusing words snagged in Huà Yǐng's young, reeling mind. Before he could process the dark, rhetorical poison, a new voice, laced with genuine, palpable danger, cut through the air.
"Let go of my student."
The real Hán Zǎi stood on the thickest branch of the ancient tree above, his dark robes blending with the shadows. His face was devoid of the Spirit's maniacal grin, set in a mask of controlled fury. The coldness Huà Yǐng had always feared in his master's eyes was there, sharper than any blade.
"Or it's not going to be good for you," Hán Zǎi murmured, the sound possessing a distinct, almost primal edge—a darkness that was still recognizably human, still his.
"S-Shīzūn... you came..." Huà Yǐng's voice was rough, barely a beaten whisper, his focus snapping up to the true master.
Hán Zǎi did not look at him. His entire focus was a cold weight pressing down on the Spirit below. "A cheap imitation," Hán Zǎi stated, his hands already moving. "You picked a good face, but you lack the true terror."
The Spirit's cruel confidence wavered, its grin faltering before the master's genuine, lethal intent.
Huà Yǐng didn't understand the darkness in the Spirit's words, but he understood the threat in his Shīzūn's posture: Hán Zǎi had not come to guide. He had come to execute.
He had his answer: In the Hán Clan, humanity was a tool, but loyalty—loyalty to a student, to a claim of ownership—was absolute. And that, in this black forest, was enough.