The temple was silent in the way silence always carried weight in Kaiyuan. Candles trembled as though fearful of their own light. Yun Wuxian knelt upon the cold stone floor, staring at the altar where the blood-patterns from the last ritual still pulsed faintly, faint as the heartbeat of a hidden god.
The High Priest entered without ceremony, his robe brushing the stone. His eyes were sharp, like black ink against white paper, absorbing every shadow in the room. "You have lingered long," he said, voice calm but heavy, carrying the authority of centuries.
"I have questions," Wuxian said. His voice was small, yet it rang clearly against the stillness. "Why… why does goodness bring suffering?"
The High Priest studied him. "A child who notices too much," he said softly. "Sit." He gestured to the cold steps of the altar. "We will speak as the world is, not as mortals wish it to be."
Wuxian obeyed. He had learned early that disobedience in silence was easier than in speech, for speech alone could summon consequences the body could not bear.
The priest leaned against the altar, his fingers tracing the edges of the blood-patterns. "The Dao is not kind. It does not reward or punish in the manner of humans. It balances. And balance is hunger."
"Hunger?" Wuxian repeated, frowning. "For what?"
"For itself," the priest said. "The Dao requires sustenance. Do you not see? Every sin, every act of greed, every hidden cruelty, every betrayal feeds it. And the world, in turn, feeds it. Yet you ask about suffering caused by goodness?"
"Yes." Wuxian's eyes narrowed. "If evil feeds Heaven, then why does Heaven accept offerings of virtue? Why does giving not lighten the world but sometimes bring pain?"
The High Priest's smile was faint, knowing, almost sorrowful. "Because goodness is counted as part of the ledger of balance. It exists not to bless, but to stabilize. The Dao is a creature that eats both light and dark, indifferent to what we call morality. Your father, your family, even your prayers—all of it becomes food. And sometimes the nourishment is bitter to those who give it."
Wuxian's hands clenched, nails pressing into his palms. "So, the world is… a stomach?"
The priest nodded. "Precisely. A stomach that never fills. A hunger that consumes the very notion of mercy. Heaven does not demand righteousness; it demands balance. It devours whatever is presented to it. Virtue and vice alike. You have seen it."
Wuxian's gaze shifted to the altar. The stone beneath him pulsed faintly, mirroring the rhythms of the blood-patterns he had traced hours ago. A low hum rose from it, almost imperceptible at first, then growing in resonance. "It… speaks?" he asked.
"Yes," the priest said. "All things speak. The soil beneath your feet, the stone upon which you kneel, the winds that brush your skin. But few listen. Few understand that the voice of the Dao is hunger itself."
Wuxian's eyes narrowed further. "Then if Heaven consumes all, what is left for those who live?"
"Existence," said the High Priest. "Suffering is the side effect of participation. Joy is merely the pause between consumption. And those who attempt to escape this cycle," he added, voice darkening, "are often consumed more thoroughly than those who give willingly."
A tremor passed through the floor. Yun Wuxian froze. The blood-patterns beneath the altar shifted, subtle and alive, as though responding to his thoughts. He leaned closer. From beneath the stone, a whisper curled upward, faint, almost indistinguishable from the hum of the Dao.
"I… hear you," Wuxian said, breath shallow.
The priest's gaze followed his. "Listen closely, child. You are beginning to perceive what few mortals ever glimpse. The world is hungry. And sometimes, the world… answers those who listen."
The whisper grew, subtle vibrations in the air. Yun Wuxian's hair stirred without wind. The altar's surface shimmered faintly. The voice seemed to rise not from the air, nor from the stone, but from the earth itself.
"I… hear you," it repeated, clearer this time, echoing the rhythm of the altar's pulse. Wuxian's chest tightened. He realized he was not alone. The world itself regarded him, measured him, acknowledged him.
"Do you feel it?" the High Priest asked. "The Dao does not slumber. It feeds. And yet, it watches. Always. Even when you think the world is silent."
