The wind changed.
Not by season. Not by weather.
But by intent.
From the south ridge, where the sect walls met wild forest, a trail of ash drifted inward — slow, thin, silent.
Most disciples didn't notice. A few sniffed the air. No alarms rang. No bells tolled.
But Kaifeng did not sleep that night.
He stood on the eastern balcony of the archives. Eyes open. Still as a statue. His fingers moved once, lightly, tracing something in the air.
A pattern no one saw.
At the same moment, deep within the Elders' quarters, Wei Qingzhao met with Elder Han for the first time in private.
It wasn't formal.
It wasn't permitted.
But some truths didn't wait for permission.
"You knew her," Wei said.
Han didn't respond.
"The one whose name was carved into the stake. Shén Lüyun."
Still, no answer.
Then:
"You don't ask like a disciple," Han said.
"You ask like a man who's seen the edge of something. And fears it's the start, not the end."
Wei stepped forward. His hands didn't shake.
"Is she alive?"
Han looked toward the incense stand. It had not been lit in three days.
"I taught her three things: how to listen, how to disarm without wounding, and how to disappear."
"Did she return the favor?"
"Yes," Han said quietly.
"She taught me what silence sounds like when it wants to kill."
By dawn, smoke was visible over the southern treeline.
Not fire.
Just something burned long ago, still exhaling.
Instructor Fan gathered a patrol.
They didn't reach the smoke.
They found only a field of fallen moths. Their wings curled. Their bodies whole. No visible predator. No storm.
Kaifeng was there first.
He knelt in the ash, lifted one moth with two fingers, and watched it crumble.
Only Wei noticed he'd arrived.
"You knew where it would be."
Kaifeng didn't speak.
Wei stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You're not surprised."
"I've forgotten too much," Kaifeng said.
"That's what frightens me."
"You were a child—"
"No," he interrupted softly.
"I was the fire. I just didn't know it yet."
That evening, word spread quietly: a sealed envelope had been delivered to the elder hall. No messenger. No sign of entry.
Inside it: a list.
Fifteen names. All Qingwu disciples. None yet dead.
At the bottom: a signature not written in ink.
[⼑]
(The character for 'blade.')
But Kaifeng recognized the curl of the stroke.
It wasn't his.
And it wasn't a threat.
It was a warning.
From her.
End of Chapter 7