The first snow of the year fell in silence.
Thin flakes drifted down from the overcast sky, blanketing the roofs of Xianxiu Peak in a soft hush. From the distance, the Jingshou Sect looked like a still painting—sharp ridges outlined in frost, mountain pines bending gently under the weight of ice, stone lanterns glowing like watchful spirits. But at the heart of this pristine quiet stood a man who had not spoken a full sentence in four years.
Ling Xiuyuan, Sect Leader of Jingshou.
Draped in snow-white robes with silver threading, he sat motionless beneath a plum tree long past its bloom. A thin layer of snow collected on his shoulders, on the hem of his outer robe, but he did not move to shake it off.
He hadn't moved in hours.
His disciples had long since stopped trying to coax him inside.
The once indomitable cultivator who, with a flick of his fan, could command the loyalty of the three border clans, now rarely left this spot—beneath the withered tree, beside a small shrine no taller than his knee.
Inside the shrine, incense burned slowly before a wooden nameplate carved with a single name:Shen Liuxian (沈柳闲).
The sect knew the name. They did not speak it aloud.
Once, Shen Liuxian had been the youngest of Jingshou's inner disciples. The most mischievous, the brightest. A stubborn little thing who often challenged his shifu's authority but never left his side.
He had been the only one who dared tease Sect Leader Ling.
Now he was a ghost.
Seven years ago, during the Blood Lotus Disaster, Shen Liuxian disappeared without a trace. For three years, Ling Xiuyuan tore through the cultivation world searching for him. He overturned tombs, questioned spirits, combed through forbidden realms. He defied heaven's order and paid the price.
In the end, they found bones.
Clean and white, at the bottom of a forgotten ravine in the Southern Forests. The token on the ankle bore Shen Liuxian's name.
After that, Ling Xiuyuan collapsed. The healers called it a soul collapse — a rare condition that only appeared in cultivators whose spiritual will had been completely shattered.
He remained unconscious for two years.
When he woke, he was silent. He no longer held a sword. He no longer summoned spiritual energy. His fan, once used in graceful defense, remained shut.
But the sect still bowed when he passed.Still whispered his name like a prayer.Still called him shizun.
And he still came, every day without fail, to sit before the little shrine beneath the dead plum tree.
"Shizun has not eaten since yesterday."
Nie Xiaohuan, Xiuyuan's personal attendant and only remaining disciple, stood behind the tree holding a warm cloth bundle and a wooden food box.
No reply came.
The snow fell between them, light as mist.
Nie Xiaohuan lowered his voice. "The elders worry."
Still no response.
He stepped forward, placing the food gently on a nearby stone. His voice trembled just slightly. "It's Shen-gongzi's death day today. I... lit incense at the outer altar this morning. I thought you'd want to know."
A pause. Then, soft and sudden, like wind passing through pine:
"Mn."
One syllable. Low and even.
But Nie Xiaohuan froze as if he'd heard thunder. It had been weeks since Xiuyuan had made even that much sound.
When he looked up, the sect leader hadn't moved.
Still seated beneath the tree, eyes half-lowered, snow gathering on his dark lashes.
But his hand was clenched — so tightly that the red string bracelet on his wrist had cut into his skin.
That night, the snow stopped.
The sky cleared just enough for the moon to rise over the peaks, casting a cold silver light across the courtyard. Xiuyuan did not sleep. He rarely did.
At midnight, a quiet knock came from the front hall.
Nie Xiaohuan entered a moment later, face flushed from the cold.
"Shizun," he said softly, "the household steward says… the new servant has arrived."
Xiuyuan did not look up.
The Jingshou Sect rarely took in outside servants. But ever since his recovery, certain tasks had fallen to Nie Xiaohuan alone. The elders had insisted on sending extra hands. Xiuyuan had not objected, nor acknowledged it.
When he left, Xiuyuan's gaze returned to the small shrine. The incense had long since burned out.
His fingers reached out slowly, tracing the name etched into the wooden plaque.
He remembered Shen Liuxian's voice—bright and teasing, calling out "Shizun" with a lilt that no one else dared to use.
And then he remembered that final moment — when he uncovered the bones with his own hands.
No aura. No trace of soul. Just silence.
Shen Liuxian was gone.
But grief was cruel. And some wounds, no matter how old, never fully closed.
The next morning, Xiuyuan was seated in the main study, as usual. Scrolls lay open before him, but his eyes were empty. His tea had gone cold.
The door opened softly.
A servant stepped in carrying a fresh kettle.
Xiuyuan did not glance up—until the boy knelt to pour tea, and his sleeve brushed the edge of the table.
The sound was barely audible.
But Xiuyuan's gaze snapped up.
The servant stilled under his stare.
He was young — no more than twenty. Slender, with pale skin and downcast eyes. His dark hair was tied with a simple ribbon. There was nothing extraordinary about him. And yet—
Xiuyuan's chest felt like it had been struck.
That face.
It wasn't exact, no. But the shape of the jaw, the bow of the lips, the curve of the neck — all painfully familiar.
And then he spoke.
"Would Shizun like fresh tea?"
A quiet, respectful voice. Gentle. Almost hesitant.
But it was the voice.