Shen Lu had imagined the sect a thousand times.
He had pictured its halls while reading on a cracked phone screen, traced its courtyards with his eyes over printed ink, memorized its hierarchy the way you memorized a map when you were lost and desperate for a way out. But imagination had always softened the edges. It made cruelty feel like a trope. It made humiliation feel like a paragraph you could scroll past.
Standing inside it was different.
The corridor outside Shen Lu's room smelled of old wood and incense that had been burned too long, the smoke baked into the beams until it became part of the building's bones. The floorboards were polished by generations of feet and scrubbed clean enough to show a dull reflection, but the corners were dark with dust where no broom ever reached.
The air itself felt measured. Like the sect could count each breath and decide whether you deserved the next one.
Shen Lu walked with his shoulders straight and his stomach twisting.
His robe was an outer disciple's robe, but the fabric was finer than ordinary—alchemist hall issue, the book whispered in his mind, complete with the stitched cloud motif at the cuff. When he moved, it rustled softly, the sound oddly loud in a corridor that held its silence like a rule.
He kept his expression calm.
That was the first lesson he understood instinctively: panic would kill him faster than Helian Feng's blade.
Every step sent a small jolt of pain through his chest where the bandages lay under his inner clothes. The wound—whatever it had been—throbbed in time with his pulse. Shen Lu didn't know if it came from a training accident, a punishment, or something uglier, but he knew it was evidence. Evidence that this body had already been living a life full of conflict.
He followed the junior disciple who had come to fetch him. The boy walked ahead, shoulders stiff, as if even being near Shen Lu required courage. Every so often, the boy glanced back, eyes darting to Shen Lu's face and away again like a small animal watching a predator it had survived once.
Shen Lu remembered that look from the book.
The original Shen Lu liked that look.
The thought made Shen Lu's stomach sour.
They passed other disciples. Some bowed quickly with forced politeness. Some didn't bow at all, pretending not to see him. A few stared openly, eyes full of something that wasn't just dislike, but old fear mixed with old resentment. They didn't whisper, not within earshot—but the silence itself was loud with what they wanted to say.
Here comes Senior Brother Shen.
The alchemist with poison on his hands.
The bully who made the discipline yard laugh.
Shen Lu kept walking. The pain in his chest was easier to manage than the awareness pressing against his skin from all directions.
At the end of the corridor, stone steps led down into a courtyard. The courtyard opened wide, bordered by pines and a wall so tall it made the sky feel narrow. A central path of pale stone cut through the middle like a blade line.
Ahead, a hall sat with its doors open.
The Discipline Hall.
His mouth went dry.
He had read that place so many times. In the book it was always clean, always cold, always used as a symbol of righteousness. It was where punishments became "justice," where blood was washed away by the next morning.
Now it stood in front of him with all the weight of reality. The stone threshold was worn smooth. The pillars were carved with characters that looked like laws turned into art. Inside, the shadows were deep enough to hide faces.
The junior disciple stopped at the steps and bowed, not to the hall, but to Shen Lu—because he had to.
"Senior Brother Shen," he said, voice flat from fear and habit. "Please enter."
Shen Lu inhaled, held it for one heartbeat, then stepped forward.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, he felt it.
Pressure.
Not physical weight, not air density—spiritual pressure. A cultivator's presence, layered and controlled, pressing down like a hand on the back of his neck. It wasn't meant to crush him. It was meant to remind him exactly where he stood in the pecking order.
The book had called this hall "upright."
The hall felt like a mouth.
Shen Lu's eyes adjusted to the dim. He saw the long central space with its rows of seats. Elders sat at the front, high on a raised platform, their robes heavier, their hair bound with ornaments that marked authority. Their faces were calm and unreadable, the kind of calm that came from never needing to defend their right to judge.
On either side, senior disciples stood in neat lines.
And near the center, standing alone like a spear planted in stone, was a man in black.
Shen Lu's gaze caught on him like a hook.
