Several hours later, their steady strides brought them to the outskirts of Xiangdao. The small village lay under an eerie stillness. The life one would expect from such a place had retreated into the shadows.
Here and there, villagers peeked cautiously through cracked doors or half-shuttered windows, their faces etched with worry. Most stayed hidden, their silence deepened by the recent string of disappearances that hung over the village like a dark cloud.
The summons Haoran had read mentioned that seven children had already been taken, plucked away by the creature that haunted the night. The fear of the townspeople felt almost tangible.
Breaking the silence, Huifen spoke, his voice low but decisive. “Let’s meet the village leader first. He can direct us to the victims’ homes.”
They needed to begin the investigation, gathering whatever clues they could before another child disappeared.
The village leader greeted them somberly, a man bent with age and the burden of his people’s suffering. After a brief exchange, he directed them to a modest house on the outskirts of the village.
As they approached, the door creaked open. A woman stood there, her eyes hollow, her face lined with grief. In her hands, she clutched a small wooden doll, her fingers wrapped tightly around it as though it were the last thread tethering her to sanity.
“You’re from He Yu Zong?” the woman asked after noticing their red robes. Her voice trembled, hope and desperation tangled within it.
Haoran stepped forward, his gaze softening. “Yes. We’re here to help.”
She nodded faintly and led them inside. The air within the house was heavy with sorrow.
“My girl was perfectly healthy,” she began, her voice frayed at the edges. “One evening, she just... fell asleep. And wouldn’t wake up.”
She paused, clutching the doll against her chest.
“There was no fever, no injury, nothing. It was as if she had been swallowed by sleep.”
Her gaze drifted, unfocused. “We thought she would wake the next morning. But she didn’t.” She tightened her grip on the doll. “It became clear she had been marked by that ghost, so we took turns watching her, day and night.”
“When she finally woke one afternoon, we knew what would come next. We stayed alert. Never let her out of our sight.” Her voice broke. “But even then... the ghost still took her in the night.”
A flicker of understanding passed through Haoran's eyes. Huifen’s gaze softened slightly, a rare trace of empathy stirring beneath his usual restraint.
This was not the first time the woman had told this story. Though Xiangdao fell under He Yu Zong’s protection, rogue cultivators had come before them, drawn by the promise of reward or the chance to build their reputation. All had failed.
Now, seeing the robes of He Yu Zong, she clung to the hope that these cultivators would succeed where the others had not. Her voice broke as she begged them to bring her daughter home.
They could not make a promise they were not certain they could keep, not when the fate of the abducted children remained unknown. Haoran lowered his gaze and spoke with gentle resolve.
“We will do everything in our power to help.”
Huifen gave a slight nod. “We will destroy the ghost.”
They visited other homes that night. By the time Haoran and Huifen had spoken to four different families, the pattern was already clear. The story was the same: before the creature took a child, it would first "mark" them, plunging them into an inexplicable coma that could last days or even weeks. Upon waking, the creature would return under the cover of night to claim its victim, spiriting them away without leaving a trace.
Finally, in the dead of night, the two men retreated to a small, dimly lit tavern, where the aroma of tea mingled with the faint tang of smoke from an old hearth. They settled into a quiet corner. Huifen carefully spread their notes across the table, the candlelight casting flickering shadows over the hastily scrawled script.
Of the marked children, most had awakened. Two, however, had died shortly after entering the coma: a five-year-old girl and a seven-year-old boy.
“I don’t think this is a ghost at all,” Haoran said, breaking the silence.
Huifen did not respond immediately. He leaned back slightly, the chair creaking beneath him as he considered the thought.
“I agree,” he said at last. “The behavior doesn’t match.”
He paused, glancing down at the notes scattered across the table. “Contrary to what the wandering cultivators claimed, they likely misidentified this creature.”
Haoran gave a curt nod. That wasn’t surprising.
Most factionless cultivators, those unaffiliated with any sect, were known to operate without structured training, refined techniques, or collective discipline. While a few were undoubtedly capable, the majority relied on piecemeal knowledge: secondhand teachings from rogue masters, incomplete scrolls bought from dubious traders, or folklore mistaken for fact. Their understanding of spiritual entities was often shallow, shaped more by superstition than by true cultivation theory.
Ghosts, for instance, were among the most commonly misidentified. While undeniably dangerous, their behavior was usually predictable: vengeance, hunger, resentment. They did not mark victims, nor did they draw out elaborate patterns over days or weeks. A ghost might terrorize, possess, or lash out, but this slow, deliberate stalking, this pattern of comas followed by abduction, was not its nature.
“This darkling shows patience,” Huifen murmured. “It is careful, observant, and deliberate in how it chooses its targets. That kind of behavior suggests a higher will.”
