Grand Elder Mu’s choked words echoed in the breathless silence of the Forbidden Archives. The other elders exchanged glances in the acrid air, the reek of cindered turf drifting past the threshold. Elder Jinbei, a wiry woman with graying hair pinned by a bronze hairpin, spoke first. “The Nether Relic itself… it is a tool of darkness. But that mark… that presence… it speaks of something far older, far more terrible than any relic.” “The Seven-Lock Net,” Elder Borin muttered, running a trembling hand over the empty pedestal. “It was designed to trigger even if a breath of hostile Qi passed through. How could it be bypassed?” Mu turned from the pillar, his eyes hollow. “It was not bypassed. It was… irrelevant. The power that left this mark does not merely interact with our wards; it rends the very fabric of their design. I felt it, briefly, even through the mountain stone. A pressure that made the bedrock groan.” He paused, his tone dropping low. “This is no ordinary thief. This is the hand of a demon. A specific demon.” Tension settled over Azure Peak. Rumors of forgotten wars circulated through the lower pavilions. Even laborers hauling firewood glanced up toward the higher peaks, where sword-gliders drew rapid arcs across the clouds. Open drills ceased, replaced by assemblies where elders lectured on vigilance and orthodox conduct. Lam An stood in Jinbei's stone-walled study, her scabbard tucked under one arm. “The council suspects the Asura Sovereign, don’t they, Mentor?” Her voice was tight with a frustration she rarely displayed. Jinbei gave a single, tight nod. “The scorch matches descriptions from the oldest sealed scrolls. A trace of pure spiritual malice recorded only once in Sonhai’s annals. Moreover, slicing the barrier without burning a talisman proves an understanding of the arts beyond our reach.” She fixed Lam An with a piercing stare. “However, such an entity would not stoop to stealing a mere relic. It would crush the sect underfoot. This implies a subtle hand, perhaps a nascent power, or… a lingering influence.” “So, what is my task, Master?” Lam An asked, her spine straightening. “The outer ranks,” Jinbei stated. “They dwell at the base, distant from our scrutiny. Search for oddities. Abrupt shifts in demeanor, anomalous surges, or insights beyond their station. Daiyan struck down the sovereign three centuries ago, yet the signature lingers. An echo requires a vessel. Examine the common ranks first.” Lam An thought at once of Kiet, the crippled youth who had dismissed her in the hall. His unblinking stare had lacked any trace of deference. Broken channels or not, the boy moved with an unsettling calm. Two nights later, inside a damp fissure behind the crags, Jorin prostrated himself before a pale apparition. The shade hovered inches above the wet stone, its edges blurring into the cold air. “He named himself Kiet,” Jorin stammered against the rock floor. “A crippled laborer, yet he seized our channels and twisted our own Qi into our guts.” He recounted the terrifying encounter in the Spiritwood Forest, exaggerating the pain, hoping to earn some favor. The shade of Daiyan remained motionless. “A ruined youth... doing that?” Daiyan’s rasp sounded like gravel sliding down a bank. For three centuries he had drifted along these heights, planting subtle warnings among the ranks to keep the slumbering horror beneath Sonhai undisturbed. Informants like Jorin were tools of grim necessity, minor probes against any disturbance in the cocoon world. “He was arrogant,” Jorin continued, emboldened by the figure’s lack of immediate wrath. “He spoke like a king addressing ants. It was unnerving, Master. Like the stories… of the Asura Sovereign.” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, fearing punishment for speaking such blasphemy to the very hero who had defeated him. Daiyan’s outline wavered. The phrase struck a familiar nerve. He had known that absolute contempt from Vuong himself. Yet Vuong had burned to nothingness during the great tribulation. “An illusion, boy,” Daiyan said, his tone turning brisk. “A crippled boy stumbled upon a parlor trick and put on airs. Leave him alone. Watch the inner tier for anyone taking reckless shortcuts with their energy. Recklessness will split the veil.” But the phantom’s hands tightened into fists. For two days, Lam An shadowed Kiet. The youth swept courtyard flagstones and hauled well-water without a word to the other menials. At dusk, he bypassed the communal quarters and climbed the mossy path toward Serpent’s Cascade. She tracked him through the ferns, her steps muffled by the roar of churning water. Beside the plunge pool stood Kiet, a dark iron pot resting on a flat boulder beside him. From a hemp sack, Kiet drew a squirming sewer rat. He held the rodent over the rim. An oily hum rose from the basin. Black needles of condensed energy speared out, impaling the rodent. It squealed once before desiccating into gray husk, its spirit drifting down into the iron belly like thin soot.

Whispers of a Ghost