Elder Han arrived without ceremony.
Shen Rui sensed him before the attendant announced his presence—the faint shift in qi, the familiar restraint of someone who had learned long ago not to intrude.
She did not turn from the balcony when his footsteps stopped several paces behind her. The wind up here was a physical weight, but she wore it like a second skin.
"You summoned me, Sect Master."
His voice was steady, aged but clear. It was the voice of a man who had seen seasons change and leaders fall.
"Yes." Shen Rui's answer was immediate.
She faced him then. Elder Han bowed, hands clasped, eyes lowered in respect. He had served Qinghe Sect longer than Shen Rui had been alive, had watched her rise from a prodigy to something colder, sharper. He remembered her when she still knew how to smile; she hated him for it.
"Have there been disturbances?" he asked.
Shen Rui considered the question.
"No breaches. No external threats." She paused. "But the mountain is restless. Something within the sect is unsettled."
Elder Han lifted his gaze slightly, careful. "Unsettled how?"
Shen Rui did not reply at once. She turned back toward the mountains, toward the endless white mist curling between peaks.
"I do not know yet."
Silence followed. It stretched between them, thin and taut as a lute string.
If this uncertainty surprised Elder Han, he did not show it. "Would you like me to investigate?"
"Not yet."
Another pause. Longer this time. The air seemed to grow brittle.
"Elder Han," Shen Rui said, her tone even, "how long has the Northern Wing remained unused?"
The question landed softly—and sharply. Like a needle found in a bed of silk.
Elder Han's brows knit together. "The Northern Wing?" He thought for a moment. "Nearly five years now. Since… since the former Sect Leader departed."
He did not say the name. Names had power, and that one was a curse.
"I see." Shen Rui inclined her head. "You may go."
Elder Han hesitated, then spoke carefully. "Sect Master… the past—"
"Is concluded," Shen Rui said. The words were a blade, shearing through the air.
Her voice left no space for discussion.
Elder Han bowed and withdrew.
When the courtyard was empty once more, Shen Rui remained still, unmoving, as though rooted to the stone beneath her feet.
The cold wind swept through the balcony, tugging at her sleeves. She did not shield herself from it. She welcomed the bite; it was the only thing that felt real.
By the time the sun dipped past its peak, she was already walking toward the Northern Wing.
No disciples followed. The path was like a ghost road, forgotten by the living.
The path there was narrower, less traveled. Moss crept along the stones, softening their edges.
The air itself felt different—cooler, quieter, as if sound had learned to behave here. Even the birds went silent as she passed, as if afraid to wake the memories.
Shen Rui's steps echoed faintly.
The residence stood at the end of the path, modest compared to the other quarters.
Wooden beams darkened with age, doors closed, windows unlit. Nothing marked it as special.
And yet.
Shen Rui stopped before the threshold. Her hand hovered near the wood, trembling with a ghost of a hesitation she would never admit to.
She did not push the door open immediately.
This was not an act of sentiment. It was routine. A check. A responsibility she had never formally assigned to anyone else - A lie she told herself every time she stood here.
The door opened without resistance.
Cold rushed out to greet her. It smelled of old incense and frozen time.
Inside, the room was sparse. A low table. A meditation mat folded neatly against the wall. A bookshelf, half empty. No dust had settled—everything was preserved, undisturbed, exactly as it had been left. It was a shrine to a woman who was supposed to be dead to her.
Shen Rui stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
The temperature dropped perceptibly, the kind of cold that sank into the bones rather than biting at the skin. Her breath fogged faintly in the air.
A ghostly bloom in the dark.
She crossed the room with measured steps and stopped before the table.
Her fingers brushed the surface—clean.
She withdrew her hand at once. The phantom warmth of a phantom hand seemed to linger there.
There was nothing here that belonged to her.
And yet, she came.
She always did.
Shen Rui turned toward the inner chamber, her expression unchanged. The faint pressure in her chest returned, sharper now, more insistent. Her golden core thrummed with a low, mournful frequency.
This place had once held warmth.
She did not allow herself to remember how. She did not allow herself to remember the sound of tea being poured, or the gentle reprimand of a voice that had been her entire world.
Outside, the wind howled softly against the eaves, carrying with it the sound of distant bells. Shen Rui stood alone in the quiet, tall and unmoving, her shadow stretching long across the floor.
Whatever was stirring within Qinghe Sect—
Whatever name it carried—
It had begun here.
And Shen Rui, for all her control, had never truly left this place behind. She was the Sect Master of the peaks, but she was still a prisoner of this room.