Snow began to fall.
Not from clouds — but from the memory of clouds, heavy above the southern hills.
It dusted the rooftops of the voiceless town, softened the stone steps of the ruined shrine, and settled on Kaifeng's shoulders like ashes.
He did not brush it off.
The shrine was silent again.
Zhui slept fitfully beneath one of the alcoves, his breath shallow but stable. The dead man's body — or what remained of him — had turned to ash the moment Kaifeng released the form.
No burial. No mourning. Only release.
Kaifeng stood outside now, watching the road.
Waiting.
Far away, the gates of Qingwu Sect were still and cold.
Inside the inner hall, five elders sat around a brazier of ironwood flame. One leaned forward — her hair bound in steel pins, her robes marked not by color but absence.
Elder Yun Shou.
Once the highest among the sect's instructors.
Once the only disciple who refused to draw her blade.
"He's awakened the echo," one elder said.
"And did not complete it," said another.
"He stepped into the ninth movement," said the third.
"There is no tenth without intention."
Yun Shou said nothing.
Until the fourth elder asked:
"You trained his mother, did you not?"
A silence.
Then a single nod.
"Yes."
"And what do you say now?"
Yun Shou stood.
Took a single breath.
And whispered:
"I will go."
Three days later, she arrived at the town.
Snow still fell. The road was empty. But she walked without sound, without fear. Her blade remained sheathed at her back — bound with four black threads.
Kaifeng met her on the steps of the shrine.
Neither bowed.
Neither spoke.
For a long while, they only stood — student and teacher, though neither wore the title anymore.
Then Yun Shou finally spoke:
"You moved as if the form were yours."
Kaifeng didn't answer.
"You halted at the ninth."
"I listened," he said.
"And chose to forget."
A faint smile touched her mouth. Not warmth — just understanding.
"Then we have no need to fight."
Kaifeng's eyes narrowed.
"But that's not why you came."
She nodded.
"I came to see if you remembered enough to refuse it.
And you did."
"So the elders sent you… to watch me?"
"No," she said.
And now, her hand moved to her back — not to draw, but to untie the threads binding her sword.
"They sent me to end the Echo."
"But I am not the Echo."
"No," she said.
"But it lives in you now."
She drew the blade.
But it was not steel.
It was wood.
Worn. Scarred. Smooth with use.
Another training blade — like his.
Kaifeng blinked once.
"You never drew steel," he said.
"Never needed to," she replied.
Then she stepped forward.
Not fast. Not sharp.
Just true.
And attacked.
Kaifeng blocked the first motion.
The second, he absorbed.
The third — he mirrored.
Their blades struck not with force, but with form — a dialogue of motion written in muscle and memory.
And as they moved, neither of them breathed hard.
Because neither of them wanted to win.
Only to prove.
The last strike came as a sweep — aimed not at Kaifeng's body, but at the shadow beneath his feet.
He leapt back.
Stopped.
And lowered his blade.
"Enough."
Yun Shou did the same.
Then spoke:
"You are not the threat."
"Then who is?"
She looked toward the mountains.
"Whoever trained the one you released."
Kaifeng frowned.
"He was a remnant. A mistake."
"No," she said softly.
"He was a scout."
End of Chapter 6