He Fang came back to the dorm after midnight, carried in like a sack of grain.
Two boys dragged him by the arms and dropped him onto a straw mat near the doorway. No one offered water. No one offered sympathy. Sympathy was expensive, and the outer yard lived on cheap things.
His shirt had fused to his back. Blood had soaked through and dried in dark patches. His face was gray, eyes half open, mouth moving like he was trying to speak but didn't know what words belonged to him anymore.
Lin Wuchen wasn't in the dorm when they brought him in.
He was still in the storehouse, sweeping until the dawn bell, because Deacon Han had said stay. When the bolt slid at first light and the guard let him out, Wuchen walked back to the dorm with slow steps, posture slumped, face blank. His own back burned under rough cloth. Each step tugged at scabbed lash lines.
He entered and saw He Fang.
He didn't go straight to him. He moved to his mat, set down the broom, and sat like any other tired boy.
Only then did he look.
He Fang's eyes found him at once, sharp through pain.
Hatred lived there.
So did fear.
A boy nearby whispered, "He's not dying yet." Another answered, "Give it time."
Wuchen ignored them. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out the tiny packet of bone-setting powder he'd prepared before. He held it between two fingers for a moment, then stood.
He walked to He Fang's mat and crouched.
He Fang tried to lift his head and failed. His voice came out as a hoarse rasp. "You… set me…"
Wuchen placed the packet near He Fang's hand. "Put this on your back," he said quietly.
He Fang stared at it like it was poison. "Why," he rasped.
Wuchen's mouth barely moved. "Because you'll talk," he said. "And if you talk while you can still breathe, you choose your words better."
He Fang's fingers shook as they closed around the packet. His eyes burned. "I'll tell," he whispered. "I'll tell Han everything."
Wuchen nodded once, calm. "Tell him," he said. "And tell him you climbed into the storehouse because you thought you could steal Gu Yan's things."
He Fang's eyes widened. "You want me to—"
Wuchen's voice stayed flat. "You already admitted you climbed in," he said. "That's not a lie."
He Fang swallowed. Pain made his throat work like it was swallowing stones.
Wuchen leaned in, close enough that only He Fang could hear. "If you point at me," he whispered, "Han will cut my cultivation. Then Gu Yan still won't get his packet. Han will still need someone to blame. Guess whose legs get broken next."
He Fang's eyes flickered. Understanding slid in slowly, dragged by fear.
Wuchen continued, "If you point at yourself, Han punishes you more," he said. "But you live. Han likes living tools. Dead tools don't carry blame."
He Fang's lips trembled. "And you?" he whispered.
Wuchen straightened a little. "I don't need Han to like me," he said softly. "I only need him to hesitate."
He Fang's fingers tightened on the powder packet. His jaw clenched in helpless fury. "You're… rotten," he whispered again, like last dawn.
Wuchen's mouth twitched faintly. "Then we match the yard," he said.
He rose and went back to his mat as if nothing had happened.
Morning work began. The dorm emptied, boys dragging bodies into the courtyard. Wuchen followed, back burning, face empty.
Deacon Han watched the work line from the steps, teacup in hand, eyes moving like a scale measuring meat.
At midmorning, a guard appeared at the dorm door and barked, "He Fang. Up."
He Fang didn't rise. He couldn't.
Two outer disciples hauled him out anyway. His feet dragged. He bit his lip so hard it bled, making no sound this time.
Wuchen kept carrying stones.
He listened.
He didn't need to be close. The outer hall carried sound when the doors were open, and Deacon Han liked doors open when he wanted witnesses.
He Fang's voice echoed out, hoarse and broken.
"I climbed in," He Fang croaked. "I thought… I thought I could steal. I didn't find it. I didn't know… I didn't know what it was."
Deacon Han's voice followed, calm. "You didn't know," he repeated. "But you knew enough to climb into my storehouse."
He Fang's sobbing answer came, thin. "Yes… Deacon…"
A pause.
