Dew silvered the tiles, and Zhou Qingrong's voice carried from where she and Wei Jingyan sat near the steps. While Lu Zhouyan and Fan Rongrui were standing.
Meng Chuan was huddled beside them, wrapped tightly in his blanket, face pale as parchment."I'm telling you," he said, voice shaking, "it said my name. My name! Clear as day — 'Meng Chuan'—right outside my door!"
Wei Jingyan snorted, nearly spilling his tea. "It was the wind wheezing through your ears. Who'd bother haunting you? You're too noisy even for a ghost."
"It wasn't the wind!" Meng Chuan shot back, clutching the blanket tighter. "The candle went out, the window moved, and then—" he lowered his voice dramatically— "it knocked."
Jingyan folded his arms. "Perhaps it admired your courage. You should open the door next time and thank it properly."
Even Mingyue's lips twitched, though he quickly looked away.
Xiuyuan watched the exchange quietly. "When did this happen?" he asked.
Meng Chuan looked startled by the question. "Just before dawn, I swear, it was real."
Wei Jingyan leaned toward him with a grin. "Then why are you still alive?"
"I hid," Meng Chuan muttered defensively. "Under the blanket."
Wei Jingyan burst out laughing. "The spirit of heroism lives strong in you."
"Enough," Qingrong said, though her smile lingered. "Let's not mock him too much. Fear can't always be laughed away."
Xiuyuan's eyes lingered on the disciple a moment longer, thoughtful. He said nothing more, but the faint crease between his brows deepened.
Just then, footsteps sounded from the upper steps. Sect Leader Yun Shufeng approached, his calm presence steadying the air. His white robes trailed faintly against the flagstones, his demeanor composed as ever.
"Good morning, Sect Leader Ling," he greeted, his smile warm but restrained. "I trust you rested?"
Xiuyuan inclined his head. "We did, thank you."
Shufeng's gaze passed over each of them — Qingrong, Jingyan, the disciples — before pausing on Mingyue for a brief, measuring moment. Then his smile returned, unreadable.
"I heard what happened last night," he said, glancing at Meng Chuan. "So the spirit spoke a name this time?"
Meng Chuan nodded rapidly. "Mine!"
Shufeng's brow furrowed slightly, though his tone stayed calm. "Interesting. It has never spoken before — only moved objects, extinguished lights." He turned to Xiuyuan. "Perhaps it is… learning."
The disciples shifted uneasily. Wei Jingyan rolled his shoulders, forcing a grin. "Then it'll learn what happens when it crosses us."
Meng Chuan, peeking from his blanket, muttered, "Or we'll learn how fast you can run."
Then Shufeng straightened. "If you're ready," he said, "the traces of the haunting remain strongest near the northern prayer hall. No one has entered since the last sighting."
Xiuyuan nodded. "Lead the way."
As they started toward the fog-draped ridge, Mingyue fell in step behind him — silent, graceful, his expression unreadable. The mist swirled between them, and for a fleeting moment, Xiuyuan thought he heard the echo of his own heartbeat, too loud in the quiet air.
Yun Shufeng's smile deepened — calm, wise, but carrying a shadow of concern. "We hoped this would be a small disturbance, nothing more than frightened disciples. But…" His gaze lifted toward the high pagoda at the center of the sect, where a great bronze bell hung in the distance, half-veiled by morning mist. "It has grown worse."
As the two sect leaders began walking side by side, the rest followed: Zhou Qingrong, Wei Jingyan, Fan Rongrui, Lu Zhouyan, Meng Chuan, and Mingyue among them.
Lin Wuyue and the six disciples she led remained at the foot of the mountain, following Xiuyuan's orders to survey the outer ridges.
The climb wound through ancient halls carved from pale stone. Prayer flags whispered in the wind, brushing against Xiuyuan's shoulders like ghostly hands. Yun Shufeng spoke as they walked.
"On the first night, when the bell rang, we believed it was the wind. But the wind cannot speak a man's name. Since then, every toll brings a whisper — faint, as though from within the metal itself. Last night, it called Meng Chuan's name."
