Songhe had guarded Ling Feng's presence within He Yu Zōng with utmost discretion, as one might guard a smoldering coal hidden in silk. Every precaution had been taken; every trace of suspicion carefully erased.
The healer who examined Ling Feng that night had his memory scoured clean by a talisman, his mind left untroubled by any peculiar findings. When Huifen and Haoran questioned the boy's sudden appearance and condition, Songhe had lied, brushing the matter off as inconsequential, maintaining the confidence of someone used to bending the truth.
Ling Feng had been smuggled into his residence under the cover of darkness, his existence hidden even from the sect's most trusted elders. Songhe alone bore the burden of knowing the boy carried two hearts—the most dangerous omen.
And now, all of that careful deception had unraveled.
Ling Feng had struck Cheng Haoran. This time, no talisman could scour away the stain, no silvered words could smooth it over. It was not merely an attack upon a disciple, but an affront to the entire sect. Justice would come swiftly, unless Songhe intervened.
He wasted no time. After disciplining Ling Feng with the lash of his whip, Songhe strode across the snow-laden hallways, white robes trailing behind him like a banner of storm clouds.
The infirmary was dim, filled with the soft glow of lantern light. The healer bent over Haoran's body, his hands trembling as he pressed herbs against a wound that gaped like a second mouth across the young man's throat. The cut had sought not merely blood, but life itself. Only the reluctance of the gods had kept him clinging to his thread of breath.
Songhe dismissed the healer without ceremony and locked the door behind him. Mortal hands would not suffice for what was required.
He stood beside Haoran, his long fingers moving with deliberate grace. Two fingers touched the man's brow, then his chest, then returned once more to his brow. Each touch left behind a faint spiral of light, pulsing with rhythm. A low hum stirred the air, and Haoran's soul was drawn forth, rising from his body like mist exhaled upon winter air.
The young man's spirit hovered above its flesh, wan and dim, its outline flickering. His core, usually a jewel of light nestled deep within, was splintered, its radiance paling with every passing heartbeat.
Songhe's eyes narrowed.
This was death already reaching with both hands.
He conjured a fire lotus into his palm, its petals shimmering with quiet radiance. Into it, he poured the essence of his own energy—a draught of immortal vitality. The lotus flared, too bright, too eager. When he pressed it into Haoran's fading core, the young man's soul jolted awake in agony, writhing in the air.
He had given too much. The fire roared through Haoran's core, consuming rather than mending. With precise mudras, he tempered it, guiding the flames as one tames a wild stallion. Still, Haoran's soul writhed in a silent scream; soul-fire was pain no mortal was meant to know.
Gradually, the orange ember of Haoran's core changed hue, burning blue—the color of the fire lotus. The flame nearly doubled in size, unstable yet alive. Only when it stabilized did Songhe guide the soul back into its body.
The moment soul met flesh, Haoran's body arched violently, as though struck by lightning. A strangled gasp escaped him, but no voice followed. Tremors coursed through him in relentless waves.
Songhe did not move at once. His gaze remained fixed, measuring. Then, with precise movements, his fingers descended to key points along Haoran's chest and throat. A faint glow pulsed beneath his touch, holding the spasms in check and forcing the body to endure rather than break.
Heat surged beneath Haoran's skin. Within moments, a fever seized him, sudden and fierce. Sweat beaded along his brow, then spread, soaking through his robes as his body fought to reconcile flesh and soul.
Songhe let it run its course.
He stood beside the bed in silence, watching, waiting. He had no doubt Haoran would wake. The fire lotus burning within his core would see to that.
At last, Haoran's eyes snapped open.
His chest heaved and his throat rasped, but still no sound came. The pain engulfed him, flooding every vein and nerve and consuming thought itself. He wanted to scream, but his body refused him. He could not move, not a finger, not even a breath beyond what his lungs forced upon him.
Only his eyes, wide, dazed, and burning with terror, remained his own.
Songhe, unshaken, watched him for a brief moment longer. Then he lifted his hand.
Two fingers pressed lightly to Haoran's brow.
A cooling current flowed through him, dulling the sharpest edge of the agony, not erasing it, but pulling him back from the brink of madness.
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Songhe reached into his sleeve and drew out a pill. He placed it upon the wound, where it melted into Haoran's flesh like snow upon spring water. The torn throat knitted shut, leaving only a scar, a crimson line the color of dawn.
He gave two measured taps against the man's chest and the seal of immobility broke. Sensation returned first, then weight, then the slow, trembling obedience of muscle.
"I have not taken all the pain away," Songhe said at last, his gaze lowering to Haoran’s palm, where the shards of the shattered vial had left their mark. "That would not be fair to you. But you are safe now. The worst is over."