Haoran leaned forward, his voice lowering, “Perhaps it’s a ghost that has risen through the ranks.”
They had examined the residual energy left behind at the homes of the abducted children. The malice was unfamiliar, tightly contained, as though the creature had folded the air behind it to conceal the path back to its lair. Huifen hesitated. The final possibility formed on his lips like frost.
“By all accounts... this might be a fallen spirit.”
Haoran stilled, a cold weight settling in his chest.
Spirit?
Spirits—especially fallen ones—were not common. There had been a time, long ago, when they were. But that was the age of first dawn, when Heaven and Earth were still close enough to hear each other’s breathing. Now, they were little more than echoes in story and scripture.
In those early epochs, it was said that many spirits descended from their realm to live among men. Born of balance itself, they were the guardians of rivers and forests, keepers of seasons and memories. Noble in essence, they upheld the symmetry of all living things. For this, they were venerated, some even worshiped.
Yet their beauty and power tempted mortal hearts. Those who longed for the Dao but lacked the necessary discipline or will began to see spirits not as keepers of order, but as vessels of power to be taken.
Spirits, powerful as they were, possessed a tragic flaw: a longing to be known. They craved reverence, love, acknowledgment, and in that yearning, they became easy prey for cunning mortals. Many among them agreed to aid those who promised to raise temples in their name, hoping to spread goodness through cooperation.
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At first, these pacts were innocent. The spirits, by nature, refused to commit evil; if commanded toward cruelty or bloodshed, they recoiled and abandoned the temple. But mortal ambition has little patience for such limits. A simple promise was not binding enough for those who desired absolute control.
It was a cultivator named Shaoruo who first devised the Spirit Binding Spell. He studied the spirits, probing the laws that held their essence together, and discovered a pattern, and with it, a thread that could be twisted.
He learned that, if done properly, a spirit could be made to deceive, to steal, even to kill, but it could never break its word. Their oaths were sacred, bound to the root of their creation. That immutable law was the key, and Shaoruo forged it into a weapon.
From this knowledge, he created the Spirit Binding Spell. When drawn correctly, the spell wound itself around that very thread in a spirit’s soul, tightening into a knot that bound the spirit to the wielder’s command.
Thus began the fall of harmony between spirits and men.
Shaoruo believed he had achieved mastery, but he had not foreseen the cost. To bind a spirit against its will was to shatter its balance, driving it into corruption. And in such a state, no spell could truly contain or control it.
Unlike mortals or ghosts, who simply lose their way, a spirit’s fall was not a fading, it was a rupture: a sacred thread snapping within the tapestry of realms. When a spirit fell, it retained all that had made it divine, its power, its awareness, its purpose. Only now, all of it was inverted: the river poisoned, the winds cruel, the light devouring.
The first to fall was the Mountain Spirit of Daluo. Its despair erupted in flame and ash, leveling villages and turning rivers to molten stone. The seas raged, the winds screamed, and the world trembled beneath the will of mortals who sought to command what was never meant to be ruled.
Countless lives were lost before All-Father Tianlei descended from the heavens. With thunder that split the firmament, he struck down the fallen spirits, rending their corruption from the bones of the earth. The slaughter ended only when the heavens themselves wept for what had been destroyed.
Afterward, the surviving spirits retreated to their realm, not in hatred, but in sorrow. They did not abandon their duty; they still guided the seasons, ushered dawn and dusk, and guarded the rhythm of life itself. But never again did they walk openly among mortals.
“If it’s a dark spirit,” Haoran said slowly, “then that complicates everything.”
“You don’t say,” Huifen muttered, his tone dry.
“We can’t treat this like a routine extermination.”
Huifen shot him a look—half disbelief, half warning. “Cheng Haoran, we’re not treating it ‘anyhow,’” he said flatly. “You know what protocol demands in a case like this.”
“I know,” Haoran began, “but…”
His argument broke off when a man hesitantly approached their table. He looked exhausted, his face pale, his eyes filled with both fear and the faintest glimmer of hope.
“Are you cultivators from He Yu Zōng?” he asked, his voice trembling.
Haoran inclined his head. “Yes, we are. How may we be of assistance?”
The man wiped cold sweat from his brow before he spoke.
“I have a daughter… she’s only four. Two days ago, s-she fell into a coma. No fever, no sign of illness, just like the others.” His voice broke; he swallowed hard. “I fear… I fear she’s been marked by the ghost.”
For Haoran, the words struck deep. The meaning was clear. This was a chance to investigate an ongoing abduction.
“Please,” the man continued with pleading eyes, “if there’s anything you can do to wake her… or to protect her from it. She’s our first and only child. We cannot bear to lose her.”
Haoran turned to Huifen as he stood, his gaze steady, daring him to refuse.
