The mountain did not announce what had happened.
It did not thunder or weep or shift its slopes in any way that invited interpretation. It simply continued being a mountain—paths rising and falling, streams cutting where they always had, wind moving through pine needles with indifferent patience.
People announced it for the mountain.
The first rumor reached the village before Li Wei'an did.
It traveled on a mule driver's tongue, carried downhill along with sacks of salt and dried fish. By the time it reached the teahouse near the crossroads, it had already acquired a shape sharp enough to be repeated.
"They say the shrine keeper killed the Mountain Benefactor."
Someone snorted. "Killed? Spirits don't die."
"Well," the mule driver said, lowering his voice, "they say it screamed. And then it was gone."
That version climbed back up the slope with a pair of charcoal burners, who improved it further.
"They say he cut it apart," one whispered, eyes wide. "Split the old stone in half."
By the time Li Wei'an reached the village that evening, the words Spirit Butcher had already found him.
He heard it first as a joke.
Two boys ran past him near the well, one chasing the other with a stick. "I'm the Spirit Butcher!" the first cried, swinging wildly. "I'll cut your luck in half!"
They laughed and ran on.
Li Wei'an paused long enough to draw water, listening to the sound of the bucket hitting the surface below. The echo returned cleanly. No distortion. That, at least, had ended.
At the teahouse, conversation thinned when he entered.
Not stopped—just narrowed, like a path that had learned caution. Eyes followed him. A man he had spoken with dozens of times before nodded stiffly instead of greeting him by name.
Someone muttered, "False Taoist," not quite under their breath.
Li Wei'an ordered tea and sat where he always did, near the wall, back to the window. He drank slowly.
The rumors did not settle into one story. They braided.
Some said he had acted too late. Others said he had acted too quickly. One insisted the Mountain Benefactor had only been testing the villagers, that next season it would have asked for less. Another claimed the spirit had been weakening anyway, and Li Wei'an had simply taken credit for an inevitable collapse.
More troubling were the moral shapes the stories took.
"He didn't ask permission," a woman said, voice tight. "Who gave him the right?"
"He saved us," someone else replied, just as tightly. "Would you rather give up your son?"
"But what if there was another way?"
"There's always another way after someone else pays the price."
Gratitude and resentment sat side by side, neither willing to leave.
Within three days, travelers arrived.
They came in pairs, then in small groups—martial artists with dust on their hems and confidence in their posture. Their weapons were not hidden. Swords worn openly, sabers resting against shoulders, a spear carried with casual familiarity.
They did not bow to the shrine.
They stood in the courtyard and spoke loudly enough to be overheard.
"So this is the place," one said, eyes flicking to the cracked tablet Li Wei'an had carried down and propped against the outer wall. "Looks small for something that caused such a stir."
"A local spirit," another scoffed. "Barely worth the name."
"Yet someone thought it worth killing," a third replied.
Li Wei'an swept the steps as they spoke. He did not look at them until one addressed him directly.
"You," the man said. "Groundskeeper."
Li Wei'an paused, broom resting against his shoulder. "Yes?"
"You destroyed a mountain spirit," the man said flatly. "On what authority?"
"Observation," Li Wei'an replied.
That earned him laughter.
"That's not an answer," the man said.
"It is the only one I have," Li Wei'an said.
They introduced themselves loosely—members of minor sects, unaffiliated cultivators, one disciple from a lineage that traced itself back to a mountain three provinces away. None of them used formal titles when speaking to him. None asked his name.
"You interfered in a local balance," the disciple said. "Spirits and mortals find their own equilibrium over time."
"Over whose bodies?" Li Wei'an asked.
The disciple frowned. "That is not how Dao is measured."
"Then how?" Li Wei'an asked.
Silence followed, uncomfortable and brief.
"You set a precedent," another said finally. "Now any hedge priest with a blade will think himself qualified to judge spirits."
Li Wei'an resumed sweeping.
"Judgment was not my aim," he said. "Only interruption."
"That's worse," the first man said. "Judgment ends. Interruption invites response."
They left offerings at the shrine that night—incense, coins, a talisman burned incorrectly on purpose. When nothing answered, they left dissatisfied.
They did not leave quietly.
By the end of the week, Li Wei'an had acquired two more names.
Demon-Slayer, spoken with grudging respect by travelers who valued decisiveness over restraint.
False Taoist, favored by those who believed alignment required patience no matter the cost.
Sect gossip bloomed like mold.
A messenger from a nearby Taoist institution arrived with a letter that said very little and implied much. It spoke of "concern," of "procedural irregularities," of "actions taken without consultation." It asked whether Li Wei'an had acted under instruction.
He replied with three lines:
I acted under observation.
There was no instruction.
There is no one to consult.
The messenger left without responding.
The shrine changed.
Not physically—though donations slowed, and the incense supply dwindled—but socially. Villagers came less often. When they did, they stayed closer to the door. They spoke politely, carefully.
A woman who had once brought persimmons now set them down and left without meeting his eyes.
Old Chen still came.
He sat on the bench and drank tea, hands trembling slightly more than before. "They're saying the mountain will punish us," he said one morning. "That the landslides will come back worse."
"And if they do?" Li Wei'an asked.
Old Chen looked down. "Then they'll say you failed."
"And if they don't?"
"They'll say the spirit would have protected us anyway."
Li Wei'an nodded.
"You don't regret it," Old Chen said. It was not a question.
Li Wei'an considered. "Regret requires imagining a cleaner path. I don't see one."
Old Chen sighed. "That won't help you."
"No," Li Wei'an agreed.
The decision came quietly.
It arrived not as accusation, but as procedure.
Two representatives from the temple's overseeing body climbed the mountain on a clear afternoon. They wore clean robes, insignia stitched carefully at the cuffs. Their faces were calm, practiced.
They bowed correctly.
"Li Wei'an," the older one said. "You have served this shrine for many years."
"Yes," Li Wei'an replied.
"You have maintained it well," the younger added. "Its condition reflects diligence."
Li Wei'an inclined his head.
"However," the older continued, "recent events have drawn attention."
"Yes."
"There are concerns," the younger said, unfolding a scroll he did not read from. "Concerns about deviation from established doctrine. About unilateral action. About reputational impact."
Li Wei'an listened.
"The shrine is small," the older said. "But it is still part of a larger whole. Actions taken here reflect outward."
"I understand," Li Wei'an said.
The younger representative hesitated. "You are not accused of malice."
"No," Li Wei'an agreed.
"Nor of heresy," the older added. "But of… misalignment."
The word hung between them.
"Therefore," the younger said, voice softer now, "it has been decided that your duties here will conclude at the end of the month."
Li Wei'an nodded once.
"There will be no censure," the older said quickly. "No punishment. You may take your belongings."
"Yes."
"The shrine will be reassigned," the younger said. "Someone… less visible."
"Yes."
They waited, perhaps expecting protest. Defense. Explanation.
Li Wei'an said nothing.
When they left, the mountain remained unchanged.
That evening, Li Wei'an packed.
There was not much to gather. His blanket. His kettle. The broom, worn smooth at the handle. The cracked bell. The sword, cleaned and wrapped.
He left the talismans behind.
At dawn, he swept the courtyard one last time.
He replaced the incense ash. He repaired a loose tile. He bowed—not to the statues, but to the space he had kept.
As he stepped onto the path leading away from the shrine, a few villagers watched from a distance. None approached. None stopped him.
Old Chen raised a hand.
Li Wei'an returned the gesture.
Then he walked on, reputation following behind him like a shadow that would take many shapes before it learned which one fit.