Haoran blinked, the warmth of foreign energy coursing through him like a river of fire beneath ice. His core throbbed with an unfamiliar strength, one that unsettled as much as it empowered. His hand brushed the scar at his throat, and a strained breath escaped him.
"Elder Songhe..." Haoran began, his voice coarse but still filled with reverence. "Thank you."
He moved to rise. He wanted to bow, and if his body allowed it, to kowtow.
Songhe lifted a hand to stop him.
"You lost a great deal of blood. What I have done was necessary. Reserve your strength, Cheng Haoran. This is not a time for formalities."
Silence fell. Only Haoran’s breath broke the stillness.
Songhe’s gaze remained on the young man. He watched the minute shifts: the steadiness of his breathing, the return of color to his flesh, the clarity settling behind his eyes.
Haoran felt it, the weight of that gaze as surely as any physical touch. It pressed against him, not oppressive, but inescapable. Instinctively, he straightened, forcing his trembling body into stillness, willing his breath to steady beneath the Elder’s silent assessment.
Only when Songhe was satisfied with what he saw did he ask.
“I have questions, Cheng Haoran. Tell me what happened, I need to know every single detail.”
Haoran steadied his breath, clearing his mind. Slowly, the memory of the attack surfaced, each fragment sharp enough to make him shudder. He suppressed the tremor, composed himself, and began to recount the events.
He spoke of entering the residence, of the strange atmosphere that had hung in the air like the static before a storm, of the unseen presence that had surrounded him before the strike came.
His voice faltered slightly as he recalled the sudden cut across his throat, and his hand rose instinctively, reaching toward the scar, but the movement drew a sharp sting from his wounded palm instead. He lowered his gaze, staring at the injury for a moment before forcing himself to continue.
He described the draining of his blood, the weakness that followed, and the terrifying sensation of feeling his own life slipping away.
Songhe listened in silence, his gaze fixed upon Haoran’s face. There was no judgment there, no shadow of reproach, only a depth of thought that seemed to pierce through the man’s words and into their essence.
When Haoran’s account ended, a heavy silence filled the room.
At last, Songhe spoke.
“The attack you experienced was from a dark spirit,” he said slowly, weighing his words carefully. “One that I have been harboring under delicate circumstances. The creature has familial ties to me. Because of this, I took him in and confined him to shield him from the world, and the world from him. But he is reckless—savage in his ways.”
Haoran’s eyes widened at the revelation. A dark spirit? Here? In He Yu Zōng? Hidden under Elder Songhe’s roof? The very idea seemed heretical.
Yet his reverence for Songhe silenced him.
Songhe’s expression softened, though his composure never cracked. “I regret what has befallen you,” he said, inclining his head in a rare gesture. The bow was shallow, yet from an immortal of his stature, it carried the weight of mountains. “It was never my intent that you should suffer for my burden.”
Haoran began to rise, alarmed. The sight of the immortal lowering his head before him struck him with immediate dismay. He shook his head quickly as he pushed himself upright, offering a forced bow in return.
“No, Elder Songhe.” His voice was hoarse,” You should never have to apologize to me. Not for this. You do not need to explain yourself either. You are... you are Immortal Songhe.”
The words left him almost helplessly, unable to fully convey the weight of the respect he carried.
Songhe regarded him in silence for a moment before reaching out, gently guiding him back onto the bed.
“Very well,” he said, his tone carrying an undertone of resolve. “Then you should understand this—Ling Feng cannot come here to apologize, for obvious reasons.”
Haoran froze.
Ling Feng?
The spirit had a name, one carried like any man’s. His mind reeled. Songhe’s calm voice belied the gravity of his words, but Haoran could feel the weight behind them.
“If you will not accept an apology from me,” Songhe continued, “then you may come to my residence. There, Ling Feng will bow before you himself and repent. And if you deem it insufficient, if you believe punishment must fall heavier—then you may decide the terms.”
The idea settled on Haoran.
To punish a spirit, a creature strong enough to tear the life from his body in a breath?
The notion was staggering. But more staggering still was the trust Elder Songhe placed in him, a mere disciple, to stand in this judgment.
“This is not a matter of pride,” Songhe said, his tone softening slightly. “It is a matter of justice. Ling Feng’s crime cannot be left unaddressed. You, as the victim, must have a voice in what follows. I trust your judgment to weigh it.”
Haoran bowed his head, torn between awe, confusion, and duty.
To pass judgment upon one bound by blood to the immortal… how could he? And yet, how could he not?
“I… I will consider it, Elder Songhe,” Haoran said at last, his voice steady, though within him the storm raged on.
Songhe nodded once. His white robes caught the lantern light, unbound silver hair flowing behind him as he turned without another word and left the Jingshen infirmary.
The door closed softly, leaving Haoran alone in the hush of the snow-muted night, his mind troubled by the weight of responsibility now his to bear.