Helian Feng.
He was taller than Shen Lu had expected. Not bulky, not obviously muscular, but built with that tight, efficient strength that didn't waste movement. His robe was plain compared to the elders' ornate layers, but the sword at his side made the air around him feel sharp.
His hair was tied back with a simple cord. His posture was straight enough to be a rebuke.
He looked younger than the "righteous executioner" in Shen Lu's memory—still in the stage where the face hadn't yet learned to hide all emotion—but even now, his eyes were winter.
Shen Lu didn't need to guess his spiritual root. He could feel it, faint in the air, like the electricity before a storm: heavenly thunder, restrained behind discipline.
Helian Feng's gaze slid to Shen Lu.
Not an elder's lazy evaluation.
Not a disciple's curious glance.
A target lock.
Shen Lu's chest wound pulsed as if reacting to that look. It was absurd, but his body felt as if it remembered being afraid of this man before his mind could catch up.
Because the original Shen Lu had been afraid.
Not of consequences—he had never believed in them—but of Helian Feng's refusal to be bought, flattered, or intimidated. Helian Feng's hatred didn't waver because it wasn't based on rumor. It was based on memory.
Shen Lu forced his face into calm and walked forward.
He bowed to the elders, deep enough to show respect, not deep enough to show weakness. He guessed that was what the original Shen Lu would have done: perform humility in public, then laugh about it later.
"Disciple Shen Lu greets the elders," he said. His voice was steady, even though his palms were cold.
One of the elders—an older man with a thin mouth and eyes like polished stone—leaned forward slightly. Elder Liu, Shen Lu's mind supplied, scraping the name out of memory like a blade against bone. The one whose patience the junior disciple had mentioned. The one who ran the alchemy hall like a ledger.
"Shen Lu," Elder Liu said, each syllable measured. "You were injured. You were ordered to rest. Yet we summon you and you come without delay. Good."
The word good did not sound like praise. It sounded like a prerequisite.
Shen Lu bowed again. "This disciple does not dare delay the Discipline Hall."
Elder Liu's gaze sharpened. "Do you know why you are here?"
Shen Lu's mind went blank for half a breath.
He didn't know. He didn't have the context. He didn't know what the original Shen Lu had done last night, what fresh cruelty he'd committed, what new enemy he'd made. The book's plot had started with Helian Feng's suffering, not Shen Lu's paperwork.
He couldn't say he didn't know. That would make him look like he was playing dumb. That would make him look like he was trying to slip out of punishment.
He chose the only safe answer.
"This disciple will listen to the elders' instruction," he said carefully.
A ripple moved through the disciples standing in the hall. Not quite laughter, not quite shock. More like disbelief. Shen Lu, listening instead of arguing? Shen Lu, not smirking?
Helian Feng's expression didn't change.
If anything, his eyes grew colder.
Elder Liu's lips thinned. "Listen, then."
Elder Liu lifted a hand. A scroll was placed in front of him. He opened it slowly, the sound of paper unfurling too loud in the hall's quiet.
"Three days ago," Elder Liu read, "a group of outer disciples was assigned to harvest frostleaf at the northern slope for the alchemy hall's winter stock. The slope is within sect territory. The task was minor. Yet there was an incident."
Shen Lu's heart beat once, hard.
Elder Liu's gaze lifted briefly to Shen Lu's chest. "One disciple returned with a fractured meridian and internal bleeding. That disciple claims it was an accident caused by unstable talismans. But the talismans were traced back to the alchemy hall."
Shen Lu's mind raced.
So that's the wound.
This body had been hurt in an incident involving alchemy hall talismans. A fracture. Internal bleeding. That explained the bandages, the pain.
But Elder Liu's eyes held no sympathy.
He continued. "In the storeroom, we found talisman paper missing. We found toxin powder missing. We found a whip mark on the frostleaf baskets—weapon trace consistent with Cloud-Venom Silk Whip techniques."
