The oppressive sound of the spirits ceased. As quickly as it had seized him, the invisible force dropped Huà Yǐng from mid-air. He collapsed onto the damp earth, panting, his lips pale and eyes bloodshot from the ordeal. He fought to keep his consciousness from slipping.
The Spirit, still wearing Hán Zǎi's face but losing some of its chilling conviction in the face of the real Master, offered a parting shot: "Mark my words. After years, you're going to come here to seek me and answers." The certainty in the Spirit's tone—a chilling claim to know Huà Yǐng's future—made the student swallow hard.
"Shut up," Hán Zǎi commanded, his tone sharp and dangerous, then murmured like a threat aimed only at the Spirit, "I don't fear you. Nor your lies." The lingering effect of the wine kept his energy volatile, but his mind, surprisingly, was razor-sharp.
His focus was absolute: get Huà Yǐng out. He descended from the branch, moving with a predator's grace. He approached Huà Yǐng, swiftly gripping his student's hand while resting his other on his waist—a necessary, close proximity to control their movements and simultaneously instruct. Hán Zǎi felt a flicker of awkwardness at the sudden intimacy, a foreign sensation he quickly suppressed.
Huà Yǐng gasped in surprise, but his instinct was to follow the Master's lead. At least he was no longer alone.
"When they come too close, focus on their heart," Hán Zǎi instructed while dragging Huà Yǐng to his feet, maneuvering them around an illusory patch of darkness. "The blade should tear into the chest. Most common spirits have their weak point there."
He then shifted the lesson, his voice dropping lower. "But if they are residual ghosts, lingering for revenge or cruel wishes, the trick is difficult. You need a Knife of Dream." His hand shifted on the hilt of his sword, demonstrating the grip. "That dagger must be stabbed into the forehead to enter their dreams. You attack and kill them there—their hearts are buried into dreams." He delivered the technical scripts while his eyes never left the swirling fog.
Finally, he looked down at Huà Yǐng, an impatient sigh escaping him. "But I'm pretty sure you understood nothing."
Huà Yǐng nodded quickly, his desperation to please overriding his comprehension. "N-no, no! I understood, Shīzūn!" He focused on memorizing the movements of the sword, hoping to internalize the forms even if the theory was lost.
The Spirit's voice ripped through the air again, more strained now as it retreated. "Your resolve may collapse one day! Heavier than any mountain!"
Suddenly, a cacophony of truly terrifying, inhuman screams erupted, joined by the shrieks of what sounded distinctly like several women. The sound was designed to shatter concentration. Hán Zǎi winced, a sharp, profound pain stabbing into his right ear—worse than what Huà Yǐng felt. His vision momentarily blurred.
"Move!" he roared, then hissed under his breath, "I can't focus my Qi like this."
He grabbed Huà Yǐng, executing a series of tremendous, bounding leaps. They landed deep inside a shadowed crevice carved into the side of a colossal tree—a small cave. Hán Zǎi immediately drew a Black-Blue Shield Talisman, slamming it against the mouth of the cave. The opening instantly sealed, becoming a smooth, unbreachable rock face.
He sank heavily to his knees, leaning against the cold wall, eyes closed, panting raggedly.
Huà Yǐng's fear spiked higher when he saw the raw pain etched on his Master's face. His blood ran cold as he watched a thin trickle of crimson blood seep from Hán Zǎi's right ear.
"Shīzūn, you're hurt! You're... bleeding. Your ear is bleeding..." Huà Yǐng whispered, his voice trembling.
He knelt immediately, his own pain forgotten, reaching out with a gentle, trembling hand to staunch the flow. He knew he had been a headache, and the sight of Hán Zǎi, wounded and exposed, stirred a wave of profound concern.
Hán Zǎi tensed instantly. The wine in his system had his body on a knife-edge of hyper-alertness, and the pain-induced stress made him recoil. He snatched Huà Yǐng's wrist, pulling the hand away, then recoiled further, pressing his body against the cave wall. His cold, blue eyes snapped open and locked onto Huà Yǐng.
"Men are meant to bleed, not cry," he stated, reciting a clan rule. Then, with brutal speed, he moved, pinning Huà Yǐng against the rough cave wall by his throat. He felt the frantic pulse hammering beneath his fingertips.
