As the sect moved in its accustomed rhythm, stairs swept, fires stoked, disciples engaged in their practice—an enigma arrived. No announcement heralded it. No shadow marked its approach.
In the courtyard leading to the grand entrance of Moon Ivory, four initiates moved cautiously, their breaths curling in the frigid air as the snow fell silently, muffling their steps.
One of them stopped, his eyes catching a glimpse of something amiss in the otherwise pristine snow. There, at the gate, just beyond the threshold, lay a small, motionless figure, half-buried in the drift. At first glance, it seemed as though the wind had merely piled snow into a human-like shape. But as the group approached, the outline of a person became clear.
“By the ancestors!” the leader among them murmured, dropping to one knee beside the figure. He brushed away the snow, revealing a slight, delicate form, barely clothed in thin, tattered robes that clung to a frail body. The face beneath the frost was serene, too calm for someone exposed to such brutal cold.
He hesitated, fingers lingering near the child's throat, feeling for a pulse. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice laced with confusion. “He's alive.”
One of the others, eager to help, moved to lift the boy, but the leader stopped him with a raised hand. “Wait, we don't know what we're dealing with. This could be something else.”
He drew a talisman from his robe and placed it over the boy's chest. The parchment glowed faintly, flickering in the cold air before flaring bright blue. The initiates exhaled in relief.
“Human,” the leader confirmed, though a frown remained etched on his brow.
With care, one of the initiates gathered the boy into his arms. Together, they hurried through the sect's halls, winding their way through corridors of stone and frost. Their footfalls echoed against walls lined with lanterns, the silence of He Yu Zōng broken only by the distant hiss of wind through the rafters.
As they neared the infirmary, two figures emerged from the shadows of the passage ahead. The initiates stopped at once, recognizing them.
Cheng Haoran stepped forward. Lantern light carved his features into sharp relief: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes that gleamed with quiet intensity.
At twenty, Haoran already bore the presence of a man tempered by purpose. His robes, though simple in cut, had crisp black edging at the collar and sleeves, and at the cuffs was stitched the insignia of his banner—a Vermilion Bird rendered in matte black thread, wings poised in mid-soar.
Beside him stood Qiang Hui Fen. Younger, at eighteen, yet no less commanding, Hui Fen's robes were ornate by comparison: deep crimson trimmed with precise embroidery, a belt worked into the image of a stylized dragon. Along the hems and inner sleeves gleamed obsidian clasps shaped like flames—an embellishment reserved for the Qiang family alone.
His posture was composed. With features finely sculpted and eyes as dark and still as winter pools, he radiated a cold authority well beyond his years. Hui Fen's aloofness was not arrogance but weight—the crushing mantle of legacy and expectation, of a man raised in the shadow of greatness and taught never to falter beneath it.
“What is this?” Hui Fen asked, his voice calm but edged with command.
The initiates bowed stiffly before the pair. Though the two disciples were younger in years, their rank within the sect made hesitation unthinkable.
The leader among the initiates straightened and spoke with care. “We found this child at the east gate, unconscious.”
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Haoran's expression sharpened with suspicion. “Out there? In the dead of winter, dressed in so little? Isn't that strange?”
The initiates exchanged uneasy looks before one of them spoke. “We thought so too, Senior Brother Cheng. That is why we tested him first. The talisman confirmed it. He is human. There are no traces of corruption, no aura of possession.”
Haoran stepped forward, his gaze hardening as he inspected the figure in the initiate's arms. Fourteen at most—ghostly pale, lips touched with blue. Frost clung stubbornly to the tatters of his robes, yet his face was unnervingly tranquil, as if asleep rather than half-frozen.
Without tearing his gaze away, Hui Fen addressed Haoran, his voice sharp with urgency. “We don't have time to linger over this...” He trailed off, grimacing. “You know how Elder Muchen handles tardiness.”
Haoran regarded the child a moment longer before inclining his head, yielding the matter. He turned his eyes to the initiates. “After you've taken him to the infirmary, make sure to inform Elder Jietang.”
The initiates bowed deeply, then hurried off into the darkened corridors.
* * * * * *
The infirmary was hushed, broken only by the low crackle of a brazier sunk into the stone floor, its warmth banishing the bite of winter.
Hewn into the mountain's side, the chamber's walls bore the raw grain of living rock, smoothed only where shelves had been carved for jars and scrolls. A thick scent of herbal incense lingered in the air, weaving through the chill like a soft incantation.
The healer, a man long past his prime with graying temples and a meticulous bearing, leaned over the unconscious boy. Deep lines gathered at his brow as faint diagnostic light glowed around his hands, flowing slowly through the boy's frail frame.
Ordinary folk often climbed the seven hundred stone steps to the Grand Eastern Gate of Moon Ivory Peak. They came less for cultivation than for mercy, bearing the sick and dying in hopes that the sect's healers might succeed where mortal physicians had failed.
Though He Yu Zōng stood apart from the mortal world, its healers were bound by vow to treat all who reached the Gate by their own strength. For those who were escorted, only the afflicted were permitted to cross the threshold. They were received, treated, and, once their strength returned, sent down the mountain by a lesser path—silent and steep, the same way pilgrims depart the temple after prayer.
Healer Ye Xin had seen countless such supplicants in his years of service, but never one who came alone, in the dead of winter. Even the desperate waited for the spring thaw, when the snow no longer claimed the weak.
As Ye Xin's spiritual energy threaded through the child's frail meridians, unease took root within him. This was no ordinary child. The boy's pulse held steady, yet beneath it coiled a faint, foreign energy, not wholly human, something... veiled and altogether unnatural.
Frowning, Ye Xin drew back the tattered robes. Only the boy's hands and face had been visible until now. He checked as custom required: prying open the eyes—brown, ordinary. Pulling back the lips—teeth, unremarkable. Nothing strange. But when he uncovered the head, red hair spilled in the lantern light, bound loosely by a slender crimson pin.
His expression tightened.
Ye Xin delved deeper, his keen senses tracing the boy's battered body like a map. It took a long moment before he uncovered it—a discovery so subtle even the most seasoned practitioners might have missed it. A cold chill ran down his spine as he stepped back, drawing in a steadying breath.
The door pushed open. Elder Jietang entered, robes of crimson and black denoting his rank as steward of the East Wing, the Initiates' Domain. Though his duties lay more with governance than arcane matters, he carried himself with serious authority.
“He came up all by himself?” Jietang asked, his voice even as he stood at the cubicle door.
Healer Ye Xin exhaled slowly, his weathered hands trembling ever so slightly as he gestured toward the boy. “Yes, Jietang, that and more. There is something seriously wrong with this child. While he appears human, I have detected an evil force within him. It is unlike anything I have encountered before. For this, we must summon Immortal Songhe.”
“Immortal Songhe? You're a capable practitioner, Ye Xin, but are you certain you're not overanalyzing the situation? Hunger and frost can make any child look like a ghost.”
The healer's lips tightened, a flicker of offense passing through his gaze before it stilled. “With respect, Elder Jietang, I am certain of my diagnosis. Please summon Immortal Songhe immediately.”
Jietang studied the older man's face, searching for any hint of doubt. Finding none, he glanced at the boy one last time, then turned to leave without another word.