Dusk fell like ash upon the mountain. The wind quieted, and the sound of rushing water from the lower falls faded into the hush of evening. Mist gathered over Mirror Lake — a veil of pale silver, trembling in the half-light.
Ling Xiuyuan stood at the edge of the water. His robes brushed against the stones, his hair unbound, a faint shimmer of spirit energy circling him like breath. Behind him stood Lin Wuyue and Nie Xiaohuan; further back, a few disciples kept their distance, lanterns flickering like watchful souls.
No one spoke.
The lake was perfectly still. The reflection of the moon wavered once — and then split.
Something moved beneath the surface.
Xiuyuan closed his eyes. His fingers formed a seal, slow and deliberate, and his voice was a whisper of invocation:
"By the name of Jingshou, by the vow of still water — let restless spirits be known, and false light unveiled."
The surface of the lake rippled outward, and the mist began to swirl. Within it, a faint figure appeared — the silhouette of a woman in white, her hair flowing like ink across the water. Her face was pale, indistinct, but her voice was soft and broken.
"Master… Master Ling…"
Nie Xiaohuan's breath caught. "Bai Shan…"
Xiuyuan raised a hand. "Do not speak her name."
The ghost turned toward them, and the air grew colder. Her eyes were hollow. From her lips spilled a sound that was not a cry, not a word — only grief itself, drawn into a wail that shook the branches along the shore.
The disciples staggered back. Lin Wuyue steadied her stance, one hand resting lightly on her sword.
Xiuyuan alone did not move.
He stepped forward, his boots touching the mist-shrouded surface. The lake did not break beneath him — the water froze into a thin layer of frost wherever his feet passed.
"Bai Shan," he said at last. His voice was low, clear, and impossibly gentle. "You should have gone long ago."
The specter trembled. Her form rippled, torn between presence and absence.
"They called to me," she whispered. "They said you had forgotten us… that the Sect had fallen… that we were left in the dark."
Xiuyuan's eyes closed for a brief moment. When he opened them again, his gaze shone faintly — the old spiritual light that once bent storms.
"I forgot nothing." He drew a talisman from his sleeve, pressed it to his palm, and with a single breath, the parchment burst into white flame. The fire rose around him, quiet and pure, reflecting in the ghost's eyes.
"By the oath of the living, by the peace of the dead — return to the stillness you were denied."
The mist convulsed. The ghost shrieked, voice fracturing into hundreds of echoes, each one calling his name. The frost beneath his feet cracked — yet Xiuyuan stood unmoving, his robes whipping in the wind.
Nie Xiaohuan fell to one knee, covering his face from the glare; Wuyue's blade hummed faintly at her side.
The white fire spread across the lake, forming circles of light that intertwined — symbols of purification older than any living disciple could name.
Within the blaze, the woman's form dissolved into snow-bright fragments. Her final whisper brushed the air like falling petals:
"Then… we are not forgotten."
The mist broke. The light faded. Only the scent of burned incense and lotus remained.
For a long time, none spoke.
When the silence finally lifted, Nie Xiaohuan stepped forward. "Master… are you unharmed?"
Xiuyuan did not answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the still water, where his own reflection stared back — pale, weary, and alone.
Finally, he said, "One spirit at peace does not mean the mountain is cleansed."
Lin Wuyue bowed her head. "Then we will face the others, one by one."
The disciples knelt in unison, the sound of their robes against stone like a single breath drawn by the mountain itself.
And from the ridge above, unseen by any of them, Mingyue watched — the lantern light brushing his face. His expression was unreadable, calm as water, but his hand clenched slightly against the railing.
The wind caught the edge of his sleeve and carried his whisper down toward the lake:
"Ghosts are not the only ones who cannot rest."
The night deepened. The lake lay still once more, its ripples sealed beneath a skin of moonlight. In the distance, torches along the courtyard dimmed one by one, until only the faint glow of spirit lamps remained, swaying like tired souls above the stone paths.
