The scent of jasmine and polished jade replaced the familiar reek of lye and damp linen. Zhai Yan, his shoulders hunched, his usually keen eyes downcast, clutched a small, clean canvas satchel in his bandaged hands. He wore a borrowed, oversized outer-disciple tunic, its faded blue a stark contrast to the shimmering fabrics he now passed. His face was smudged with ash, a deliberate touch to make him seem like a scullery runner rather than the rumored artisan. “You claim to be a proxy?” The voice, sharp and high, belonged to a junior overseer, Disciple Lian. Lian’s indigo tunic, embroidered with a swift-fox motif, caught the morning sun, its qi humming with vanity. “The rogue mender sends a… a tub scrubber?” Zhai Yan kept his gaze fixed on the polished paving stones, speaking in a reedy, humble tone. “My patron is… particular. Reclusive. He requires discretion. I merely collect the troubled weaves, as instructed by the bounty decree.” He offered a small, deferential bow, careful not to reveal the subtle tremble in his mending-scarred hands. Miao-Miao, a fuzzy comfort on his shoulder, nudged him mentally: *Such a convincing act. Almost makes one forget you’re about to loosen their seams.* Her telepathic voice, usually a snarky whisper, felt like a warm purr against his ear. Disciple Lian sneered, but the lure of the massive spirit-silver bounty was too strong. Word had spread swiftly; the phantom mender terrified the floating courts, yet remained their only hope to right their slipping stitch-work. “Very well. Follow me. Try not to track mud on the Sky-Walkers.” They ascended, leaving the grimy, mist-shrouded Laundry Courtyard far below. The Sky-Walkers were ornate, floating bridges of carved hardwood and moon-silk, connecting the various upper halls. Each hall, layered with polished jade and cloud-glass, drifted serenely amidst the mist, projecting the sect’s immense wealth. Zhai Yan forced his gaze onto Lian’s heels, though glimpses of the upper grounds flashed past: initiates clad in coats spun from cloud-serpent scales; Elders draped in peacock-silk mantles breathing with arcane warmth; pools where sacred cranes preened amidst luminous lotus pads. It was a world of flawless surfaces, yet Zhai Yan knew, with Miao-Miao’s shared sight, that beneath the opulence lay a decaying core. The air here carried sickeningly sweet tuberoses and the metallic tang of refined qi. He noted the faint glimmer of warding arrays worked into the beams, designed to deflect prying eyes and unwelcome auras. But they were no match for Thread-Sight. They arrived at the Tranquil Ascent Pavilion, Elder Fen-Jiao’s personal residence. Two guards, their faces impassive beneath tall, lacquered hats, stood sentinel beside doors carved with intricate phoenixes. Lian gestured for Zhai Yan to enter, a dismissive flick of his hand. “The Elder awaits.” The chamber within was vast, draped in woven hangings of ancient battles and furnished with shelves laden with raw jade. At the far end, seated on a raised dais, was Elder Fen-Jiao. She was a vision of severe elegance. Her formal attire, a wonder of dense stitchery, depicted a cloud-crane soaring over a horned turtle. The weave rippled with innate potency, shedding a pale luster. Her hair, as black and lustrous as polished obsidian, was piled high and pierced with jade pins. Her skin was impossibly smooth, her features unmarred by time. She looked to be in the prime of her life, perhaps a few decades older than Zhai Yan, certainly not the centuries-old overseer of the Inner Court he knew her to be. Zhai Yan knelt, head bowed, before the Elder. Miao-Miao, normally restless, was strangely quiet, her tiny body tensed on his shoulder. He closed his eyes for an instant, awakening Thread-Sight. The world shifted. The chamber’s ambient light receded, replaced by a dizzying maze of cords. Elder Fen-Jiao’s garment flared into view, a snare of sickly luminescence. The crane-and-turtle motifs were alive, braided from countless twitching strands. None belonged to her; they were plundered filaments bound to her flesh. From the core of the crane’s eye, a thick, pulsating cord of vibrant green qi stretched, embedded deep within Fen-Jiao’s own karmic loom, siphoning life. Another, a dull, brittle gray, extended from the turtle’s carapace, drawing sustenance. Zhai Yan’s stomach churned. These were lifelines—the fading cords of missing juniors, laborers who had vanished over the years under the excuse of rogue beasts or desertion. Miao-Miao’s mind-voice hissed in revulsion: *Parasites! The cloth feeds on them! She preserves her smooth skin on the backs of bled juniors!* The green cord throbbed with raw sap, while the gray strand hung thin and brittle, near breaking. Her unlined face existed solely on vitality drained from forgotten outcasts. And the ceremonial robe she wanted ‘perfected’ for the eclipse… it was likely intended to house the fresh ‘harvest’ of the Laundry Courtyard. “So,” Elder Fen-Jiao’s voice carried a dry rasp, beneath which Zhai Yan caught the faint drone of bound lifelines. “The Ghost Tailor sends a child. Is this an insult?” “No, Elder,” Zhai Yan said, keeping his tone level. “My elder respects your eminence. He simply believes a weave of such complexity requires an apprentice to run measurements before he applies his needle.” He met her gaze for a split second, a flicker of feigned apprehension in his own, before looking away. Fen-Jiao studied him, her eyes like chips of obsidian. “My Ceremonial Crane Robe requires perfection for the upcoming Rite of Celestial Unveiling. Its power must be absolute. Its resonance, peerless. Take it. Tell your elder that if it falls short of perfection, if even a single knot sits crooked, I will skin you to patch my practice sashes.” A guard stepped forward, presenting a folded, radiant robe of pure white, woven with the most intricate gold-threaded cloud-crane Zhai Yan had ever seen. Coils of dark karmic ruin wound around the pure silk like an adder, dense and primed for slaughter. It pulsed with a terrible, dark energy, a blank canvas awaiting its blood-dye. His hands trembled as he accepted it, the cold silk a chilling premonition against his scarred skin. This was the vessel meant to drink dry the wash-basins, resting directly across his calloused, trembling palms.

The Parasitic Silk