The sun hung high in the azure sky, casting gold across the vast countryside like a painter's final stroke. It bathed the world in warmth, but not everything it touched remembered how to feel it.
From the dense edges of the forest, where the trees grew ancient and the shadows clung like memories, a lone figure stepped forth—quiet as wind, steady as the flow of a forgotten river. The town before him was a riot of life: hawkers called out with enthusiasm, children's laughter bounced off stone walls, and the scent of fried dumplings, sweet lotus cakes, and aged plum wine drifted thick through the air. The clamour of horse hooves, rustling silks, and spirited gossip filled every space in between.
Yet amid the celebration of ordinary life, he stood like a solemn ink stroke on an otherwise vibrant scroll—an anomaly of silence, weight, and winter.
His robes were midnight blue, the fabric dense and cool, stitched with silver threads that shimmered like stars scattered across the heavens. Moons and celestial rivers curled in patterns across the hems, ethereal and ever-shifting under the light. A gauzy veil hung from a silver circlet at his brow, obscuring the sharp line of his jaw, the fullness of his mouth, and the frost-shard coldness of his gaze. Beneath the veil, his expression was unreadable.
His black hair flowed behind him in a long, ink-slick wave, tied in a half-knot—elegant, restrained, refined. On his left hand, a single black glove covered skin from fingertip to wrist, tight and tailored. It was not for warmth. It was to conceal the mark of his curse, the seal that still whispered to him in restless dreams.
At his waist hung a sword in its obsidian scabbard—silent, sharp, and dormant. It bore simple inscription—Xuemie. There were no symbols of ownership or clan. But those who once heard its name would have trembled at the sight. That name, however, had not been spoken aloud in years.
He walked, not as a man among the living, but like a spirit still tethered by unfinished fate. He spoke to none. He moved like mist. His only goal lay far beyond the laughter of children or the clamour of trade. He had not chosen to return—but fate had left him no other path.
His destination—Qi Ling Valley—the home of spiritual harmony, the realm of verdant flora, healers, and gentle cultivators. The people there did not train for war but to soothe, to heal, to balance. Before his life was sealed in ice, he had once laughed among them, sipped tea beneath blooming wisteria, and guided young disciples in the naming of plants. Now he returned not as a friend, but as a ghost chasing memories. It had been many years… too many. Since his name was dragged from sacred halls and whispered in fear. Since trust shattered like glass beneath a boot. Since blood stained the snow and the only warmth he had ever known faded from his grasp.
Now, he was no longer Chen Ziyin—not to the world, perhaps not even to himself. Now he bore the name Gui Shuang, 'Ghost of Frost'. Fitting, wasn't it?
He stepped quietly into the town, weaving among villagers and disciples in robes of jade green and vine purple. He passed incense stalls, spirit bead vendors, children carrying flower garlands. All of it—so painfully alive. No one recognised him. He was grateful for it.
Yet even amidst the market's joy, his heart was drawn to a flicker of familiarity. On a weather-worn pillar, pinned by rusted nails and time, a faded wanted scroll still clung to the wood. His breath caught.
The face was blurred. But the sword… Linghua.
His sword. His legacy. His shame. He remembered the moment it was taken from him, it shattered. The sound—like frozen tears breaking on stone. The feeling—like everything he had once been had cracked apart with it.
His trance was broken by a voice—warm, sincere, startling in its simplicity.
"Young cultivator, may I ask—have you travelled far? What brings you to our humble valley?"
The speaker was an elderly man, hunched slightly with age, arms laden with baskets of peaches and lotus roots. His robes were plain, his smile soft with decades of kindness etched into the corners of his mouth.
Ziyin—no, Gui Shuang—startled faintly beneath his veil. He bowed low.
"Indeed, Senior. This man is but a wandering cultivator from the southern borderlands. I go by Gui Shuang."
"A fine name," the old man chuckled, slapping his shoulder without hesitation. "You've arrived at a lucky time! The Dragon Lantern Festival is nearly upon us. Ah, the lanterns, the songs, the dumplings wrapped in reed—why, even the valley's disciples perform martial dances with their spirit beasts! A sight for weary eyes!"
