Once freed from Lan Zeyan's arms, Qinghui immediately made his way toward the disciple who had been turned into a rooted husk. He knelt beside the still figure and gently hovered his hand over the wrist, attempting to feel for a pulse. But as with the first corpse, there was nothing—
only the hardened texture of bark and vine. Whatever humanity remained had long since faded.
Behind him, Lan Zeyan stood in silence, observing.
Then, without warning, Lan Zeyan stepped forward, gripped Qinghui's arm, and tore open his own outer robe. Startled, Qinghui was about to protest when he was abruptly pulled closer and made to sit.
"Hey—!" Qinghui frowned, but the words faltered on his lips.
Lan Zeyan's hands had already moved to his leg, focusing on a particularly deep gash where the fabric was soaked in blood. Despite the harshness of his movements, his touch was precise—steady fingers working with quiet urgency. First, he wrapped the right leg, using strips of cloth torn from his robe. Then, without a word, he tore another sleeve and moved to bind the other wound.
The silence between them was thick, but Qinghui didn't interrupt. He watched the way Lan Zeyan worked—unflinching, calm, and without so much as a glance in his direction.
Finally, as he tightened the last knot, Lan Zeyan broke the silence, his voice low and firm.
"Why are you here?"
It wasn't the first time he had asked. But this time, there was a weight behind the words—a trace of concern hidden beneath his usual coldness.
Qinghui let out a soft chuckle, trying to lighten the tension. "Weren't you expecting me?"
Lan Zeyan's gaze snapped to him, sharp and unamused.
"Expect you?" he echoed. "Do you hear yourself? You nearly got yourself killed out there."
"But I didn't, thanks to our heroic Lan-gongzi," Qinghui replied with a lopsided grin.
The glare Lan Zeyan gave him could have turned stone to ash. Qinghui, sensing that his joke hadn't landed, slowly dropped the smile and exhaled.
"...Fine. You left your Ling Pai on the small table," Qinghui said, finally serious. "I thought it meant you wanted me to come."
Lan Zeyan narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about? I never left a Ling Pai."
"Huh?" Qinghui blinked, clearly confused.
Lan Zeyan's expression darkened. Without warning, he pulled the cloth tighter around Qinghui's wound.
"Ah—! Hey, hey, take it easy!" Qinghui yelped in pain.
"Who gave you that Ling Pai?" Lan Zeyan asked, his voice quiet but unmistakably angry.
"I don't know! I just found it there, I swear!" Qinghui raised his hands defensively. "I thought you left it for me, so I used it!"
"Let me see it."
Qinghui fumbled at his robes, quickly retrieving the Ling Pai and placing it into Lan Zeyan's outstretched hand.
Lan Zeyan turned it over, his brows furrowing as he examined the engraved characters. He traced them with his fingertip, his Qi probing lightly over the surface. His expression remained cold and unreadable.
"This is a fake."
"...Fake?"
Lan Zeyan nodded, eyes narrowing. "A real Ling Pai emits a faint spiritual aura—usually blue mist. The sect's barrier only recognizes authentic ones. This one has no signature."
Qinghui blinked, stunned. "But then... how did I leave the sect grounds so easily?"
"You mentioned Lan Feirong was with you, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"He holds a high-ranking Ling Pai. If he was with you, the barrier wouldn't question your exit."
"...Oh." Qinghui sighed in realization. Then frowned. "But that means someone deliberately left that fake Ling Pai to mislead me. You think... someone in your sect hates me that much?"
Lan Zeyan shook his head. "It's not about you."
He stood and approached the tree-like corpse again, kneeling beside it. With a solemn expression, he pressed his hands together in prayer, offering a respectful farewell to the fallen disciple.
Qinghui remained seated, brows drawn in thought.
"Then what is it?" he called softly. "Hey, Lan-gongzi, if it's not me they were targeting..."
However, Qinghui didn't get the chance to finish what he was saying when Lan Feirong, Meng Yao, and Ningning arrived in haste.
"Fu Zongzhu!" Lan Feirong called out anxiously, not noticing Qinghui right away as Lan Zeyan's figure blocked him from view.
Lan Zeyan turned to face him. "Fu Zongzhu, I made a mistake. About Qinghui-ge... I brought him with me, but then I lost him—"
Before he could finish, Lan Zeyan sighed, briefly closed his eyes, and stepped aside slightly to reveal Qinghui standing behind him.
