By dark, Lin Xuan's platoon's exploit had spread among the gossips like wildfire. That morning, they carried him up in their hands. By evening, people were saying he was a hidden genius. He had turned six weaklings and a fool into a glittering Seven Stars Formation—a thing even experienced squads were hard put to do.
This brings awe. But it also holds out suspicion; and suspicion is not so easily dispelled.
"He sees too much."
"No one could learn that way without some tricks."
"Perhaps he is possessed of an evil spirit."
In the light of the lamp flame in his quarters, Lin Xuan sat as Wu Ming sprawled on the floor, relating each detail of the drill—with elaborate embroidery more colorful than it was real. But Lin Xuan's thoughts were not there. Each trick confirmed existing dread. Meng Zhao will not attack openly yet; he will let the murmurs of the sect work in unseen ways.
Higher in the sect, Meng Zhao sat with three elders of the inner church. On their sleeves were embroidered clouds—marks of higher rank than any outer church worm could hope for.
"You mean the cripple arrayed seven men?" asked one, clearly unconvinced.
Meng Zhao smiled within his mask. "Rubbish does not turn light by fortune. He must have something to hide. If he goes on this way, his shadow will be cast across many things he would rather forget."
"But what strategy are you going to use?" a third asked.
Meng Zhao's fingers beat a soft tattoo on the tabletop. "Whispers. Let the sect question his ways. Too great a miracle becomes heresy. By the time he realizes that, suspicion will weigh upon his head as heavy as a thousand swords."
The others looked at each other. Then one nodded, carefully.
The game had begun.
The next morning, Lin walked through the courtyard under the watchful eyes of nearly a hundred people. Some sect members looked at him with awe, still others with envy, and still more with blank hostility. The whispers followed him.
"It is said that he copied sword styles in one fight."
"Now he commands formation with a single glance?"
"That is not kindness—that is witchcraft."
He stomped one foot. "Senior Brother! They're just jealous. Should I throw buns at them until they choke?"
Lin Xuan's mouth twisted slightly at this. "No. Let them whisper. Noise is easier to trace than silence."
But inside, every side-glance, every murmur, was followed. Suspicion traveled faster than truth.
That afternoon, the disciples assembled again for combat practice. Lin Xuan was paired with a skittish boy who murmured, "Please don't hurt me."
Before the drill started, Meng Zhao's hatchet men began to whisper rather loudly for the whole hall to hear:
"Be careful. If he imitates your sword too fast, maybe he's not human."
"Beware. Don't let his eyes snatch your soul."
A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. The boy's face had turned ashen, shaking as he squared off against Lin Xuan.
Lin Xuan lowered his spear, voice gentle. "Breathe. I won't harm you."
But it was too late. Fear had ruined the boy's balance. Each thwarted blow only increased the murmur. In the end, the crowd was not mocking the boy so much as watching Lin Xuan as if he were a snake behind glass.
Lin Xuan deliberately slowed his movements to avoid hurting or humiliating his opponent. He blocked tenderly, corrected the boy's footing, guided his breathing. In the eyes of the spectators, it was more like a teaching than an engagement.
Another rumor began to circulate.
"Are these people actually fanatics?"
"He... actually corrected in mid-fight?"
"Since when does a cripple correct others?"
"Who is he?"
Once more, Meng Zhao's henchmen scowled. Their attempt to brand him a demon had turned to awe.
That night, as Lin Xuan returned to his quarters, a folded note lay waiting on his door. Its ink was as glossy as oil.
"The elders are watching you. One step wrong, & the whispers become chains."
Wu Ming gasped when he saw this. "Senior Brother! They're trying to frighten you."
Lin Xuan's sight paused on the black note briefly; he threw it into the lamp flames. His voice was calm and somewhat cold. "They shun what they do not comprehend. Let them. Fear makes people cautious. As long as they're swayed by it, and while they're afraid, I will grow."
But as he spoke these Qing words; deeply in his heart, like a knife turning into a corner, he felt what returning to a sect meant. And that whispered Meng Zhao's tight bassoon was slowly winding the rope around his neck.