By the time I reached the Hall of Records, my tea had gone cold, my patience had gone missing, and my nerves had started holding secret meetings without me.
Heaven's inspector had spent the morning questioning disciples about purity of intent.
Apparently, that meant asking everyone if they'd ever lied, stolen, or thought about skipping training.
Half the sect now thought they'd personally offended the sky.
I was supposed to sort the written testimonies into "honest," "maybe honest," and "definitely lying."
So naturally, I invented a fourth pile labeled "Too Long; Didn't Read."
The Hall was quiet except for the scratch of brushes and the occasional sneeze from the dust. Scrolls were stacked in uneven towers around the long table. I sat cross-legged, sleeves rolled up, ready to wage war on handwriting.
I had just opened the fifth scroll when something caught my eye.
Not the words themselves—the style of them.
The first three sentences were written in perfect calligraphy, careful and balanced. But the fourth line leaned ever so slightly to the left, as if whoever wrote it had changed hands.
The letters shimmered faintly when the light hit at the right angle.
Gold ink.
Not visible to the human eye unless you tilted the page just so. But once you saw it, you couldn't unsee it.
I angled the scroll under the window light.
Between the normal black strokes, a second layer of faint script floated like breath:
Directive 47. Target not recovered. Embedded agent status: dormant.
I stared until the words blurred.
Then I very calmly rolled the scroll back up, tied it, and put it in the "Honest" pile.
Because panicking inside the Sect Master's building was not on my schedule today.
A shadow fell across the table.
"Working early again?"
I looked up, nearly swallowing my tongue.
Shen Qianhe stood there, arms folded, expression unreadable. His white robe was spotless, as always, like the weather refused to touch him.
"Yes, Sect Master," I said. "Just finishing the testimonies."
He walked closer, eyes flicking over the scrolls. "You're quick."
"Fast handwriting recognition," I said. "I can spot bad penmanship from across the room."
His gaze moved to the stacks labeled Maybe Honest and Definitely Lying.
His brow lifted. "Interesting categories."
"They felt spiritually accurate."
He didn't smile, but the silence stretched just enough that I thought he almost might have.
Then his hand reached toward the scroll I'd just hidden—the one with the golden script.
Of course it did.
"May I see that one?" he asked.
"Of course," I said, while mentally screaming no, no, no.
I passed it to him with both hands. He unrolled it smoothly, eyes scanning the text. His fingers were steady. Mine were not.
He read a few lines, paused, and frowned—not at me, but at the page.
"There's… a residue of spirit ink," he said.
"Probably from a sloppy brush," I offered. "Some disciples think 'fancy shimmer' makes their reports look holier."
He looked up. "You sound certain."
"Experience," I said quickly. "I once graded forms for the Outer Pavilion. People tried to perfume their signatures."
That was technically true. The "people" in question had been Heavenly messengers signing arrest orders, but details are flexible things.
He nodded slowly, apparently accepting the excuse, and set the scroll aside.
I breathed again.
He stayed a moment longer, looking over my work. The quiet stretched.
Outside, wind brushed through the courtyard pines, scattering a faint scent of resin into the room.
"You've been with Cloudrest three years," he said finally.
"Yes, Sect Master."
"You're efficient."
"Thank you, Sect Master."
"Too efficient, perhaps."
My pulse jumped. "I—pardon?"
He looked at the ink stains on my hands, the neat stacks, the clockwork organization. "Most people who work this fast make mistakes. You don't."
I forced a small, polite laugh. "Occupational habit."
"From where?" he asked.
I blinked. "Where?"
He studied me like he was solving a puzzle. "You weren't trained here. Your handwriting, your speech—they're not from this province."
"Well," I said lightly, "I moved around a lot as a child."
Another technical truth. I had, indeed, moved—between temples, missions, and occasionally dimensions of bureaucracy.
He nodded once. "I see."
Did he?
Hopefully not.
He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "The inspector requested that all written materials be brought to him by evening. I want you to deliver them."
Me.
Directly.
To Heaven's representative.
My stomach did the kind of twist you get when you realize the soup was not vegetarian.
"Yes, Sect Master," I said. My voice sounded almost normal.
He inclined his head and left, footsteps fading down the corridor.
As soon as he was gone, I pressed my forehead to the table.
"Why me," I whispered into the wood. "Why always me."
The scrolls didn't answer. The "Too Long; Didn't Read" pile looked smug.
By late afternoon, the fog had burned off. Sunlight broke through the clouds in silver beams that made the mountain look like it was being blessed and scolded at the same time.
I gathered the scrolls into a tidy bundle and carried them toward the courtyard where Heaven's tents had been set up.
Their banners shimmered with faint gold runes that flickered like eyes when you looked too long.
Inspector Rui Yan stood at the center, dictating something to an aide.
When he saw me, his expression barely changed.
"Assistant Lin," he said. "Delivering records?"
"Yes, Inspector," I said, bowing. "Sect Master's orders."
He gestured to a side table. "Place them there."
I did, keeping my movements careful, calm, invisible.
He watched me for a long moment before saying, "You're efficient."
"I've heard that today," I said.
He didn't smile. "Efficiency is a virtue. But virtues can hide many things."
"That sounds very wise," I said pleasantly.
"I wasn't being complimentary."
"Neither was I."
That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth—something not quite a frown, not quite amusement.
He turned back to his aide. "We'll begin the purity tests tomorrow at dawn."
I bowed again and left.
On the walk back, the air was golden with late light. Disciples were sweeping the courtyards and hanging lanterns for the evening.
For a moment, it almost looked peaceful—like all of this was just a normal day on a normal mountain, not a slow, polite war between Heaven and one very tired assistant.
When I passed the Sect Master's office, I slowed.
Inside, his silhouette stood near the window, half in light, half in shadow.
He was reading something—maybe one of the testimonies, maybe something from Heaven itself.
The light caught his face just enough to show his expression: calm, but not untouched.
Tired, maybe. Thoughtful.
I didn't linger. I wasn't foolish.
But for some reason, the sound of his brush on paper followed me down the hall like an echo.
That night, I sat at my desk, staring at the empty space where the coded scroll had been.
I couldn't stop thinking about that faint gold message: Embedded agent status: dormant.
Dormant. Not gone. Not erased. Just waiting.
I touched the tip of my brush to the paper, ink pooling like a heartbeat, and whispered to the relic hidden two rooms away:
"Let's hope they never wake me up."