5. When Peace Wilts, the Wind Remembers
Hours passed like drifting mist as Chen Zhao walked alone, his figure a silent brushstroke against the ever-changing scroll of the land. The road meandered gently through low, soft hills, the earth beneath it rich with spring dampness. Glassy lakes unfurled like silk across the landscape, their mirrored surfaces kissed by the sky. The further he travelled, the more the terrain shifted—as if retreating into a world untouched by noise.
Small islands began to rise from the water, tranquil and dreamlike, each one cradling clusters of modest wooden homes. Slender bridges linked them like threads between lotus blooms. Lanterns swayed faintly in the wind, their paper sides etched with faded blessings for health and harmony.
It was a hidden town, one lost to maps and memory. And in its quiet, there was suspicion. Chen Zhao slowed his steps.
He kept to the path, veiled and respectful. His robes, though simple, bore the creases of travel and a sword at his hip—not the attire of a beggar, nor quite of a noble. His presence did not belong, and those who saw him felt it keenly.
Children peeked out from behind doorposts, their eyes round and curious, only to be ushered away by mothers whose gazes were wary but not unkind. A few men stood in silence by the water's edge, arms folded, nodding faintly as he passed. Polite, but guarded.
At the edge of a garden, beneath the branches of a peach tree, he came to a halt. The scent of warm wood and early spring blossoms clung to the air.
He raised his voice, low but steady. "This humble one seeks no harm. I come only with healing hands and wish to offer aid. If any among you suffer sickness or lingering pain, I ask humbly for the chance to ease it. That is all."
His words lingered on the wind. For a time, there was only silence.
Then, the soft creak of sandals on wood. A woman stepped forward, no older than thirty. Her shoulders were tense, her robes modest, worn from washing. In her arms, a child whimpered—no older than five, flushed with fever, limbs twitching in discomfort.
Her voice trembled only slightly. "We've seen no healer for three seasons. The roads are no longer safe. I… I cannot say whether the others will trust you, Daozhang. But if your words are true… please. My son's fever worsens with each night."
Chen Zhao lowered his head. "Then let me begin with him."
Others emerged slowly—an elderly man leaning on a cane, a girl with a cough that never left, a farmer's wife with trembling hands. They did not speak, but their eyes held the same thread of silent pleading.
He bowed to each. Then he left, vanishing into the nearby forest.
The woods here were alive with breath. Birds sang softly from the canopy, and the air was laced with the freshness of moss and wet bark. Zhao moved like shadow through the undergrowth, weaving between trees with practised grace. His fingers brushed gently against leaf and root, never taking more than needed.
He knelt beside a stream and gathered cooling ferns to bring down fever. He dug through damp soil for bitter-root, peeled the bark of wild plum trees for its calming essence. He plucked white blossom petals, careful to avoid bruising them. He worked with reverence, as one who knew the pain of suffering and the blessing of relief.
Each herb was crushed and infused with qi, his spiritual power gentle but focused—never overwhelming, never wasteful. Medicine, after all, was not merely ingredients. It was intent.
"Children reject bitterness," he murmured to himself, stirring a brew over a small flame. "But too much sweetness dulls the healing. There must be balance."
By nightfall, he returned with sachets and flasks in hand. The villagers watched in silence as he knelt beside the sick, checking pulses, offering sips of tea warmed by his own qi.
And slowly, something shifted.
Eyes met his with less hesitation. A nod turned into a bow. A hand reached to help him lift a bucket. No coin was offered. He had asked for none. Instead, they gave him the only gift they could: a place to stay.
For three days, he remained.
He rose with the sun and meditated by the lakeside, where mist danced over the water like drifting silk. He practised calligraphy in the sand, his fingers carving words of virtue and clarity. The children approached him with cautious fascination, and he began to teach them—not spells, but the names of healing moss and how to feel for the breath of a tree. He helped mend a collapsed fence, lifted baskets too heavy for an elder's hands, and spoke little. But he listened.
He walked beneath the trees at dusk, his eyes lifted to branches that swayed with blossoms not yet bloomed. And though the ache in his soul never faded, something… softened.
But peace, as it always did, lingered just beyond his reach.
For a man like Chen Zhao, it was a borrowed comfort—brief as a candle flicker in the storm. And somewhere beyond the stillness of the lakes and the hush of trees, fate began to stir again.
*
On the third evening, when twilight had steeped the lake waters in hues of lavender and gold, the same woman who had once stepped forward with her fevered child returned to his doorway.
