Younger Yuhan

Chenwei followed Wen toward the hall, his steps careful and measured, like the footwork of a swordsman in unfamiliar terrain. Every word Wen spoke felt like a hidden feint, a subtle attempt to test him, and Chenwei's instincts were on edge, ready to cut through any deception. He reminded himself, again, that Wen Yuhan's face might look youthful and unscarred, but the darkness was there, coiled beneath the surface.

As they neared the main hall, Wen glanced at him, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Tell me, Junior Brother Li, what did you think would come of this confession? Did you believe poetry alone would sway Senior Xu?" His voice was smooth, the words polite enough, but there was a gleam in his eyes that Chenwei found unsettling, a glint that suggested he found the whole thing amusing.

Chenwei's jaw tightened, irritation flaring. "Is bravery so hard to imagine, Senior Brother? Or perhaps I don't have the sophistication to see things… as they truly are?" The words came out sharper than he intended, but he couldn't bring himself to regret them.

Wen's expression shifted, his gaze turning contemplative, as though Chenwei were a puzzle he was slowly piecing together. "Bravery, yes…" he murmured, and for a moment he looked almost indulgent, like a teacher humoring an earnest but naïve student. "But bravery for what, Junior Brother? To face Senior Xu? A man known for his… how should we say… refined tastes?" Wen's smile grew, as though he'd given voice to something Chenwei hadn't fully considered.

Chenwei felt his face grow hot with embarrassment and anger. So that was how Wen saw it? That Xu was nothing more than a lecher and a bully, and his confession foolish for having ignored it? The casual, knowing way Wen said it made Chenwei feel raw, exposed—like a child caught playing at being a hero. And for a moment, he felt foolish indeed, his own motives unmasked by Wen's subtle blade.

But he pushed the feeling down, channeling it into his resentment. "Perhaps I don't consider Xu's… faults as reason enough to abandon principle," he replied, his voice cold. "Unlike some, I don't believe that power is an excuse for arrogance."

"An admirable conviction." Wen's tone was mild, his eyes sharp. "But you'll find the world rarely rewards conviction alone. Principles… they're a luxury, especially for those without the power to enforce them." He smiled faintly, almost sadly. "Is it bravery to rush at an impenetrable wall, or simply lack of foresight?"

Chenwei bristled, feeling as if he were being dissected. Wen's words slid through him like a thin, poisoned needle, each one probing, testing, assessing his mettle in a way that felt deeply unsettling. "And what would you call bravery, Senior Brother? The wisdom to bend before every wind? Or perhaps the cunning to turn any situation to one's advantage?" He kept his tone flat, but the accusation was clear.

Wen tilted his head, watching him with that same bemused, almost affectionate expression. "Not every wind, Junior Brother. Only those strong enough to uproot a man who stands too rigid. A sword can be sharp and strong, but without flexibility, it will break under pressure."

Chenwei narrowed his eyes. There it was again, he thought. That subtle justification, that clever deflection. For all his polite words, Wen was already the man he would become—a creature willing to twist any truth to suit his purpose. Chenwei didn't need to witness the murder to understand what had happened in those mountains. Everyone knew: Wen and Lianyi had found something dark, something cursed, and when Lianyi had tried to destroy it, Wen had silenced him.

The details were murky, perhaps, but the result was clear. Zhou Lianyi had died, and Wen Yuhan had returned alone, his hands metaphorically (if not literally) stained with his sworn brother's blood. No witness was needed to confirm that truth.

As they stepped into the hall, Wen glanced at him again, his tone as smooth as ever. "Come now, Junior Brother. I only meant to spare you some disappointment. Senior Xu may not have the most… exalted character, but you must learn to choose your battles wisely."

Chenwei held his gaze, his voice taut as a drawn blade. "So you would advise submission, Senior Brother? That I should make peace with arrogance and corruption?"

Wen chuckled, shaking his head. "Peace, yes. Submission?" He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flashing with something sharper. "Only if you lack the means to turn the game to your favor."

There it was—again, that slippery, shifting philosophy that Chenwei despised. Wen spoke as though there was nothing to the world but strategy, as if principles were simply tools to be discarded the moment they ceased to be useful. And in his voice, Chenwei heard the echo of the twisted rhetoric Wen would one day use to justify countless horrors.

"Perhaps that works for a Taoist sorcerer," Chenwei replied, his voice biting. "But as a sword cultivator, my path is clear. I don't bend."

"Indeed," Wen replied mildly, an amused spark in his eye. "It does seem to suit you." His gaze flicked to Chenwei's clenched fists, the tension in his stance, and his smile widened slightly, as though he'd found confirmation of some private theory. "Ah, Junior Brother, you are so… refreshingly direct. In a way, I envy you."

Chenwei forced himself to look away, his teeth gritted against the irritation twisting in his chest. Envy? Wen spoke as though straightforwardness were some quaint trait, an artifact of Chenwei's lesser understanding. It was galling. But as much as he wanted to retort, they had reached the front of the hall, and his words died on his lips as Zhou Lianyi entered.

Zhou Lianyi stepped into the room with his guqin cradled in his hands, his expression calm, his movements graceful. His mere presence quieted the hall, as though his aura alone could command respect. Though only the Third Younger Master, and far from the center of the sect's power, he radiated a serene authority that needed no titles.

