The Dragon Banner Wing was the largest of the five wings upon the Jingshen Spire. It rose from a wide plateau high above the River Lianhua, where the wind seldom slept and the air carried the sharp cry of falcons.
The ascent to it was a trial of patience and will, hundreds of stone steps coiling along the cliffside and vanishing into banks of white mist that shifted like restless spirits.
The climb twisted through silence and stone until, at last, the summit unfolded. Terraces stretched in perfect order, courtyards and tiled roofs arranged in harmony. Narrow bridges arched between the tiers, their outlines half-lost in the mist. The plateau itself was broad and windswept, stripped of forest to make room for its great population, training courts, and meditation halls. It was the ideal ground for assemblies, or for duels fought beneath the open sky.
Haoran ascended the steps alone. The path he chose was not the common route, but the long and solitary ascent, seldom used for its narrow stairways and endless turns. Yet it was the one he preferred when duty or reason brought him here. Its silence softened the awareness that he stood upon another banner’s ground.
He soon reached the path flanked by the twenty-three veneration temples, each carved into the cliffside in a solemn row. He walked with care; each step along the silent path felt as though he was treading the living spine of the sect’s history, every temple a vertebra of its vast memory.
Taking a side passage, a shortcut this time, he descended a winding stair that opened toward the Azure Heart Tower, the grand pagoda that crowned the inner sanctum of the Jingshen Spire.
At this hour of the day, Haoran knew this was where he would find Qiang Huifen.
Because it was a restricted precinct, he stopped short at a respectful distance, waiting beneath the shadow of the tower’s eaves. Time passed slowly, but Haoran was unbothered; patience was second nature to him.
It was then that his gaze fell upon the Soul-Weaver Willow.
He tilted his head in surprise. Something about the tree was wrong.
The majestic purple willow had always been a quiet wonder, its cascading boughs moving with grace, its roots sunk deep into the stone as though feeding on the mountain’s breath itself. But now, its form was completely altered. The trunk had thickened and grown shorter, its bark darkened, and, impossibly, it faced a different direction from what Haoran remembered.
He stepped closer, curiosity tightening in his chest. The willow stood untouched by winter, its crown lush and in full bloom heavy with a violet sheen. That, in itself, was not strange; many trees within the Trine Spires defied the ordinary seasons. But this transformation, this shifting of form and posture was something else entirely.
The closer he came, the denser the air grew, thick with a presence that was not quite sound, yet not entirely silence either. A subtle pressure built behind his eyes, rhythmic as a heartbeat. Then, somewhere between the rustling leaves and the low hum of energy, he thought he heard it.
A sob.
Faint at first, almost swallowed by the wind. Then clearer.
It came from the direction of the tree.
The sound was low, sorrowful, almost human. Words, or what might have been words, threaded through the trembling leaves, broken and soft, as though someone were weeping just beyond sight. Without realizing it, Haoran began to move, step by step, drawn forward by that mournful whisper, trying to catch the meaning behind it.
Then—
A hand closed around his wrist.
He froze.
Qiang Huifen stood beside him, his grip firm.
“The last girl who came within ten feet of that tree,” Huifen said quietly, his voice edged with warning, “is still in the infirmary.”
Haoran blinked, the trance breaking. His breath came shallow, his pupils dilated.
Huifen studied him for a long moment, “What are you doing?”
Haoran didn’t answer. He only turned, eyes still clouded, the echo of that sob lingering in his mind like the after-sound of a dream.
At last, he spoke, his voice rough and low. “I thought I heard something.”
Huifen exhaled, half sigh, half resignation. It was a sound that carried both familiarity and fatigue.
“You always do,” he murmured under his breath.
He turned and started to move, motioning for Haoran to follow. But Haoran lingered, glancing once more toward the willow, whose violet boughs shifted faintly in the evening light.
“Ignore it,” Huifen said without looking back. His tone light and dismissive. “It always throws tantrums this time of the year.”
Haoran frowned. “It does?” He had once spent countless hours training in this wing, yet he had never heard of such a thing. Huifen spoke of it as though it were ordinary, some seasonal nuisance the mountain endured and forgot.
“But the form has changed,” Haoran said, hurrying a few steps to keep up. “That’s new, isn’t it?”
Huifen’s pace didn’t slow.
“Did you hear it?” Haoran pressed, unable to let the thought go.
Huifen did not respond. It was as though the question had dissolved into the wind. His silence was practiced, the kind born of long command.
“Huifen,” Haoran insisted, “did you hear the sobs?”
