By the third morning after Ling Xiuyuan's return, the mountain had begun to wake.Frost still silvered the leaves, yet Jingshou Peak no longer felt desolate. Disciples swept the paths, laughter flickered like candlelight through the corridors, and bells rang again above the training court.
From the eastern walkway, Nie Xiaohuan stood watching the younger disciples spar beneath the plum trees. The sight made his heart lighter than it had been in years. He turned toward the main hall, where the Sect Leader had gone to meet the elders, and exhaled a quiet breath of peace.
A soft murmur rose behind him — not the disciplined rhythm of practice, but the kind of whisper that carried smiles.
He turned.
Across the courtyard, a cluster of young female disciples lingered by the garden gate. Their gazes followed one figure moving through the morning light.
Mingyue.
He carried a basket of scrolls against one arm, his white sleeves rolled just enough to reveal pale wrists dusted with ink. The faint breeze stirred his hair, and sunlight glinted across his eyes — calm, distant, a little cold. When he passed, a few girls ducked their heads, giggling softly as though caught doing something forbidden.
Xiaohuan couldn't help a small huff of laughter. He called out, "Mingyue!"
Mingyue paused, turning with that same quiet composure. "Nie shixiong!"
"Take those to the west archives," Xiaohuan said. "The elders will need them after the meeting. And tell the kitchen to prepare an extra pot of tea for the Sect Leader — he hasn't eaten since dawn."
"Yes, Senior." Mingyue bowed slightly, his movements smooth, precise. Even his courtesy had an elegance that drew the eye.
When he walked away again, the whispers resumed — softer this time, but still there, like petals brushing across stone.
Inside the ancestral hall, Ling Xiuyuan knelt before the altar where incense curled in fine threads toward the rafters. The air smelled of sandalwood and age.
He had prayed long, forehead touching the cold tiles before the carved tablets of the sect's founders. When he rose, Lin Wuyue was there — silent as a flame, holding the bronze incense stick steady so that its smoke would not scatter.
"Master Ling," she said quietly. "The elders are content today. You bowed as one of them again."
Xiuyuan's expression was unreadable. "The ancestors have waited long enough."
They left the hall together. The late morning light spilled across the steps, and from there, Xiuyuan saw the courtyard below — the disciples training, the young ones whispering, and in the center of it all, Mingyue crossing with his basket of scrolls.
Even from afar, his presence was distinct: calm, assured, untouched by the noise around him.The girls' laughter drifted faintly upward; Xiuyuan's gaze lingered a moment too long.
Lin Wuyue noticed. "He draws attention," she said, not unkindly.
Xiuyuan's eyes narrowed slightly. "He resembles someone I once knew."
"Shen Liuxian?" She spoke gently, but he flinched nonetheless.
"Yes," he said, voice quiet. He watched as Mingyue disappeared around the corner, his white robe vanishing like a brushstroke into mist.
Later, when the council ended and the sun had dipped low, Mingyue returned with tea for his master. He knelt outside the chamber door, waiting until Xiuyuan spoke.
"Enter."
The room was dim, the air heavy with incense. Xiuyuan sat by the open window, gaze lost in the distance.
Mingyue set the tray down, pouring tea with perfect grace. The silence between them was neither awkward nor easy — it simply was.
Xiuyuan looked at him finally. "Do the disciples trouble you?"
"No, Master."
"I saw the way they watched you."
Mingyue's hands did not falter.
"You do not mind?"
"They see what they wish to see," Mingyue said, his tone even. "And what they see changes nothing."
For a heartbeat, Xiuyuan almost smiled. "You speak as though you've lived many lives."
"Perhaps I have," Mingyue replied softly, setting the cup before him. "Some of us carry memories that are not our own."
Xiuyuan's breath caught, the tea's reflection trembling. Before he could speak again, Mingyue bowed and withdrew, leaving the faint scent of jasmine in his wake.
When he was gone, Xiuyuan's gaze lingered on the teacup — untouched, cooling slowly — and beyond it, the empty doorway.
The council chamber of Jingshou Sect stood beneath a roof of green jade tiles, its pillars carved with dragons coiling toward the rafters. That morning, incense burned in twin bronze braziers, the smoke rising in pale ribbons that trembled with the faintest breeze.
Ling Xiuyuan sat at the high seat once more. His robes pooled neatly around him; his expression was still, composed — the face of a leader returned to his hall after too many silent years. Lin Wuyue stood to his right, Nie Xiaohuan slightly behind, their figures mirrored in quiet symmetry.
Below, the assembled disciples knelt in two long rows, heads bowed. The air was heavy with expectation.
At last, a young disciple rose, trembling as he clasped his hands. "Reporting to Sect Leader — last night, at the southern cliffs near the Mirror Lake, we encountered something unnatural."
Xiuyuan's gaze lifted.
"There were six of us patrolling the outer boundary. At the third watch, mist rose from the lake — thick as smoke. We heard crying… the voice of a woman. It called one of our brothers by name."
He paused, breath unsteady. "The voice belonged to Senior Bai Shan — who perished seven years ago in the Blood Lotus Disaster."
A murmur rippled through the hall. The scent of incense turned sharp in the stillness.
Lin Wuyue's eyes flicked toward Xiuyuan. His expression did not change. "Continue," he said.
The disciple's voice shook. "We drew our swords. But when we reached the lake, we saw her — or something wearing her face. She stood above the water, weeping blood. When we tried to approach, the mist swallowed us. One of us fainted. Another was found at dawn with frost on his skin — though the night was warm."
The silence that followed was deep and reverent, like the pause before a storm.
Nie Xiaohuan stepped forward, brow furrowed. "I examined that disciple myself, Master. His meridians were disrupted — not by poison or blade, but by something colder. His spirit was shaken."
"Where is he now?" Xiuyuan asked.
"In the infirmary."
Xiuyuan rose from his seat. The movement was slow, deliberate, but carried the old authority that once made mountains bow. His eyes swept across the chamber. "The Mirror Lake is sacred ground. No restless soul should dare to linger there. If it does, it is either bound — or summoned."
A chill moved through the disciples. Mingyue, standing quietly at the far end of the hall with the servants, lifted his eyes at those words. His face was unreadable, yet something in his gaze darkened.
Lin Wuyue spoke next. "I will lead a group to investigate—"
"No." Xiuyuan's voice was calm but final. "I will go."
The entire hall fell silent.
Nie Xiaohuan's eyes widened slightly. "Sect Leader, you have only just resumed cultivation after years of seclusion. Allow me—"
Xiuyuan lifted a hand. "The dead of that disaster were my disciples. If their spirits are still bound in this realm, it is my burden to release them."
The conviction in his voice silenced even Wuyue. A faint wind stirred the braziers, scattering ash.
After a long moment, Lin Wuyue inclined her head. "Then at least take us with you."
Xiuyuan looked toward the open doors of the court, where sunlight pooled on the stone floor. "At dusk," he said softly. "We go when the mist rises."
He turned to the gathered disciples. "Until then, prepare purification talismans. Set wards along the southern path. No one approaches Mirror Lake without my order."
"Yes, Sect Leader!" The chorus rang through the chamber, their voices echoing against the jade beams.
When the court was dismissed, the crowd dispersed in solemn silence.Nie Xiaohuan followed close behind his master, heart pounding with both pride and unease. He's truly back, he thought. The Sect Leader of old.
From the shadows of the corridor, Mingyue watched them go — the green of Xiuyuan's robes fading into the dark of the temple passage.
The faintest whisper crossed Mingyue's lips, too soft for anyone to hear.
"The dead are never quiet on this mountain."