"Eh?" Lan Feirong blinked in disbelief.
"See! He's naturally a troublemaker," Ningning muttered irritably. Qinghui simply waved at them with a sheepish smile.
"I'm fine. No need for the concern."
"How did you get here?" Lan Feirong asked.
"It's a long story," Qinghui replied.
But Ningning crossed her arms, not satisfied. "You probably snuck away when we weren't paying attention."
"We were worried. You should've at least told us before running off," she added sternly.
Lan Zeyan cleared his throat, silencing the tension before it could grow. His gaze shifted to the corpse nearby. "Did you find anything related to the third Root of Sentiment?"
Lan Feirong composed himself and quickly shook his head. "No. Unfortunately, there was no sign of the third root—not at the graveyard, nor at the suicide cliffs."
Qinghui, however, couldn't shake the unease in his heart. He glanced at the corpse with narrowed eyes. "Wasn't the Root of Sentiment the cause of those disciples turning into living trees? I saw another one—it collided with me while chasing a child who had been struck by the roots."
Lan Zeyan looked at him. "No, the Root of Sentiment itself doesn't have the ability to animate trees or turn people into them at will. This forest is spiritually disturbed by mortal suicides. The resentment and despair here attract the roots and amplify their aggression."
Lan Feirong nodded, adding, "The second Root of Sentiment, if you recall, latched onto you once. It seeks out strong spiritual energy—someone's Qi—to feed itself."
It was then Qinghui realized that not only the root of sentiment, they were also against the spirits in the forest.
"Then what happened to that second root? Is it dead now, or did it wither away like a tree?" Qinghui asked.
"We brought it back to the sect for study," Lan Feirong answered. "But according to our findings, once severed from a source of Qi, it behaves like an ordinary plant. It shrivels, dies, and loses any spiritual activity. We haven't learned anything new from it since."
Meng Yao, who had been quietly studying the corpse, spoke up. "You said there was a child dragged away by the roots. Where is he now?"
Qinghui closed his eyes, frowning. "Perhaps... he was inside of the cave where I was before."
Ningning's eyebrow twitched. "Perhaps? You're not sure?"
"How should I know? I lost track of him," Qinghui replied sheepishly, glancing to the side like a guilty child caught sneaking sweets.
"Fu Zongzhǔ, about this disciple... what happened to him?" Meng Yao asked, his voice lined with worry.
Lan Feirong's gaze flickered to the side, avoiding eye contact. His expression turned solemn.
"When we entered the forest," Lan Zeyan began, his tone unusually serious, "I didn't realize the fog had shifted. At first, I thought it was just a natural mist, but... there was something amiss.
Subtle movements in the trees, the air too still, too quiet. Before I knew it, the forest became hostile. The two senior disciples I brought with me—turned. They transformed into tree spirits and attacked me without hesitation."
As Lan Zeyan spoke, Qinghui was distractedly rummaging through his sleeve. With the casual air of someone at a picnic instead of a tense debrief, he pulled out a cold, slightly squished steamed bun—the same one he'd taken from the table earlier.
He took a big bite, chewing noisily while nodding along to the story. The others stared.
"...You're seriously eating right now?" Ningning muttered under her breath.
Qinghui held up a finger, gesturing for her to wait until he finished chewing. "Good bun," he mumbled.
Lan Zeyan ignored him and continued, "I barely escaped. I had to sever my spiritual tether to the forest to avoid being assimilated. But I left behind a talisman—one that should've warned me if something followed me out."
The three disciples leaned in, their faces a mixture of concern and curiosity. Meanwhile, Ningning slowly turned her head to glare at Qinghui, who was still munching. His oblivious expression made her eye twitch.
But just as she was about to scold him, Qinghui suddenly froze.
His eyes widened.
The half-eaten bun dropped from his hand and hit the ground with a dull thud.
Then he doubled over.
"Qinghui?" Lan Zeyan stood up, startled.
Qinghui coughed once—and black blood sprayed from his lips.
Everyone leapt to their feet, but it was already too late.
His eyes went blank, glassy, his body trembling violently.
Without warning, grotesque roots burst from the ground behind him, tendrils spiraling like serpents, and latched onto him with terrifying force.
"No!" Lan Zeyan shouted, stepping forward—but the roots yanked Qinghui backward in an instant.
He vanished into the mouth of the cave, swallowed by shadow and vines.
Silence fell. Only the wind remained, carrying the faint scent of rot.