Ziyin stilled at that. The Year of the Wood Dragon. So… it had truly been thirty years.
He swallowed the realisation quietly and lowered his gaze. "It sounds wonderful, Senior. If I may be so bold... are there any households or sects in need of assistance? I have some training. I would be glad to offer it in exchange for lodging."
The man hummed thoughtfully. "Well now… there's been some unease near Mo Ye Forest. Unnatural wails, strange fogs, even the animals shy away. Our spirit-weavers placed a minor barrier, but none dare go near."
"Has anyone been harmed?" Ziyin asked quietly, tension ghosting through his shoulders.
"No, thank the heavens. But the elders are wary. We've written to the capital for help, but… You know how long they take." The old man sighed. "We, spirit owners, are not meant for battle, after all."
Ziyin bowed again, his movements precise and fluid. "This one thanks you, Senior. I shall investigate."
The elder waved him off cheerfully. "Take care, young one! May the wind favour your steps."
Ziyin did not linger. He turned away, the shadows following him like loyal dogs.
He raised his left hand and flicked open a black fan of dark feathers, veiling the bottom half of his face once more. A soft hum of spiritual wind gathered around him. A single pulse of light—quiet and unseen—and he vanished into the shifting air, leaving behind only a swirl of petals and a name no one would remember.
Not yet.
But soon, the whispers would return.
*
The road to Mo Ye Forest was long. But Chen Ziyin had already waited longer than any road could stretch.
In his youth, he had wandered these paths not as a warrior, but as a scholar hungry for wonder. Back then, he had sought truth in forbidden scrolls, in long-forgotten beasts, in the flickering breath of the world's magic. Dangers had not deterred him—they had called to him, like moth to flame. There was a time when he had burned with curiosity.
A time before everything in him turned cold.
The sounds of the bustling town soon faded into a gentle hush. No more laughter, no clang of pans from open tavern windows, no gossiping voices. Only the steady crunch of leaves beneath his boots, and the hush of the wind weaving between crooked boughs.
The forest ahead was no longer what it had once been. Trees that had once blushed green were now shrivelled and grey. The scent of decay lingered beneath the moss and stone. A thin veil of mist curled along the roots and hollowed paths, known to cloud the mind and twist the heart. Ziyin did not fear it. He had lived long enough with illusions to know when to silence them.
He walked until the boundary of the barrier shimmered before him—an invisible veil, humming softly with spiritual warning. Beyond it, the trees stood crooked, bent like weeping mourners. The sky itself dimmed there, the light filtering through like memories blurred with pain.
Ziyin raised a hand. The air shifted. The mark beneath his glove pulsed. He stepped through the barrier—and pain surged through his palm like fire.
He did not cry out.
His breaths deepened, teeth clenched, the weight of the forest pressing down upon him like judgment. Beasts stirred in the shadows. Not hungry—but curious. Playful.
He pressed his palm to his chest, calming the storm inside. He had no intention of letting the curse speak today. He had come for clarity, not carnage.
After a few steady breaths, Chen Zhao calmed his mind and suppressed the deadly impulse within him—an impulse he hoped never to unleash again.
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3. Xuemie (雪灭) - 'Snow's End' / 'Extinguishing Snow'. Chen Zhao's sword.
4. Qi Ling Valley (栖灵谷) - 'Valley of Resting Spirits' (located in Wisteria Valley). Residence of Qi Ling Sect.
5. Chen Ziyin (辰子引) - 'Guided by the Stars'; Chen Zhao's courtesy name.
6. Gui Shuang (归霜) - 'Frost's Return'; Chen Zhao's fake name after escaping from Ice Prison.
7. Linghua (灵华) - 'Spirit Blossom' / 'Divine Flower'; one of Five Heavenly Artifacts, divine sword. Originally, wielded by Jing Lianqing, later gifted to Chen Zhao.
8. Mo Ye (漠野) - 'Silent Wilds'; haunted and abandoned forest on Qi Ling Valley's territory, usually evil spirits live there.
9. Chen Zhao (辰昭) - 'Brilliance of the Heavens' / 'Bright Morning Star'; birth name.