Then Deacon Han's voice again, softer. "Who told you about the packet?"
Silence.
Wuchen's shoulders tightened under his shirt.
He Fang could still ruin him here. Pain made men spiteful.
Then He Fang's voice came, strained. "No one," he whispered. "I heard talk. I got greedy."
Deacon Han chuckled. "Greed," he said. "The outer yard's true scripture."
Another pause. Then footsteps inside the hall, the sound of someone kneeling, someone's forehead hitting wood.
He Fang cried out suddenly, a short sound like a breath being punched out.
Deacon Han's voice stayed mild. "You'll serve," he said. "You'll shovel beast dung until you learn where your hands belong."
He Fang's reply was muffled by sobbing. "Yes… yes…"
The hall doors closed.
Wuchen exhaled slowly.
Han had gotten what he wanted: a confession that kept the stain off him and gave him a tool to point at if Gu Yan demanded blood.
But Gu Yan still didn't have his packet.
That meant the pressure wouldn't stop.
By noon, Gu Yan appeared again.
He didn't come to the outer hall. He came to the storehouse.
Wuchen was sweeping when the bolt slid and the door opened. Gu Yan stepped inside as if he owned the air. Two inner disciples followed behind him, one male, one female, both faces expressionless.
Wuchen dropped the broom and knelt immediately. "Senior Brother Gu."
Gu Yan's gaze moved over Wuchen's back. Fresh lash lines under thin cloth. His smile didn't change.
"Deacon Han has been training you," Gu Yan said mildly.
Wuchen kept his eyes down. "This one is clumsy."
Gu Yan walked past him toward the back shelves. "The packet is still missing," he said.
Wuchen didn't answer.
Gu Yan stopped at the shelf where red-wax bottles had been before. He ran one finger along the wood and looked at the dust line, then turned back to Wuchen.
"Where do outer disciples hide things?" Gu Yan asked.
Wuchen swallowed. "Under mats," he said cautiously. "In shoes. In roof cracks."
Gu Yan nodded. "And where do they hide things they don't want to touch?"
Wuchen's throat tightened.
He could lie.
He could say he didn't know.
Gu Yan would keep smiling and keep asking until the smile became a knife.
Wuchen said the least dangerous truth. "Filth places," he whispered.
Gu Yan's smile widened slightly. "Good boy," he said again.
He gestured to the inner disciple behind him. "Search the latrines," he said simply.
Wuchen's stomach dropped.
So Gu Yan had already suspected.
Or Gu Yan had been led there by another thread.
Either way, the hiding place was about to be exposed.
Gu Yan looked down at Wuchen. "Come," he said. "You'll watch. It's educational."
Wuchen rose slowly and followed, shoulders slumped, back burning.
They crossed the yard toward the refuse area. Outer disciples stepped aside quickly when they saw Gu Yan. Even Deacon Han, standing by the hall steps, lifted his teacup slightly in greeting, smile polite.
Gu Yan didn't greet him back.
They reached the latrines.
The female inner disciple wrinkled her nose in disgust. The male inner disciple didn't change expression. He stepped behind the latrine wall and began probing the stones with his fingers.
Wuchen stood a few paces away, head lowered, hands hidden in sleeves, trying not to look like a boy waiting for a trap to spring.
The inner disciple's fingers paused at the cracked stone. He scraped away mud.
Oilcloth appeared.
Red wax glinted.
The fang emblem stared up in morning light.
The inner disciple pulled it out with two fingers like it was a dead rat and held it up.
Gu Yan's smile finally shifted.
Not wider.
Sharper.
"Found," he said softly.
Deacon Han arrived a moment later, breath controlled, eyes cold. "Senior Brother Gu," he said smoothly, "this deacon will handle—"
Gu Yan turned the packet in his fingers, examining the seal.
"The seal is clean," Gu Yan said, almost pleased. Then his gaze lifted to Deacon Han.
"So," he said gently, "who hid it in your latrine wall?"