A cold line ran down Shen Lu's spine.
Cloud-Venom Silk Whip.
His whip. The physical spirit weapon that belonged to this Shen Lu. The one he didn't even know how to hold yet.
The hall felt like it tilted again, but Shen Lu forced himself to stand steady.
Elder Liu closed the scroll with a sharp snap.
"Shen Lu," he said, voice quiet enough to cut. "Were you involved?"
Shen Lu's throat tightened.
If he denied it outright, he would be accused of lying. If he admitted it, he would sign his own death warrant. He didn't know what evidence they had, how deep the accusation went, whether the injury had been accidental or staged, whether this was internal sect politics or simple discipline.
He needed time.
He needed a neutral stance that didn't look like guilt but didn't provoke them into immediate punishment.
So he did the one thing he knew the original Shen Lu never did.
He bowed.
Deep.
"Elder," he said, choosing his words like stepping stones over a river. "This disciple was injured and has been confined to rest these three days. I did not go to the northern slope. I cannot speak for what happened there."
The room went even quieter.
Elder Liu's gaze narrowed. "You did not go."
Shen Lu kept his head lowered, heart pounding. "This disciple did not go."
There was a pause. Not a short pause. A long one, filled with the sense of elders weighing what kind of trouble Shen Lu might be.
Then a different elder spoke—a woman with silver hair pinned high and a face that held less contempt than exhaustion.
"Whether you went or not," she said, "the alchemy hall's materials were involved. If an outer disciple was harmed, there must be accountability."
Elder Liu tapped the scroll against the table. "Accountability begins with the alchemy hall. And within the alchemy hall, Shen Lu's name is already stained."
Shen Lu's stomach sank.
Then Helian Feng stepped forward.
He didn't bow to Shen Lu. He didn't look away from him. He simply spoke, voice flat and cold.
"This disciple requests permission to speak."
Elder Liu's gaze flicked to him. "Helian Feng. Speak."
Shen Lu felt the air change. Helian Feng was the kind of person whose words carried weight even before he had earned status. The kind of person elders watched carefully because they knew the heavens had marked him.
Helian Feng's eyes stayed on Shen Lu.
"Three days ago," Helian Feng said, "I was at the northern slope."
Shen Lu's blood went colder.
So Helian Feng had been there. Helian Feng had witnessed whatever happened. Helian Feng might have been involved in the incident that injured Shen Lu's body. Or Helian Feng might have been the one harmed.
But Elder Liu had said an outer disciple was harmed. Helian Feng was not an outer disciple. He was a core disciple-in-training, part of the sword lineage. The book had made that clear.
So Helian Feng wasn't the injured one.
Then why had he been there?
Helian Feng continued. "We were harvesting frostleaf. A talisman formation activated unexpectedly. It was not meant to harm. But it was unstable. A junior disciple was caught in the backlash."
His gaze sharpened. "I saw the talisman paper. It bore alchemy hall seals."
Elder Liu's fingers tightened on the scroll. "Alchemy hall materials can be accessed by many. That does not prove—"
Helian Feng cut in, voice still calm. "I did not say it proves guilt."
The hall stilled. Elder Liu's mouth tightened further. Helian Feng was careful. He was not accusing directly. He was setting facts like stones in a path.
Helian Feng's eyes flicked, briefly, to Shen Lu's chest. Then back to his face.
"I also saw Cloud-Venom mist," he said.
A ripple moved through the disciples. A hiss of breath.
Shen Lu's heart slammed.
Elder Liu's voice turned sharp. "Be precise. Mist can come from many techniques."
Helian Feng's expression did not change. "It was thin, pale green, with a cloud spiral pattern. The kind that lingers close to the ground. That mist matches Cloud-Venom Silk Whip residue."
Shen Lu's mind screamed.
He couldn't deny the details without sounding ignorant. He couldn't say, I don't know what my own technique looks like. That would raise questions worse than guilt. That would make them think he'd been possessed, or injured into madness, or playing tricks.
