The classroom was not simply waiting; it was holding its collective breath, the typical morning clamor replaced by a tense, anticipatory stillness. The question hung thick and palpable in the air, a shared uncertainty among the disciples of the esteemed Hàn Clan.
"Why hasn't Shīzūn come yet?"
"Today… was Hàn Zài Shīzūn's another demo lesson, right? Maybe he's planning a famously dramatic late entry."
The students murmured, their whispers failing to disguise their nervousness as Hàn Zài still hadn't appeared.
Hùa Yǐng sat rigid at his desk, his gaze fixed on the half-healed, pale scar marring the soft skin of his palm. His rosy eyes, usually sparkling with youthful curiosity, were slightly dimmed and pale, reflecting the sleepless anxiety that had consumed him. He hadn't managed to sit still or focus through the previous class, his mind relentlessly gnawed by a terrifying worry that had curdled in his stomach overnight: "Who knows what he'll cut off of me today after he has seen my notebook…" The fear was not abstract; it was the sharp, metallic dread of a precise, humiliating punishment.
A familiar, calming voice cut through the suspense.
"Students, attention."
Instead of the expected figure, Yǐng Huō Shīzūn stepped through the doorway. He wore his usual, gentle smile, yet today, it was subtly marred by a faint shadow of sadness—a reflection of concern for his best friend. He paused, allowing the students' attention to settle before speaking.
"Your Shīzūn, Hàn Zài, he suddenly took ill and has requested a necessary break," Yǐng Huō announced, his voice professional and even. "He will attend his next assessment once he is better. So, today, I will be covering the instruction here."
The classroom instantly combusted into a low roar of speculation, a palpable wave of light gossip washing over the stunned disciples. A cluster of boys immediately started a fervent, hushed debate.
"Did we annoy him so profoundly that he's resorting to this thin excuse of being sick? He was perfectly fine yesterday, giving lectures with the intensity of a hurricane, and even—making a student his prey!" The speaker's tone was a blend of shock and grudging respect.
"No, that's unlike him. Why would he deliberately skip his crucial test preparation like this? It's not as if he receives special dispensation for absence. I sincerely believe he must be genuinely sick. I don't think he's one for fabrication."
"Exactly. I've observed he's deadly serious about every single move he makes. If he's absent, something fundamentally is wrong."
"If you're that supremely confident, then let's formalize a wager! If he's genuinely indisposed, you'll earn one silver coin; if he's merely staging a strategic retreat, I'll take two silver coins."
"Oi! That ratio is absolutely unfair! Why should you get an extra coin, huh? If you lose, I get one silver, and you get nothing! If you win, you only get one silver from me! Your judgment is always terrible; how will you ever survive under his tutelage once he returns if you misread his motivations this badly?!"
Yǐng Huō couldn't suppress a faint, low chuckle at the spiraling intensity of their squabble. He gently clapped his hands once—a soft, authoritative sound that immediately refocused their attention.
"Alright, class. Let us temporarily set aside the mystery surrounding your respected Shīzūn and afford your new instructor the courtesy of a quiet class, alright?"
"Alright!" the students chorused, the agreement immediate and unanimous.
Hùa Yǐng blinked once, then again, the entire development baffling him. Hàn Zài had been terrifyingly composed and powerful just yesterday; what seismic event could have caused such a rapid, sudden illness? And the notebook—did his innocent, childish mistake, which had somehow escalated into a sin, truly possess the power to destabilize such a strong, middle-ranking senior?
"I'm confused to even know how to feel about this…" he murmured, his gaze drifting out the window. His innocent, rosy eyes, usually alight with simple emotion, were now clouded. He held his brush lightly under his nose, his lips pressed into a small pout of concentration.
The situation was impossibly complicated. He couldn't permit a relieved sigh to escape, for that would be the height of cruelty—a celebration of being spared. Yet, he couldn't simply be happy either. Deep in his heart, a genuine thread of worry was woven for the formidable young man he had begun to closely idolize. Before arriving at the academy, his most cherished dream had been to witness all twenty sons of the legendary Hàn family, particularly the first and the twentieth. Meeting the nineteenth son, Hàn Zài, had already felt like a stroke of destiny fulfilled. He hadn't seen all of them, but the hope persisted.
"If I get a chance to see all twenty of them… then I'll draw all of them in one frame… just as a royal family should look like… all perfect and together…" He couldn't help but allow a faint, determined smile to grace his lips as he indulged in the artistic fantasy.
On the other side of the academy, in a chamber cloaked in a pervasive, thick dimness, the catastrophic echoes of Yesterday played back in Hàn Zài's mind, the scene looping endlessly like an unshut, haunting door.
"Stupid tongue..stupid student and his stupidity notebook" Hàn Zài muttered, the word laced with a desperate, venomous anger. He gripped the hair at his temples so tightly his knuckles were white, his eyes clamped shut, rolling back against the searing humiliation. "Stupid, distracted student… ate up my full marks… how will I show my face into my class… especially my Father?"
He had not yet opened the cursed notebook, nor had he managed to drag himself to the class he was born to teach. He was fortunate—his father, Yè Hán Shēn Zài, the Dàozǔ of the Hàn Clan, was currently away for an important, protracted round of meetings with another sect. But that reprieve was finite.
Lying in his bed, he was wracked by a low, persistent fever brought on by the dangerous intensity of his overthinking. A thin, unnerving red mark—the trace of something profound—was visible on his wrist. A small, razor-sharp knife lay carelessly on the polished, black-blue floor, a minute, ominous smear of blood marking its presence. The rest of the tale was unrecorded, yet deeply understood within the clan's hierarchy of pressure.
The room seemed darker with every breath Hàn Zài took. The air had weight — thick with the humiliation he'd failed to swallow. The fever burned low under his skin, a punishment of his own making.
Outside, a wind whispered through the bamboo — thin, almost like a voice. It carried the faint echo of the classroom's morning chatter, laughter he could almost still hear, mocking him.
"Stupid stupid stupid stupid !"he muttered again like cursing while maintaining rules. his voice cracking slightly this time. His hand twitched toward the knife lying by the bedside, fingers trembling, then froze.
A pause. Then someone's knuckles slowly loosened. "No… not yet."
The shadows on the floor shifted, a faint reflection from the lantern swaying near the window. Somewhere in that restless glow, a silhouette appeared beyond the paper door — still and silent, as if it had been standing there for a while.
The doorknob turned softly.