The morning court of Jingshou Sect was unusually still.
Mist drifted beyond the stone steps of Xianxiu Peak; incense burned in silver spirals, its scent faint and austere. The four masters were already seated upon the dais, the disciples lined in quiet ranks along the walls, their breaths subdued beneath the weight of silence.
At the center sat Ling Xiuyuan, his gaze serene yet distant, the faint light gilding the white strands in his hair.To his right stood Nie Xiaohuan, scrolls gathered neatly in his hands.Across from him, Lin Wuyue stepped forward and bowed deeply.
She held a sealed envelope — the wax broken, edges darkened by talisman fire.
"This arrived at dawn," Wuyue said. "From Tianyin Sect's Leader, sealed by his personal mark. I read it once before bringing it here."
The murmur of disciples fell away entirely.
Xiuyuan inclined his head. "Read it."
Wuyue unfolded the letter. Her voice, low and steady, carried clearly through the hall.
"To the honored Ling Xiuyuan, Sect Leader of Jingshou:It gladdens my heart to hear that your health has improved, and that light once more touches Xianxiu Peak.I had long wished to visit and see you again, old friend — and when the storms pass, I still will.But before that day can come, I must beg your aid.The bell of Tianyin has awakened. It tolls each night though no wind stirs, and those who approach the tower lose sense and speech, murmuring of shadows beneath the stairs.Three disciples entered to quell the disturbance; none have returned.The matter has grown beyond our strength.I implore the guidance of Jingshou Sect.— Sect Leader Yuan Hanqing, Tianyin Sect."
When her voice fell silent, the hall seemed to hold its breath.The faint hiss of incense was the only sound.
Wei Jingyan exhaled softly. "The bell of Tianyin is no ordinary relic — it was forged to subdue resentful spirits. For it to toll now means the wards are failing."
Zhou Qingrong frowned. "Three disciples vanished, and even their bell-wards are broken. This isn't a haunting — it's corruption."
No one spoke.
At length, Xiuyuan rose. His sleeves whispered against the floor, the movement calm and final."Prepare for travel. At dusk, we depart for Tianyin."
The masters bowed. Disciples answered in one voice, the sound low and resolute — like the drawing of breath before a storm.
Dawn had not yet broken upon Xianxiu Peak.The wind was thin and cold, winding through the pines that leaned toward the misted cliffs. In the Sect Leader's chamber, a single lantern burned — its light soft against the pale silk curtains, throwing long shadows over the floor.
Nie Xiaohuan stood behind his Shizun, fastening the inner clasp of the dark traveling robe. His fingers were careful, lingering a heartbeat longer than needed, as though memorizing the fabric between them.
"Let me come, Shizun," he said quietly.
Ling Xiuyuan did not answer at once. He looked toward the faint glow seeping through the lattice window — a light neither day nor night. His reflection trembled upon the glass, austere and calm.
"You should stay," he said at last, voice even. "The sect will need someone steady in my absence. Assist Han shixiong with the outer divisions. He will need your hands."
Xiaohuan's breath caught. He bowed his head lower, tightening the sash around Xiuyuan's waist.
"Do you have to go yourself?"
Xiuyuan turned then, the faint motion of his sleeves brushing against Xiaohuan's hand.
"Yes."
His eyes, long shadowed by grief, held a clarity that had not been there in years.
"Tianyin once stood beside us when Jingshou was burning. I should be the first to answer them now, at their lowest hour. I still have not repaid the debt from seven years ago."
He spoke without pride — only with quiet certainty.
Xiaohuan lowered his gaze further, his voice barely a whisper.
"Then allow me at least to—"
"You've followed me long enough," Xiuyuan interrupted softly. "If danger comes, I would rather it reach only me."
The silence that followed was tender and unbearable.Lantern light trembled. The pines outside sighed.
At last, Xiaohuan knelt, arranging the lower hem of Xiuyuan's robe with the same care.
His fingers lingered on the embroidered edge — the white-thread sigil of Jingshou glimmering faintly beneath the light.
When he rose, his eyes were bright. He bowed deeply, his voice unsteady but respectful.
"Then… please return safely, Shizun."
Xiuyuan did not reply, only laid a hand briefly upon Xiaohuan's shoulder — a gesture so gentle it almost undid him. Then he turned and walked out, his figure soon swallowed by the morning haze.
Beyond the courtyard, mist hung low over the stones. Disciples bowed as their Sect Leader passed, silent and solemn. He crossed the long veranda to the sealed chamber at the back of the hall — a room untouched for years.
He placed his palm upon the talisman at the door. The seals, pale with age, shuddered once before yielding, their ash scattering into the air like dusted snow.
Inside, the chamber smelled faintly of iron and incense.Upon a stone altar lay a sword — long, narrow, bound in silk. A strip of red cloth still sealed its hilt, its color dimmed but not lost.
This was Qinglan, the blade he had once carried into countless battles — the same he had sealed away four years ago, swearing never to raise again.
He stood before it for a long moment, the silence pressing gently around him.
When he reached out, his fingertips brushed the silk; it dissolved at once into a shimmer of light and dust.The blade beneath was still flawless — faintly luminous, as if it had waited for this moment.
"It's time," he murmured. "If I cannot return peace to others, then what meaning does my vow hold?"
As he lifted Qinglan, a low hum filled the chamber — neither metal nor wind, but something between the two. The air itself seemed to remember him.
Outside, on the terrace below, Nie Xiaohuan knelt by the steps, head bowed.
Then the first light of dawn broke across Xianxiu Peak, painting the mist gold.And from within the hall stepped Ling Xiuyuan, robed in black and silver, Qinglan at his side — once more the man who carried the weight of the world with quiet grace.