The temple of Jingshou Sect stood silent beneath the mountain's crown — its old timbers darkened by years of incense and devotion. The air was cool, touched by the faint perfume of sandalwood, and the golden plaques of the ancestors gleamed softly in the candlelight.
Ling Xiuyuan crossed the courtyard with Lin Wuyue beside him. The disciples they passed bowed in silence, their gazes wide with disbelief. The Sect Leader who had not set foot beyond his chambers in seven years now walked toward the Hall of Ancestors, the woman once his second most trusted disciple pacing quietly at his side.
When they reached the stone steps, Wuyue halted first.She bowed low. "Shall I wait outside, Master?"
Ling Xiuyuan shook his head. "You followed me through storms before," he said, voice faint but even. "You may follow me into silence as well."
They entered together.
Inside, the world narrowed to shadow and flame. The long hall was lined with ancestral tablets — the names of every Sect Leader, elder, and master who had built Jingshou's legacy. Smoke rose in thin, silver spirals from the great brass urns.
Xiuyuan approached the foremost altar. His robes brushed the floor as he knelt.Lin Wuyue knelt beside him.
"Your disciple… returns late." His forehead touched the stone three times. "Forgive me."
Wuyue bowed as well, her movements precise, reverent. She said nothing.
Xiuyuan took three sticks of incense, lit them, and placed them in the urn. The smoke rose, curling upward until it vanished among the beams. They bowed again.
When they finally stood, light poured through the open doors. Outside, the world seemed to breathe again.
Xiuyuan looked to the side —"Thank you, Wuyue."
She inclined her head. "The mountain feels lighter today, Master."
Together, they stepped into the courtyard.
Nie Xiaohuan had arrived only moments before. He meant to check the incense stores, but when he saw the two figures descending from the temple steps, his breath caught.
Nie Xiaohuan stood frozen halfway across the courtyard. For a moment he could not breathe.
The man before him — his master— was not the pale ghost who had sat before a shrine for seven long years. This man walked again beneath the open sky. His steps were steady, his posture calm.
Something in Nie Xiaohuan's chest broke open.
He dropped to one knee before Xiuyuan, voice low and trembling with a joy too deep for sound."Master," he whispered, "You're back."
Wuyue's lips curved slightly, though her gaze stayed forward.
Nie Xiaohuan rose quickly, unable to keep the smile that tugged at his mouth. His joy was not loud — it glimmered quietly, like sunlight caught in dew. Every motion he made was careful, reverent, yet brimming with life.
He followed Xiuyuan as the master walked toward the central court.
The servants bowed in haste, half astonished, half delighted.
As they walked, the path wound between bare plum trees and shallow pools glazed with ice. The sound of Xiuyuan's steps echoed lightly on the flagstones — a sound the mountain had not heard for years. Nie Xiaohuan trailed just behind him, careful not to overtake, as he once did when he was still a disciple attending his teacher's lessons.
They reached the Court of Gathering Clouds, where petitions were once read and decisions rendered. The great doors, long shut, creaked open at Xiaohuan's touch. Dust drifted in the slanting light.
Xiuyuan stood before the dais for a long time, his gaze tracing the faded banners of former years.
Nie Xiaohuan bowed deeply. "The disciples will rejoice when they see you stand here again."
Lin Wuyue, standing at Xiuyuan's side, turned her gaze toward the open courtyard beyond. Disciples had begun to gather in twos and threes, uncertain, whispering as they watched their Sect Leader at last reclaim the hall.
Xiuyuan lifted his hand. "Let them come," he said.
The courtyard filled slowly — older disciples, younger ones who knew his name only through stories. Their robes rustled like wind through reeds as they knelt.
Nie Xiaohuan stepped forward, voice ringing clear and bright as a temple bell: "Jingshou Sect greets its master."
Dozens of voices echoed him, rising together in a single bow.
Xiuyuan stood at the front of the dais, the morning light gilding his hair and sleeves. He looked over them — at the generations who had waited in quiet faith — and though his expression remained composed, the faintest shimmer of emotion trembled in his eyes.
Beside him, Nie Xiaohuan's hands were clenched in joy, his smile small but radiant. He bowed once more, whispering so only Xiuyuan could hear:"The mountain breathes again, Master. You've brought it life."
Xiuyuan did not answer, but when he turned, his gaze met Xiaohuan's, and a single nod passed between them — quiet understanding, wordless gratitude.
Outside, the winter clouds broke apart, letting sunlight spill over the peak.