Huifen stopped and turned, faintly annoyed.
“No,” he said flatly. “I did not hear the sobs.”
His tone carried that sharp, familiar edge, the kind that ended conversations before they began. Haoran knew that voice. It was the one Huifen used when he had already decided the matter was beneath his time.
After a pause, Huifen relented slightly. “I didn’t hear it. But others have. The girl still in the infirmary claimed she heard sobs too.”
“You don’t find that strange. Did you notice the change in its shape? You seem completely unbothered by all this.”
Huifen sighed again, this time more deeply.
“It’s the tree,” he said. “It has always been strange. Everyone in the Dragon Banner Wing knows that. It’s not dangerous, so long as you keep your distance. The girl who was hurt was new; she didn’t know better.”
His gaze sharpened as it fell on Haoran. “But you—you do know. And still, you approached. Reckless.”
The word hung between them, not as an insult but as truth.
Haoran’s lips parted, a retort forming but never spoken. At a distance, he glanced up one last time at the willow. The wind passed through its violet fronds, and for a fleeting instant, he thought he saw it stir, not with the motion of air, but as though something unseen within had turned its attention toward him.
When they reached the steep, narrow steps that coiled down the cliff, Huifen suddenly veered aside, taking a direction Haoran did not recognize.
A new path?
The sudden deviation stirred Haoran’s curiosity, and in that moment, the strange unease lingering from the Soul-Weaver Willow fell away, forgotten beneath the quiet pull of intrigue.
Though Haoran was older, the difference between them was almost imperceptible. They were nearly the same height. Yet Huifen’s stride was longer, more deliberate, the gait of a man accustomed to leading. Haoran found himself adjusting, quickening his pace just enough to match without faltering.
The stone path wound sharply downward, twisting through layers of low clouds that clung to the cliffs like veils. The fierce wind that had roared atop the plateau faded gradually, replaced by the subdued murmur of trees and the soft sigh of the mountainside. The clang of training courts, the distant hum of disciples’ chants, all fell behind them, swallowed by the mountain’s hush.
They were descending.
The farther they went, the fewer disciples they passed. The air grew cooler, heavier, infused with the resinous scent of maple trees. Shadows lengthened across the path, deepening as the grove thickened, sunlight filtering through the canopy like dappled gold upon snow and stone.
Haoran’s eyes brightened with recognition.
“The Bixia,” he murmured under his breath, the Qiang residence, the fourth wing of the Jingshen Spire.
The Bixia Ge was the oldest part of the mountain, a place steeped in lineage and memory. As they threaded between the tall, solemn maples, the air itself seemed to carry a gravity born of centuries.
They passed through the grove and entered the courtyard. Silence embraced them. The architecture here was ancient, built in the old style, pavilions with eaves curved like wings poised for flight, corridors lined with ancestral tablets, lanterns of deep red glass flickering faintly.
Haoran realized then that Huifen must have discovered these new routes on his own during the time they had spent apart.
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The thought struck him with quiet warmth.
Once, they had explored countless corners of the Trine Spires together, two shadows weaving through dawn mist, daring each other into forbidden places. Time had scattered them into separate worlds, yet here Huifen was again, guiding him down a path unknown.
It felt good. Familiar, yet fresh.
They crossed the courtyard of the Bixia Ge and emerged on the far side, where the cliffs sloped more gently toward the lower terraces. Here, the wind was softer, carrying the scent of wet moss and the distant roar of waterfalls.
Haoran understood now why Huifen had chosen this path.
The Bixia offered the shortest descent down the mountain, quiet, efficient, and restricted. Few eyes wandered here, and even fewer dared to tread this secluded route. These were the corridors Huifen had claimed as his own, and now, without a word, he was sharing them. Haoran said nothing, but the faint curve of a smile touched his lips.
A cold wind swept through the Jingshen Spire. The once relentless snow had softened, and winter, it seemed, was retreating as melting icicles hinted at the coming of spring. They walked on in silence, Huifen leading, Haoran following.
“Daydreaming.” It was Huifen who broke the quiet first.
“No,” Haoran replied, the trace of a smile still lingering. “Just thinking.”
Huifen saw the smile, and something in him softened. His steps slowed, the small gap between them narrowing until they walked side by side. His gaze lingered, if only for a heartbeat, on that expression, unguarded, genuine. It stirred something in his chest, a quiet pull that sharpened into an ache.
He looked away. Then he lengthened his stride again, restoring the distance he had just closed.
