The stone hall was cleaned before the sun fully rose.
There had been no blood, nothing visible to wash away. Still, several disciples were ordered to sweep the floor, realign small pillars, and replace the incense. As if Elder Mo Yunqiu's death had left behind an invisible residue.
His name was not spoken again.
Xuanye watched the body being carried away without ceremony. No procession. No long prayers. Just two servant disciples and an elder quietly recording something onto a bamboo scroll.
That was all.
That morning, the training bell rang as usual.
Disciples returned to the cultivation grounds, sitting cross-legged, closing their eyes, drawing in qi as though nothing had changed. Some were restless. Some overly focused. Most were simply learning not to ask questions.
Xuanye sat near the back.
He regulated his breathing, following the sect's basic method—drawing qi in, circulating it slowly, then settling it back into his dantian. A dull technique. Safe. Inefficient.
But today, he paused midway through the cycle.
The qi around him remained obedient, yet there was a slight delay. Like the world holding its breath.
He opened his eyes.
In the distance, the place where Elder Mo Yunqiu once stood was now empty. No marker. No plaque. No sign that someone had taught there for decades.
A disciple beside him whispered, "They say he failed to balance his own qi."
Xuanye did not respond.
It was a comfortable explanation. A personal mistake. A neat conclusion.
He resumed cultivation, slower than before. Not out of fear—but to confirm one thing.
The world was not accelerating anyone today.
When the session ended, a sect supervisor walked past the rows of disciples.
"From now on," he said flatly, "avoid unapproved techniques. Focus on stability."
No one asked why.
Xuanye stood, straightened his robe, and left with the flow of others. Inside his chest, a small understanding settled—quiet, yet heavy.
Yesterday's death was not a warning.
It was a correction.
And the world…
had already returned to work.