Wuxian's gaze shifted to the High Priest. "Then what of those who give?"
"Those who give are not spared," said the priest, "but they leave traces. Even in consumption, their essence imprints the world. The Dao grows, and the world shifts, because they have existed. It is not reward or punishment—it is the cycle itself."
The ground trembled beneath them. The altar's stone cracked ever so slightly. Faint fissures snaked outward, like veins seeking life in lifeless rock. The whisper rose, louder, insistent, almost melodic, almost human.
"I… hear you," it repeated, but this time it carried understanding, curiosity, acknowledgment. The voice of the world—neither kind nor cruel—yet intimate in a way that made Wuxian shiver.
The High Priest's gaze darkened. "You feel it, do you not? That hunger, that awareness. This is the Dao speaking in the tongue of the forgotten, the unseen, the discarded. All those who lived and gave, all those who died and sinned—they feed it. And in their feeding, it listens."
Wuxian rose, trembling slightly. His hands hovered over the altar, over the slowly widening cracks. "So… Heaven, Dao… they do not care for morality at all?"
"Morality is a tool," the priest said. "A mechanism for mortals to measure themselves against the impossible. The Dao does not measure; it consumes. It does not judge; it observes. You have seen its appetite, Wuxian. You have felt its pulse beneath your fingers."
The whisper from the earth grew more insistent. Yun Wuxian leaned closer, pressing his ear to the altar. The blood-patterns he had traced before throbbed faintly, synchronizing with the murmurs from below. The voice was neither male nor female, neither alive nor dead, yet it acknowledged him.
"I hear you," Wuxian repeated aloud. "I exist. And you… hear me."
The priest's gaze softened, though it remained piercing. "Exactly. To be consumed is to participate. To be recognized is to exist within the hunger. Most mortals never achieve this communion."
A sudden tremor ran through the altar. Dust fell from the ceiling. Tiny fissures spread outward from the center where Wuxian's hands hovered. The stone beneath him had cracked enough for the whisper to resonate through the chamber, vibrating the air and bone alike.
The boy stepped back, eyes wide. "It… it listens."
"Yes," said the High Priest. "And one day, it may act. But not today. Today, it merely acknowledges. The Dao is patient. Always hungry. Always observing. Never rushing."
The altar vibrated under Wuxian's palms. The patterns of blood shimmered faintly, alive in ways that mortals could scarcely perceive. It was a dialogue of presence, of insistence, of recognition.
"I exist," Wuxian whispered again. His voice no longer trembled. It was calm, deliberate. "And the world… sees me."
The High Priest nodded. "Yes. But remember: being seen does not equal being safe. The Dao's hunger endures. The world remembers, even when you are forgotten. This is the lesson of balance: all who feed it leave a trace, and all traces will be consumed in time."
The whisper beneath the altar shifted one final time, a low, resonant acknowledgment. The fissures widened, imperceptibly, the altar stone trembling beneath the weight of silent observation. The room was still once more, save for the slow pulse of the world itself beneath Wuxian's feet.
He looked at the High Priest. "Then all acts… even good ones… feed it?"
"Even good ones," the priest confirmed. "Virtue is a morsel. Sacrifice is a morsel. Sin is a morsel. All nourish it equally. It does not care which you offer, only that the offering is made. That is the lesson, child. That is the truth that no mortal prayer can alter."
Wuxian stared at the altar, the subtle cracking, the faintly pulsing blood-patterns, and the earth that had spoken to him in whispers. The Dao had acknowledged him. The world had listened. And yet… the hunger remained. Infinite, insatiable, patient.
And for the first time, Wuxian understood: existence was not measured by kindness, by sin, or by prayer. It was measured by presence. By insistence. By feeding what must be fed.
The altar groaned softly. A final tremor ran through the floor. The fissures widened ever so slightly, the stone acknowledging the insistence of the child who had been unseen, unheard, uncounted.
And the world listened.