Haoran noticed none of it. His mind drifted elsewhere, lost in thoughts only he could follow.
When Huifen looked again, his eyes caught the strange mark on Haoran’s neck.
“Haoran.”
“Mmn?”
“Why did you really go into the Black Wood?” Huifen asked.
Haoran blinked. “The Black Wood?” He sounded genuinely confused for a moment.
The Black Wood—right.
He had lied to Huifen about what had really happened that day, weaving a narrative to hide the truth. Now the weight of his poor deception threatened to unravel the lie. He searched for a convincing backup story but came up short. Eventually, he muttered, “I went because… I thought I heard something there.”
He waited for the reproach.
Huifen stopped in his tracks and gave him a look, a quiet, unimpressed stare that said more than words could. Then, without comment, he resumed walking. He had long since learned that rebuke slid off Haoran like rain off stone. As he walked on, his expression eased. The irritation softened into a gentler kind of concern.
Without looking back, his voice came low but firm.
“You can’t keep rushing into danger like that all the time, Haoran. Please value your life. If not for your own sake, then for others.”
Guilt struck through Haoran like a blade.
A faint smile ghosted over his lips. For all Huifen's sharp edges, his stubborn principles, his relentless discipline, he was steady. When he truly thought about it, Huifen had been the same since they were boys: dependable, proud, a little cold, but never disloyal.
Heat crept into his cheeks. Haoran looked away quickly, reaching for a safer subject.
“What are we hunting tonight? I have ideas, but… it’s fine. You can decide.”
There were always destinations for night hunts, and different types as well.
The first kind was the most dangerous, and to the young, the most thrilling. There were places, sometimes whole villages, that had been claimed by evil, lands so corrupted that even the common folk abandoned them. What remained were ghost towns, left to silence and rot. That was where the boldest cultivators went, seeking challenge and glory.
Of course, no one could purge such a place in a single night. The darkness that claimed a land was deep-rooted, and even the strongest cultivators only managed to wound it before retreating. These excursions were battles fought in fragments, one small victory, one retreat, one scar at a time.
The second kind of night hunt was the summons. When villagers or townsfolk could no longer endure the menace of darklings, they turned to the major sects for aid.
These missions were never solitary affairs. If the locals sought sect intervention, it meant the threat was beyond ordinary handling, and rogue cultivators had already failed to contain it.
With such missions, both reputation and lives were always at stake.
Huifen passed Haoran a small scroll.
Haoran unrolled it and frowned. It was a summons.
Then his frown broke into a grin. A big mission. Finally.
It had been so long since he’d taken part in a serious hunt. Ever since he joined the Vermilion Bird Banner, he had been buried in ritual studies. Master Zhuoyi rarely allowed him, especially him, to stray from the Lotus Tower, and Haoran, dutiful but restless, had no choice but to obey. For three months, his sword had seen no real use beyond personal training and sparring drills.
Now, at last, something worth drawing it for.
He couldn’t help his excitement. It welled up and broke through his composure, gratitude flashing in his eyes when he looked at Huifen.
But Huifen saw the spark and, with a faintly mischievous smile, chose to douse it.
“It’s only a small ghost,” he said, his tone even. “It’s elusive, though. That’s why the rogue cultivators haven’t caught it yet. We have two days to destroy it.”
Fine by me, Haoran thought. But one word struck him sharply: destroy.
“Huifen,” he began carefully, “for the past few days I’ve been thinking about balance, and… don’t you ever feel we’re too quick to destroy? That maybe we should try to understand the creatures we hunt before we kill them?”
Huifen blinked, clearly caught off guard. His tone turned wary. “Cheng Haoran, are you questioning our path?”
Haoran’s eyes widened. “No.”
The denial came too fast, too sharp. He said nothing more.
Huifen smiled faintly and shook his head. “We’re cultivators of the light. Our duty is to fight darkness. That’s how we preserve balance.”
Haoran mulled over his words.
“But what if that darkness could be… redeemed?”
The words escaped before he could stop them. He stared ahead, jaw tight, his fingers tightening unconsciously around the hilt of his sword.
In truth, Master Zhuoyi’s lecture had already answered that question. It had made one thing painfully clear: darklings, by their nature, were not worth saving. The risk they posed was too great, their descent too far gone. No cultivator in their right mind would consider redemption a viable path.
And yet, Haoran was considering it again.
Why?
A name rang through his thoughts like a chime in the mist. Ling Feng.