But he also couldn't admit it.
His chest wound throbbed. His mouth went dry.
Elder Liu's gaze bored into him. "Shen Lu. Explain."
Shen Lu lifted his head slowly.
Helian Feng stood like a sword planted upright, waiting for Shen Lu to lie so he could cut him down with righteousness. He didn't look angry. He looked certain. Shen Lu felt, in that certainty, the future executioner waiting in the wings.
The ten chapters ticking like a countdown.
Shen Lu drew a breath that scraped his lungs.
He chose truth.
Not the whole truth. Not the impossible truth. But a truth that could function.
"This disciple's Cloud-Venom Silk Whip is soul-bound," he said, voice steady with effort. "Its mist will not manifest unless I feed it toxin or channel qi through it. I have not left my quarters in three days."
He paused, then added quietly, "If residue was found, then someone used my technique… or imitated it."
A murmur rose again, sharper this time. Imitated? That was a bold claim. It suggested an enemy wanted to frame him. It suggested someone had access to his style. It suggested conspiracy, not just bullying.
Elder Liu's eyes narrowed. "Imitated."
Helian Feng's gaze hardened. "Senior Brother Shen says his whip is soul-bound."
The words senior brother sounded like poison in Helian Feng's mouth.
Helian Feng stepped forward another pace, then stopped, as if crossing any closer would be an invitation to violence.
"If it is soul-bound," Helian Feng said, "prove it."
Shen Lu felt sweat slick his palms.
Prove it.
The original Shen Lu would have snapped his whip out and forced the mist to dance, showing off in front of elders like it was a performance. He would have enjoyed the fear.
Shen Lu didn't even know where the whip was.
He didn't know how to call it.
But soul-bound weapons weren't called with hands. They were called with spirit.
He closed his eyes briefly, reaching inward, trying to find something that belonged to this body.
He felt… hunger. Not his hunger. The weapon's hunger. A faint, coiled presence, asleep but listening, like a snake under cloth.
Cloud-Venom Silk Whip.
He focused on that presence, on the idea of calling it, of letting it know he was here, awake, alive.
Come.
The air in the hall chilled.
A faint scent, bitter-sweet like crushed leaves and metal, drifted through the space.
Then, from nowhere, a ribbon of pale mist appeared—thin as silk, curling around Shen Lu's wrist with a softness that was somehow more threatening than steel. The mist condensed, thickened, and with a whisper like cloth sliding over skin, a whip formed in his hand.
It wasn't long. Not fully awakened. Its handle was dark jade etched with tiny cloud lines. Its length was pale, almost translucent, but when it moved, a greenish sheen flashed beneath the surface like venom under ice.
The hall drew in one collective breath.
Shen Lu opened his eyes and stared at the weapon like it might bite him.
It felt… familiar.
Not to his mind. To his body. Like muscles remembering something they had done a thousand times. He held the whip naturally, the way the original Shen Lu had held it when he lashed baskets, when he lashed people.
The thought made bile rise in his throat.
He forced his expression blank.
"Elder," he said, voice slightly hoarse, "this disciple can call it."
Elder Liu stared at the whip, then at Shen Lu's face. Something like calculation moved behind his eyes. Proof of soul-binding wasn't proof of innocence, but it meant framing was possible.
It also meant Shen Lu remained dangerous.
Helian Feng's gaze fixed on the whip. For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—recognition, not of the weapon, but of what it represented. Authority. Abuse. The alchemy hall's power used as a cudgel.
He looked back at Shen Lu. His voice was cold enough to frost stone.
"Then if you did not go," he said, "someone wants your name to take the blame."
Shen Lu held the whip without moving it. The mist curled faintly around his fingers as if pleased to be awake.
Helian Feng continued, each word deliberate. "Or you are lying."
The hall held its breath.
Shen Lu met Helian Feng's gaze. He forced himself not to flinch.
"I am not lying," he said.