Ling Xiuyuan returned in silence.
Nie Xiaohuan followed a few paces behind, his heart light despite the exhaustion. He had not seen his master walk so steadily, so alive, in years. Even beneath the pallor of exertion, Xiuyuan's eyes carried a faint, rekindled fire.
When they reached the Sect Leader's quarters, Xiaohuan paused, bowing low."Master, I'll have tea prepared. You should rest. Tonight was—"
He stopped short when Xiuyuan turned slightly, meeting his gaze. "Let Mingyue attend me," Xiuyuan said quietly. "You've done enough."
Xiaohuan hesitated — but then nodded, and whispered, "Yes, Master."
And he stepped outside.
Inside, the chamber was filled with the faint scent of sandalwood and cold air. Xiuyuan sat before the low table, his outer robes darkened by ash, his hair loose and damp with mist.
A knock came — light, restrained.
"Enter," Xiuyuan said.
Mingyue stepped in, carrying a folded set of fresh robes. The lamplight caught the curve of his cheek and the clean line of his jaw; his expression, as always, was calm — neither humble nor proud, simply still.
He knelt beside Xiuyuan without a word, setting down the basin of water. Steam rose faintly from it.
"Your sleeves are burned," Mingyue murmured, fingers brushing the edge of the charred fabric. "Shall I—?"
Xiuyuan inclined his head. "Do as you must."
Mingyue's movements were quiet, practiced. He untied the ruined robes, layer by layer, his touch steady, almost reverent. The water glimmered as he rinsed the cloth, wiping the ash from Xiuyuan's wrists. The faint warmth of his hands contrasted the chill in the room.
Xiuyuan watched him. In the soft flicker of the lamp, Mingyue's face seemed both familiar and distant — that same measured grace Shen Liuxian once had when tending the incense before dawn, when silence had meant peace, not absence.
At last, Mingyue spoke, his tone neutral. "The disciples are frightened, but proud. They say the Sect Leader's power has not faded."
Xiuyuan gave a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. "Power is no measure of peace."
"No," Mingyue said. He wrung the cloth and continued, "But it makes the living remember to hope."
The words lingered. Xiuyuan's gaze flicked to him, searching. The moonlight from the open lattice window brushed Mingyue's profile — pale, serene, untroubled — and for a fleeting instant, something flickered in Xiuyuan's mind.
The same calm.The same voice that once whispered "Shifu" beneath the pines.
"Mingyue," Xiuyuan said softly.
"Yes, Master?"
"Do you ever fear the dead?"
Mingyue's hands paused. The silence between them was fragile.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
"No. The dead do not frighten me."
"Why not?"
"Because they only come to those who remember them."
Outside, a wind stirred the chimes.
Xiuyuan said nothing more. Mingyue replaced the last layer of his robe, smoothing the folds. Then, as he gathered the basin and cloth, Xiuyuan caught, for just a moment, the faintest glimmer on Mingyue's sleeve — a thread of frost-white light, fading as quickly as breath.
"Mingyue."
He turned. "Yes, Master?"
"Who taught you to cleanse the energy that way?"
Mingyue met his eyes. For the first time, his composure wavered — not breaking, but bending slightly, like a flame in a draft.
"…No one," he said. "It comes naturally."
Xiuyuan did not look away. "Naturally," he repeated.
Mingyue lowered his gaze, bowed, and withdrew into the hall.
When the door closed, Xiuyuan exhaled — long and quiet. The faint echo of the lake's whisper still clung to his ears. He raised a hand to his chest, where the talisman's light had once burned, and murmured to the empty room:
"Even the living carry ghosts."
Outside, Mingyue stood beneath the moonlight, the cold wind stirring his hair. From afar, the young female disciples passing by cast quick glances toward him, whispering between themselves — laughter hushed, eyes bright with curiosity and admiration.
But Mingyue's expression did not change. He watched the courtyard below where the Sect Leader's lamp still burned.