"You're lucky you're not in class right now," he murmured, the words like a hiss against the boy's ear. "Or you'd get more slashes of my handfan for crying and trying to touch your senior. I held your hand for teaching, not out of pity."
"S-Shīzūn, why are you still so mad at me?" Huà Yǐng choked out, his voice small and dry. "Is that why you didn't come to class today... for your test?"
Hán Zǎi held his gaze for a long moment before answering. "No. I really was... sick. And worried about my test." He relaxed his grip just enough for Huà Yǐng to breathe. "I just came for the last part of my exam. I found no single student without their leaders, then found you here, so I thought of completing the exam by you, even though you're a headache wearing robes."
He looked away, his expression twisting into an angry confusion. "And also to get you back to the Hán Clan and punish you more since you're a marks-eater." He yanked his hand from Huà Yǐng's throat as if it had suddenly scorched him.
"A... huh?" Huà Yǐng stared, lost in the confusing new term. He nervously licked his dry lips. "W-what do you mean by... marks-eater, Shīzūn?"
Hán Zǎi didn't answer immediately. A sudden, mortifying heat rushed to his face as he remembered the notebook—the poems, the drawings, the blatant idolization. His eyes darted to Huà Yǐng from the corner of his vision, still maintaining an annoyed facade.
"That notebook..." he started, unable to form a coherent sentence. He finally managed to utter, his voice trembling with gruffness and confusion, "A total sin. It should have burned in my fireplace."
Huà Yǐng's cheeks instantly flushed crimson. He knew Hán Zǎi had read it all. "Y-you... you've read it, Shīzūn?"
Hán Zǎi's jaw tightened. He gave a single, curt nod.
A long, suffocating silence descended, punctuated only by the frantic echo of their hearts in the small, sealed space.
"W-what is... that... bad?" Huà Yǐng asked quietly, anxiously twisting the cuff of his sleeve.
Hán Zǎi let out a small, guttural growl and lightly slapped Huà Yǐng's hand with his own sleeve, a gesture that conveyed both annoyance and a desperate need to shut down the topic. "Bad habit. Didn't I tell you Rule Number 354: Men will be men?" He huffed, shifting his position to sit more comfortably, trying to distract himself. He spread his legs a bit, leaning back. "Taught you just yesterday with punishments, and you forgot it already?"
"S-sorry, sorry, Shīzūn! I didn't forget! Really didn't!" Huà Yǐng quickly hid his hands behind his back to avoid another slap, studying the Master silently. Something was clearly wrong.
Hán Zǎi was sweating profusely, his lips pressed into a thin, white line. His mouth felt suddenly bitter, and he fought back a rising gag. Why does the wine have to hit me now, locked in here? I should have drunk less as Gēge said. Focus. Focus, Hán. You can't lose control. He subtly loosened his outer robe, revealing his collarbone marked with a few old, faint scars, and fanned himself with his sleeve.
"Shīzūn, are you... having any fever?" Huà Yǐng asked quietly, his eyes widening at the severity of the sweating and the scars on his Master's chest. The sight of Hán Zǎi swallowing a gag confirmed his worry.
Despite the earlier warning, Huà Yǐng found himself moving, his concern overriding the rule. He quickly placed a gentle hand against the exposed skin of Hán Zǎi's neck. The opposite side of his palm, cool against the Master's feverish skin. Life was more important than obedience.
Hán Zǎi's eyes snapped open with a sharp hiss. He violently slapped the hand away, his entire body rigid and his pulse racing uncontrollably. He was wrestling a battle internally, his mind and body fighting the effects of the wine and the auditory attack.
"I TOLD YOU NOT TO TOUCH ME, KID!" Hán Zǎi yelled, the command cracking with raw desperation. Then, he whispered in a barely controlled, hissing tone, "You disobeyed me again."
The tiny, sealed cave was silent again, the air thick with tension, sweat, and the sharp scent of copper and blood. Huà Yǐng's innocent, healing touch had sparked a reaction in his Master far more volatile than the Spirit's attack. Hán Zǎi was not just sick; he was fighting a terrifying loss of control, and his student's very presence was an agonizing distraction.