Ling Feng could be saved, had to be. Haoran needed to believe that Elder Songhe was trying to save him. Otherwise, if Master Zhuoyi was right, if Elder Songhe was not redeeming a darkling, then he was conspiring with one.
That was something Haoran could not accept.
Ling Feng. The name came again, first like a bell, then like a distant gong.
Haoran cursed under his breath.
Huifen’s hand closed around his wrist, pulling him from the storm of his thoughts.
“What’s going on?” Huifen asked quietly.
Silence.
Elder Songhe was the epitome of what a cultivator should be: just, unshakable, righteous beyond reproach. Haoran revered him, almost to the point of worship. To imagine that Songhe might be shielding darkness not to correct it, but to protect it, threatened to unravel everything Haoran had built his ideals upon.
He wanted to tell Huifen everything. But he knew the fox spirit’s secret was not his to reveal.
He tried to speak, but the words would not come. He could not afford another lie.
Huifen had always known Haoran as an open book. If he was holding something back, then it was serious. But he would not drag it out of him.
Huifen let go of his hand and started walking again.
Haoran followed at his side, his thoughts already closing in once more. He clung to the only truth that made sense to him: Ling Feng must be redeemable. It had to be so.
In his heart, Haoran believed that only someone like Elder Songhe, so disciplined in restraint and so precise in judgment, could attempt such a dangerous mercy without losing himself. If redemption were even possible for a darkling, it would take someone like him to achieve it.
It wasn’t that Haoran pitied Ling Feng. What he needed, desperately, was to preserve the vision he held of Songhe. If Ling Feng could be saved, then Songhe remained blameless.
Then the world, as Haoran knew it, would remain intact.
The crisp evening air swept through their robes as they made their way into the night. Stubborn patches of snow clung to shaded corners, defying the timid approach of spring. In other places, soft, damp earth peeked through, carrying the scent of renewal.
Above them, the moon hung high, casting the narrow footpath in silver light and deep shadow. Its glow lit their way. The path was uneven, cutting through steep slopes and thickets of frost-dappled pines.
Time passed, and silence settled heavily between them. It was a silence Haoran had grown accustomed to when traveling with Huifen. His friend was not one to fill the air with idle chatter. At times, Haoran appreciated it. There was a quiet peace in Huifen’s presence.
After several hours, Haoran finally spoke. “When you become Scion,” he said softly, glancing sideways, “a lot is going to change.”
Huifen’s heart gave a small jolt. Trust Haoran to shift thoughts as abruptly as turning a page. His steps faltered, a faint frown creasing his brow. “Yes,” he said at last, his voice composed. “As it should be.”
“Maybe it won’t be as bad as we think,” Haoran said, his tone light but thoughtful. “A lot changed when we took our banners. I thought once you became Scion, you’d be completely out of reach, but…”
A glint of mischief lit his eyes, and the heaviness lifted from him as quickly as it had come. As if he had reached some quiet resolution, he stepped closer and, on impulse, clasped Huifen’s hand.
“I won’t let that happen. I’ll keep reaching, with everything I have, until you have no choice but to take my hand.” Laughter spilled from him, bright against the still air. “We’ll always be friends. You and I. I promise.”
Huifen looked at him. A faint smile touched his lips, then faded. His gaze lingered on Haoran’s face, on that open warmth he had long taken for granted.
When the laughter softened, Huifen gently pulled his wrist free.
“Of course you will,” he said quietly. Then, more hesitantly, “Haoran…”
The words caught in his throat, but he forced them out. “I’ve pushed you away all this time.” He looked aside, his voice barely rising above the wind. “The truth is...the reason is because every time I think about the Emergence Trials, I get scared.”
The confession settled between them, heavier than Haoran could take. For all the times he had wished Huifen would open up, now that it was happening, he found himself at a loss.
What could he say? Words felt inadequate.
Huifen continued. “The result doesn’t matter as much to me. But I do know one thing for certain. When the time comes, I don’t think I’ll be able to fight you, to look at you as something that must be removed from my path to ascension.” He drew a slow breath. “I thought that if I created enough distance between us…”
With those few words, everything fell into place.
Haoran had never truly considered the battle. For him, it had always been the aftermath, the distance that would follow.
But the battle… this would not be another spar, not a measured exchange of skill and pride. It would be a proper fight. Witnessed by hundreds, judged by masters, bound by duty. They would have to wound each other until one could no longer stand. Any restraint would be seen as weakness.
Now that he faced it fully, it was terrifying.
Silence fell between them once more, and this time, neither of them tried to break it.