Xiuyuan crouched beside the altar, his fingers tracing the faint scorched marks on the floor. "The bell's absorbing the energy, not rejecting it," he murmured. "Whatever is inside… it's feeding."
A small silence followed.
Then Meng Chuan whispered, "Can it feed on us too?"
Zhou Qingrong gave him a sharp look. "Don't invite it."
Yun Shufeng straightened, his tone thoughtful. "The bell was forged to contain grief — the remnants of monks who perished in silence a century ago. It rings when sorrow stirs. If that sorrow has found a voice again…"
"Then the silence was never broken," Ling Xiuyuan said quietly. "It was waiting."
The words had barely left his mouth when a faint metallic tremor rippled through the air — clang.
Everyone froze. The bell shivered on its chain, sound swelling low and deep.
Xiuyuan looked at the dark bronze surface, his reflection wavering there like a shadow. "Then we'll find out why it has chosen to speak again," he said, his voice calm — but his hand brushed the hilt of Qinglan, and Mingyue, standing beside him, noticed the faint tremor that passed through his fingers.
After the bell's echo faded, the sect seemed to hold its breath. For the rest of the morning, Yun Shufeng ordered the sect's wards reinforced and assigned new guards to the pagoda. Then, in the pale light before noon, he gathered the visitors in the main hall.
"To understand what happened," Ling Xiuyuan said, "we must start with those who last saw the vanished three." "Qingrong, Fan Rongrui, and Zhouyan — speak with the outer disciples who tend the lower shrines. They were first to report strange lights near the bell path." Yun Shufeng said.
His eyes met Xiuyuan's, calm but grave. "There are two disciples who shared night duty with the vanished ones."
Xiuyuan inclined his head. "Then I'll go myself. Mingyue will come with me."
...
Xiuyuan walked ahead, robes trailing lightly against the stone, while Mingyue followed half a step behind, silence between them stretched, comfortable and heavy at once.
They found the two surviving disciples in a shaded veranda behind the cloister. Both looked worn — pale-faced, sleepless, their eyes darting to the bell tower even from afar.
Xiuyuan's calm presence seemed to steady the air as he approached. "You were on watch the night they disappeared?"
The elder of the two nodded quickly. "Y-yes, Sect Leader Ling. We took turns with them. There was nothing unusual… until midnight."
"What happened then?"
The disciple swallowed. "It was quiet. Then I heard a bell — not the great one, a small one, from somewhere near the old shrine path. The others went to look. They said they'd be back before the next incense stick burned."
"And they never returned?"
The disciple shook his head miserably. "When we went after them, there was only fog. The path was colder than it should've been, and the trees… the trees were whispering."
Xiuyuan's eyes sharpened slightly. "Whispering?"
"Not words," the boy stammered. "Just… the sound of voices far away. Like chanting."
Xiuyuan turned to Mingyue. "Remember that," he murmured. "Chanting."
Mingyue nodded, quiet, watching how Xiuyuan's tone stayed calm — patient, even gentle with the trembling disciples. There was something magnetic about his restraint, the way his control steadied everyone around him.
When the questioning ended, the two disciples bowed repeatedly, almost in relief.
On their walk back, the mist had thickened. The sun above Tianyin Peak was pale as paper. Mingyue broke the silence first.
"Shizun… if the bell is bound to grief, then maybe the ones who vanished weren't taken by a monster."
Xiuyuan turned his head slightly. "Go on."
"Maybe they… answered something. Something that called them."
By the time they returned, dusk had begun to creep across the mountain. The other groups were already gathering in the main courtyard. Wei Jingyan was arguing animatedly with Zhou Qingrong about "haunted infirmaries," while Yun Shufeng and Fan Rongrui studied an old scroll laid out on the table.
Xiuyuan joined them, his robe damp with mist. "The disciples saw lights near the shrine path," he said. "And they heard chanting. Whatever lies behind this isn't wandering — it's rooted."
Lu Zhouyan nodded gravely. "Then we begin there tonight."