Heaven's Whisper: The Emperor's Hidden Immortal
---
The morning in Willowbrook began with the usual chorus—roosters crowing, the splash of buckets at the well, and children bickering over stolen buns. Dew still clung to the rice shoots when the thud of hooves echoed from the east road.
Heads turned. Work slowed.
"Imperials," someone whispered, half relieved, half afraid.
Lucian stood beneath the willow tree at the village square, finishing the wrap of a linen bandage around a boy's scraped knee. "Don't run on wet stones," he said mildly. The boy nodded as though Lucian had spoken a heavenly truth, then scampered off anyway.
Dust clouded as five riders entered the square. Their armor was lacquered but travel-stained, their cloaks dulled by mud and wind. At their head rode a man with a square jaw and sharp, steady eyes. A banner of blue over iron snapped faintly behind him.
"Peace of the Ironwood upon Willowbrook," the captain called, dismounting before any elder could rise. He bowed low, first to the women and children, then to the gray-haired men. Only after that did he straighten, producing a sealed tube. "By order of the district prefect, we bring warning… and ask after ill news."
The elders exchanged worried looks. Old Granny Fen shuffled forward, her smile as weathered and dependable as the willow's roots. "You must be parched. Jian, fetch water. Ai, stools, stools. Captain, forgive our poor reception; our men are slow before their tea."
The captain's shoulders eased. "Your kindness puts cities to shame."
Lucian observed silently, posture relaxed but senses sharp. The soldiers carried fatigue like armor. One's hand shook faintly on his reins; another's eyes darted too often toward the treeline.
The captain broke the wax seal and read aloud, voice carrying over the hushed square:
> "To all settlements in North Iron District: Fear not. Though strange deaths have been reported in townships along the Liao River—bodies bloodless, ashes left in their place—order remains. The Empire has dispatched patrols. Avoid travel by night. Report strangers who ask after your numbers. Do not bury ashes or collect curios without registrar's mark. The Empire is with you."
Gasps rippled through the villagers. A child began crying; his mother clutched him tight.
"Bodies turned to ash?" someone murmured.
The captain folded the letter and raised his voice. "Rumors grow in the telling. We've seen these sites. They are few. Panic is useless. Keep doors barred at night. Travel in company by day. We'll patrol the north road and return by dusk."
Granny Fen's hand touched his sleeve. "You need food, son. No soldier protects well on an empty belly."
The captain smiled faintly, warmed. "One bowl, and I'll owe Willowbrook two."
They sat to eat. Chickens clucked irritably as stools scraped. Lucian accepted a cracked cup pressed into his hand, though he did not join their circle. He watched instead—the way the captain ate sparingly, eyes never leaving his men.
Lucian's other sight stirred. Threads.
The Dao's weave shimmered faintly before him. Mortals moved along the thick, ordinary lines of life. Beasts skirted the edges where fate frayed. And further north… a thread had been plucked too hard, too often. The rhythm faltered, like a harp string out of tune.
He felt it, sour, wrong.
The captain's shadow fell across him. "You haven't eaten, healer."
Lucian glanced up, then down at the rice bowl offered to him. He accepted it. "I've never known a healer worth his salt who didn't fear. Fear sharpens the knife." His gaze lingered. "Lucian."
"Captain Qiao Ren," the man introduced. "Mayor Han in Stonewall speaks highly of you."
"Mayor Han exaggerates."
"He says you saved his wife's life."
Lucian's smile was faint. "Sometimes heaven must be reminded to look again."
Qiao Ren studied him for a heartbeat, then nodded, letting it rest. Soon after, the patrol remounted and departed north, banners snapping once before fading behind the trees.
As their hoofbeats dwindled, the square filled with whispers.
"Bloodless bodies?"
"Demons…"
"No, I heard—men in black robes—"
"Hush, not in front of the children."
Lucian set his empty bowl on the well rim. "Keep little ones close at dusk," he said softly. "If you must travel, go in company. Tell stories to drown out fear."
His words soothed. They always did.
But that night, when the village slept, Lucian sat beneath his willow and listened again.
The threads sang.
Northward, the dissonance swelled. A hollow where the weave had been devoured, gnawing at the pattern itself. Not absence—hunger.
Lucian exhaled slowly. A rogue cultivator.
He could snuff it out with a word. A whisper carried farther along heaven's law than any rider along a road. But there were mortals near that void. Soldiers, perhaps. If he struck blindly, panic could slay where hunger had not yet reached.
So he waited. Watching. Listening.
Until—
The hum sharpened. A lantern's glow. The crunch of boots. Soldiers on patrol.
And a shape stepped from the river bend, black-robed, masked, hunger spilling from his hands. Foundation Establishment. Proud. Careless.
Lucian's lips thinned.
Fool.
He rose from the willow's shade, cloak brushing the grass.
The villagers dreamed safe behind shuttered doors. They would never know.
The night air hummed with the promise of a whisper.
Rogue cultivator revealed. Next chapter → Lucian intervenes, erasing him with a whisper. Rumors of a "hidden immortal protector" spread; Empress Mo Yueran hears them.