She stood quietly for a while, not wishing to disturb the peace that had settled around the borrowed hut. The bamboo wind chime above her head whispered a brittle lullaby in the breeze. Chen Zhao, seated cross-legged within, already sensed her presence.
"Daozhang," she whispered at last, her voice laced with unease. "Some cultivators arrived this afternoon. They asked about a man in deep blue robes… We told them only that you passed by."
He inclined his head slowly, dark gaze unreadable. "You have my thanks, Furen. I will leave before dawn. I've lingered long enough. You've already shown me more kindness than I deserve."
She nodded, eyes full of a quiet knowing. "May the heavens guard your path, Daozhang. You walk burdened." She left him in silence. The wooden door clicked shut behind her.
Zhao rose and moved with practised calm. He packed only what was essential—two sachets of crushed roots, a flask half-full with a pale elixir, and a fine strip of dried lotus leaf for the road. The rest, he left as offerings on the altar inside the hut: herbs, charcoal ink, a folded talisman for warding.
He did not sleep. Instead, he sat by the window, listening to the distant call of frogs echoing over the lake, the slow creak of trees turning in the breeze, and the whisper of something stirring in the dark.
When the first pale fingers of light stretched across the water—
A scream tore through the stillness.
Zhao was already on his feet, cloak trailing behind him like a midnight wave as he sprinted toward the sound.
At the centre of the village, a cluster had gathered in panic. An old man lay sprawled on the earth, breath ragged, face pale. Beside him, a white snake coiled with slow menace, tongue flickering in and out like threads of mist. Its body glistened like ivory polished by moonlight, winding up the elder's leg with languid grace.
Zhao stepped forward, movements fluid but measured. The crowd parted for him without needing to be asked. He knelt beside the old man, glancing briefly at his pulse, then turned his gaze to the serpent. There was no fear in his expression—only a strange calm. His hand extended, fingers curling slightly.
"Come," he murmured, voice soft yet commanding.
The snake paused. Its head tilted, tongue flicking toward his outstretched fingers. Then, as if recognising a long-lost scent, it slid down the elder's leg and coiled around Zhao's arm, cool and sinuous. It curled up to rest along his shoulder, head resting at the hollow of his throat. The villagers gasped.
"It will not harm you," Zhao said, his voice low and steady. "Its presence was a warning, not an attack."
He turned his head slightly and whispered to the serpent.
"Return to your master. You've drawn enough attention."
The serpent lifted its head once, and with a flick of its tail, it vanished—dissolving into faint tendrils of smoke that shimmered briefly before fading into the air.
Zhao exhaled slowly, gaze lifting to the eastern sky now painted with delicate pinks. "They are close." He whispered to himself.
He stood. The villagers stood in uneasy silence. No one asked him to stay, but no one moved to stop him either. He turned and bowed deeply, the gesture formal and full of grace.
"This humble one has already overstayed. I leave with gratitude deeper than words can express."
An elder stepped forward from the crowd—bent with age, but with the dignity of mountain stone. "Daozhang… you gave us back peace. We have little to offer, but if you ever return, you will find a roof and fire waiting. And doors that remain open."
In wrinkled hands, he pressed forward a bundle wrapped in linen. Within were slices of dried barley bread, a handful of silver coins, and a pendant carved from juniper wood—etched with an old blessing for safe passage.
Zhao accepted it without protest. He bowed once more—this time lower. Then he turned, and without another word, walked toward the narrow road that wound behind the lake village—his cloak trailing like mist behind him, sword at his hip, and his figure growing smaller with each step.
But he did not remain on the road. Not when he could feel them. Not when the air tasted of metal, of incense from temples long defiled.
Instead, he veered off the trail and into the forest. There, the trees grew close, their roots tangled like ancient knots. Sunlight rarely pierced the canopy, and the scent of crushed leaves mingled with the ghost of old rain. His steps were soundless, practised, each motion slipping through shadows like a ghost.
He passed the same herbs he'd gathered days before—but did not stop. His journey had resumed. But this time, it was no longer aimless.
Something hunted him. But he would not run forever.
He would reach the Thousand Scrolls Hall. And when he did, the truths buried beneath jade towers and silence would no longer stay hidden.
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27. Daozhang (道长) - Taoist elder; Used to respectfully address a Taoist cultivator or spiritual figure, especially if they wear robes, carry a dust whisk, and live a secluded or ascetic life.
28. Furen (夫人) – Madam / Lady.