He didn't add, I am not the person you think I am. He didn't add, I woke up here yesterday with ink in my lungs. He didn't add, I know you will kill me if this continues as written.
He simply stood with the villain's face and tried to speak like a person.
Elder Liu's voice cut in before Helian Feng could say more.
"Enough," Elder Liu said. "This is not a court drama. There will be an investigation. Until then, Shen Lu is confined. Cloud-Venom Silk Whip is to be sealed in the alchemy hall's vault."
Shen Lu's heart dropped. Sealed. If they sealed his weapon, he would lose one of the few protections he might have. He didn't know how to fight. He didn't know what enemies the original Shen Lu had made. He didn't know what the book's fate had waiting.
But he couldn't protest. Protest would sound like guilt.
He bowed. "This disciple obeys."
Elder Liu's gaze sharpened as if surprised by the obedience.
Helian Feng spoke again, voice calm and merciless. "Elder. If the whip is soul-bound, can it be sealed?"
Elder Liu's mouth tightened. "It can be suppressed with formations."
Helian Feng's eyes did not leave Shen Lu's face. "Then if it cannot be summoned while sealed, we will know whether residue in the northern slope came from it."
Elder Liu nodded once. "So it will be done."
Shen Lu swallowed. His throat burned.
The whip mist twined around his wrist as if reluctant to let go, as if sensing danger. Shen Lu held it steady, then slowly loosened his grip.
The whip dissolved back into mist and vanished into his soul like smoke pulled into lungs.
Elder Liu's voice turned final. "Shen Lu. You will remain in your quarters. You will not leave without permission. You will not contact others. You will not refine pills without oversight."
Each restriction felt like a rope.
Shen Lu bowed again, deep.
"Yes, Elder."
The hall dismissed him like a problem temporarily shelved.
As he turned to leave, he felt Helian Feng's gaze on his back like a blade resting against spine.
He walked out of the Discipline Hall, and the cold air outside hit him like a slap. The courtyard pines swayed slightly in the wind, needles whispering like gossip.
Shen Lu forced himself to keep walking.
Only when he reached the corridor again did he allow himself one small, shaky breath.
Confined.
Investigated.
His weapon sealed.
And Helian Feng had spoken in a way that made it clear: he wasn't going to let this go. Not because he cared about some outer disciple's injury. Not because he wanted justice for the alchemy hall.
Because he wanted Shen Lu's fall.
Because the book had taught him to believe Shen Lu deserved it.
Shen Lu pressed a hand to his chest wound, feeling the bandages, feeling the fragile boundary between being alive and being a chapter ten corpse.
He had made it through the first confrontation without being dragged to the yard and beaten. That was something.
But survival wasn't just about avoiding death.
It was about avoiding the story itself.
As he reached his quarters, he saw two disciples standing by his door. Their posture was respectful, but their eyes were not.
Guards.
Shen Lu paused, then stepped past them without looking at their faces. Inside his room, the oil lamp still burned low. The mirror still hung on the wall, reflecting a villain's face.
He closed the door behind him, and the guards' footsteps settled outside like a warning.
Shen Lu stood alone, breathing in bitter incense, and tried to steady his thoughts.
He had proven he could call the whip.
He had proven that this body carried power.
But he had also drawn Helian Feng's attention in a way that felt like stepping under a storm cloud and daring the lightning to fall.
He needed leverage.
He needed value.
And he needed, somehow, to get close enough to Helian Feng to change the ending—without giving Helian Feng a reason to finish the story early.
Shen Lu stared at his hands.
Alchemy hands.
Hands that could heal.
Hands that had hurt people.
He clenched them into fists until his nails bit into his palms.
Outside, the guards shifted, the sound of armor and cloth.
Inside, Shen Lu whispered, barely audible, as if speaking it might make it real.
"Ten chapters," he said.
Then, with a steadiness he did not feel, he began to plan how to steal himself back from the fate written on a page.