Huifen exhaled through his nose, resigned. He turned to the man and asked him to lead the way.
The house stood at the edge of the settlement, small and dimly lit. A woman lingered in the doorway, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Inside, the girl lay motionless on a woven mat, her breath shallow, her skin pale as wax.
At first glance, she seemed merely asleep, but Haoran felt it at once: a faint yet malignant shadow clinging to her aura.
Huifen knelt beside her, his frown deepening. “She’s not ill,” he murmured. “Something’s strangling her life force.” He extended his hand but stopped short, sensing the chill radiating from her body.
Haoran, more adept in spiritual workings, stepped forward. His hand hovered over the girl’s forehead, his eyes narrowing as he traced the unseen currents. The signs were unmistakable.
“She is marked,” he said quietly. “But this isn’t just a curse. It runs deeper.”
Summoning his spiritual energy, Haoran focused, letting his senses sink into the toxic force clinging to her. A cold, insidious presence coiled around the child’s very essence.
“She’s been poisoned,” he murmured at last, his tone hard and steady.
Huifen’s eyes snapped toward him. “Poisoned? To kill?”
Haoran shook his head slowly. “Not exactly. This isn’t meant to kill. It feels more like… a test.” He paused, weighing the thought. “The poison is gauging her vitality. If she endures it, if she does not succumb, then she will be deemed worthy, for whatever purpose the creature intends.”
Huifen’s expression darkened.
He straightened, and his voice turned clipped with command. “Back away, Haoran.”
At He Yu Zōng, such situations were met with unwavering clarity: retreat and report.
Protocol dictated that young cultivators notify the sect elders immediately. Elders, seasoned experts with centuries of experience and far deeper cultivation, were better equipped to handle existential threats.
“We should report this,” Huifen said, his tone still resolute. “It’s only the two of us. This is beyond what we’re prepared to handle.”
“Yes,” Haoran answered, rising to his feet and taking a step back. Yet even as he yielded, his jaw tightened, resolve hardening in his eyes.
“What if the spirit returns tonight?” he murmured, half to himself. Then he turned fully to Huifen. “We have to do something.”
Huifen sighed inwardly.
Was this bravery, or recklessness again?
He studied Haoran’s face and smiled faintly despite himself. That unwavering conviction, that fierce, stubborn light, was what made the man before him so admirable.
And dangerous too. That same conviction had led them into reckless ventures more than once. Huifen turned to the girl lying on the mat. So small. So still. Far too fragile to carry any curse in her body.
“I’d take this risk with you any day, if the stakes weren’t so high,” he said finally. He made sure to hold Haoran’s gaze as he spoke, and this time there was no sharpness, only honesty.
“We may be the best of our banners, but we’re still climbing. We don’t know any power spells, not the kind that could stand against a Red Darkling, let alone a fallen spirit.”
He gestured toward the girl, her shallow breaths punctuating the heavy silence.
“It’s not just about us, Haoran. We might have the means to escape if things go wrong, but what about the others? What about the families counting on us to do the right thing? If we fail here, the consequences won’t end with our deaths alone.”
Huifen’s voice dropped lower, touched with something he rarely showed: uncertainty.
“You’re so brave. And so fearless. That’s why I trust you, and follow you, in things like this. But…” He faltered, searching for the right words. “We need more than courage this time. We need certainty. Haoran, think this through carefully.”
Silence fell.
Haoran stood still for a long moment, struck by the truth in Huifen’s words. His friend rarely spoke so much, and never with such candor. The weight of his concern was unmistakable.
He looked at the girl, then at Huifen, and that steady, unwavering gaze gave him pause.
They were indeed still climbing. Still learning. And this threat lay far beyond their reach.
“Thank you, Huifen.”
Huifen let out a quiet breath, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. He trusted Haoran not to ignore a warning.
“You’re right,” Haoran said at last, his voice soft but firm. “Rushing in would be reckless. We cannot afford mistakes, not with lives on the line. Let’s return and report this at once.”
Just then, a faint sound broke through the heavy quiet of the room: a soft sneeze.
Both men turned sharply.
The little girl stirred and sat up, rubbing her eyes. The dull, waxen pallor of her skin gave way to the first trace of color. She blinked at them in quiet wonder, two unfamiliar men clad in crimson robes.
Her gaze darted from their garments to their faces, thoughtful. And perhaps, after finding both their appearances pleasing—or kind—she smiled, wide and bright, her cheeks dimpling.
For a fleeting instant, the room seemed to breathe again.
But the moment did not last. Her small stomach growled audibly, and she clutched it with a faint whimper. The smile faltered.
Huifen and Haoran exchanged a look, swift and wordless, heavy with understanding.
If the child had awakened, the spirit would come for her.
Tonight.