Chenwei felt an unexpected tightness in his throat. He had told himself he was prepared for this—to see Lianyi again, young and unscarred, untouched by betrayal. But now that the man stood before him, living and breathing, Chenwei felt something shift in him, an ache he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years.

Lianyi inclined his head to the disciples, acknowledging their silent reverence, and seated himself before the guqin. Chenwei couldn't help glancing at Wen, half-expecting some flicker of disdain or indifference. But instead, Wen's gaze was fixed on Lianyi with a surprising softness, something almost like… reverence?

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Wen murmured, as the first notes filled the hall. "Lianyi's music… it's as though he pulls threads of Heaven down to us, weaving them into something we can almost touch. I wonder if he realizes the power he holds."

Chenwei's shoulders stiffened. Power. Wen spoke of it as though it were an object, a weapon to be wielded. Even Lianyi's gift, in his eyes, was something to be grasped and controlled. Didn't he understand? Lianyi's music was beautiful precisely because it was untainted by ambition, unburdened by the desire to dominate.

"I think he understands more than you know," Chenwei replied, his tone cold. "Not everything is meant to be used."

Wen glanced at him, eyebrows raised. "Is that so?" His voice was smooth, but Chenwei caught the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes, as though Chenwei had just said something charmingly naïve. "Perhaps. But power left unused is only potential, Junior Brother. And potential, without the will to shape it… well, it is little more than a shadow."

Chenwei stared at him, feeling a surge of contempt. So that's how he justifies it, he thought, his mind sharpening to a deadly edge. It's all about will, about shaping power to fit his vision. No wonder he would one day kill his own sworn brother.

The music swelled, rich and haunting, and Chenwei forced himself to stay silent, his fingers curling into fists. Lianyi's melody seemed to fill the hall with light, banishing every shadow, and for a moment, Chenwei almost believed in the innocence of this scene. But then he looked at Wen, saw that glint in his eyes, and reminded himself of the truth. This was only an illusion—a moment of peace that would end in betrayal.

As the music faded and the disciples applauded, Zhou Lianyi rose and walked toward them, his expression serene. "Senior Brother Wen, Junior Brother Li," he greeted them warmly. "Thank you both for attending."

Wen inclined his head, smiling. "Lianyi. How could I resist, when your music is like a glimpse of Heaven?" His tone was affectionate, respectful—but to Chenwei's ears, it sounded hollow, an empty echo of sincerity. How dare he, Chenwei thought, how dare he feign admiration for the man he would one day destroy.

Lianyi chuckled softly. "Heaven is beyond my reach, Senior Brother. I only hope to bring a little peace." He looked at Wen thoughtfully, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Not all power is meant to be held, Yuhan. Some things… should be left to the heavens."

Wen's smile widened, a spark of something playful—and perhaps challenging—in his eyes. "Ah, but we are cultivators, aren't we? It's in our nature to seize Heaven itself." His voice held an easy confidence, as though he were reciting a personal mantra, one he had often argued with Lianyi before. He gave Lianyi a look that was almost mischievous, as if he were baiting him into an old debate. "What good is a boundary, if it only serves to keep us from greater understanding?"

Lianyi shook his head, sighing with an exasperated smile. "There you go again, Yuhan, tempting fate. One of these days, that arrogance will get you into trouble."

"It's only arrogance if I fail," Wen replied smoothly, his voice light. "If I succeed, well… then it was simply destiny, wasn't it?"

Chenwei's jaw tightened as he listened, his stomach twisting. To him, the exchange felt anything but good-natured. This isn't a joke, he thought, his eyes narrowing. This is exactly how he justifies every monstrous thing he'll do. Even here, even now, he's already thinking of boundaries as things to break, power as something to seize.

And yet, Lianyi only laughed, shaking his head at Wen as though he were a wayward child. "Always so certain of yourself, Yuhan. Perhaps that's why you keep me around, to remind you that some wisdom lies in restraint."

Wen gave a small, mock bow. "Indeed, Brother Lianyi. Who better to remind me of Heaven's boundaries than the one person immune to ambition?" His tone was teasing, affectionate—but Chenwei caught the faintest undercurrent, a subtle barb that felt almost… envious.

As Lianyi moved to greet other disciples, Chenwei shot a cold glance at Wen, his fingers tightening into fists. I know who you are, Wen Yuhan, he thought, fury simmering beneath his calm exterior. I know exactly what you'll do with this philosophy of yours, this "seizing of Heaven." You'll tear down everything that binds you. And I won't let you destroy him—not again.

Wen caught his gaze and tilted his head, raising an eyebrow in amusement. "Something on your mind, Junior Brother Li?" he asked, his tone light, but his eyes sharp.

Chenwei forced himself to remain calm, his voice as cool as steel. "Only that some paths lead to ruin, Senior Brother. A sword must be tempered in its limits, or it will shatter."

Wen studied him for a moment, that faint, knowing smile never leaving his lips. "Perhaps, Chenwei. But I have always found that a sword too afraid of breaking… rarely cuts deep."

Chenwei felt his grip tighten even further. So that's what you think, he thought, his mind a blade honed with years of bitterness and resolve. Keep speaking in riddles and philosophy, Wen Yuhan. I see right through you.

He watched as Wen turned to follow after Lianyi, smiling easily, his demeanor still casual and open. But to Chenwei, it was a mask—one that hid ambition sharp enough to cut down even the brightest star of the sect.

And this time, Chenwei vowed, he would be there to stop it.