Echoes of the River

The knowledge found in the Artist's journal was a suffocating poison. Wei Yuan felt as though he had swallowed a stone, a cold, heavy lump of dread that sat permanently in his stomach. He was now the keeper of a monstrous secret, the inheritor of a plan that bordered on soul-flaying necromancy. The distinction between himself and the "Artist" was blurring at the edges, their goals—survival, the breaking of the curse—now horrifyingly aligned.

He spent the next few days in the lower archives, the damp chill a fitting companion to his state of mind. He did not practice the Arts. The Loom's demand for a "new Art" was a constant, low-grade hum in his consciousness, a hunger he was not yet ready—or able—to feed. Instead, he read. He devoured the heretical texts his other self had collected, not with a scholar's curiosity, but with the grim determination of a soldier studying the schematics of a terrifying new weapon. He had to understand the tools of his monstrous trade.

He read about the distillation of resentment, the capturing of spectral echoes, the weaponization of will. It was a school of thought that was both intellectually fascinating and morally repugnant. He learned the theory behind the "Raging River Style" that the Artist had used to intimidate Wei Tian, a technique that had less to do with the physical flow of Qi and more with the psychic projection of overwhelming, inexorable force. It was a mental art, a scholar's weapon.

The Branch Purge was now only a week away. The pressure was mounting. He knew he couldn't hide in the archives forever. He had to face the world, to continue his performance as the quiet, harmless invalid of the Wei Clan's disgraced branch.

The confrontation he had been dreading came sooner than he expected.

He had emerged from the Pavilion to check on Old Man Ji, bringing a bowl of thin, tasteless congee. The old keeper was still lost in his stupor, his breathing shallow, his presence a constant, silent accusation. As Wei Yuan was returning, his path was blocked.

Wei Tian stood in the middle of the stone path, flanked by two other disciples from the main branch. His cousin's face, usually a mask of arrogant confidence, was now tight with a mixture of anger and a lingering, barely-suppressed apprehension. The memory of their last encounter had clearly left a scar on his pride.

"Still hiding amongst your dusty scrolls, cousin?" Wei Tian's voice was sharp, a whip-crack in the quiet air. "Or have you been practicing your rock-stacking? Perhaps you intend to build a fortress to hide behind during the Purge."

The two disciples behind him snickered, their expressions a mixture of contempt and sycophantic glee.

Wei Yuan stopped, the bowl of untouched congee in his hands feeling suddenly heavy. He met his cousin's gaze, his own face a carefully constructed mask of placid confusion. "I am preparing in my own way, cousin," he said, his voice quiet.

"Your own way?" Wei Tian spat the words. "Your way is the way of the cripple. The way of our disgraced branch. You are a stain on the Wei name. I came here today to offer you a kindness. Forfeit. Announce your withdrawal from the Branch Purge due to illness. It will save you the humiliation of being carried from the arena. And it will save the rest of us the embarrassment of being associated with you."

He took a step forward, his spiritual pressure flaring once more. It was a deliberate, public act of intimidation. The air thickened, pressing down on Wei Yuan, seeking to force him to his knees. The familiar, grinding pain in his knotted meridians began to intensify.

Wei Yuan clutched the bowl, his knuckles turning white. The Waking Self was screaming, a silent torrent of fear and frustration. He wanted to run, to retreat back into the safety of the Pavilion. He knew a physical confrontation was suicide. Wei Tian was at the Spirit Channeling realm; he could crush him with a single blow.

But the fear was a trigger. The pressure was a catalyst.

The predator in his soul stirred.

He didn't try to fight it this time. He didn't try to navigate it. He simply… let go. He yielded control, a conscious act of surrender born of pure, desperate necessity.

The world shifted. The Waking Self became a passenger, watching from a great distance as the cold, proficient will of the Artist surged to the forefront. His posture didn't change. His expression remained placid. But his eyes… his eyes became ancient and heavy.

He did not look at Wei Tian. He looked through him.

He channeled the core principle he had read in "The Unspoken Art." He didn't just project the intent of a Raging River. He became it. In his mind's eye, he was not a fifteen-year-old boy in a dusty courtyard. He was a colossal, unstoppable torrent of water that had been carving its way through mountains for a thousand years. He was the weight of history, the force of inevitability. His will was the crushing pressure of the deeps, the relentless erosion of stone.

Wei Tian felt it.

It was a thousand times worse than their last encounter. The prickle of fear he'd felt then was now a full-blown psychic assault. His own spiritual pressure, the pride of his Spirit Channeling realm, felt like a child's sandcastle against a tidal wave. He felt an immense weight settle on his soul, the crushing certainty of his own insignificance. He saw his own ambition, his pride, his power, as nothing more than a single pebble about to be ground into dust by the river of time.

His breath hitched. The sneer on his face collapsed into a mask of stark terror. The two disciples behind him, who were not the direct target of the psychic assault, still felt the fringes of it. They stumbled back, their faces pale, a cold sweat breaking out on their brows. They didn't know what was happening, only that they were in the presence of something profoundly, terrifyingly wrong.

Wei Tian's legs trembled. He tried to speak, to snarl another insult, but the words caught in his throat. He felt small. He felt fragile. He felt… judged.

Wei Yuan—the Artist—took a single, slow step forward. He lifted the bowl of congee.

"You look unwell, cousin," he said, his voice a low, calm river that flowed over the rocks of Wei Tian's shattered arrogance. "You should eat something. Conserve your strength for the Purge."

He offered the bowl.

It was not an act of kindness. It was an act of absolute dominance. It was the victor offering a pittance to the vanquished.

Wei Tian stared at the simple ceramic bowl as if it were a coiled serpent. He couldn't accept it. To accept it would be to acknowledge the utter totality of his defeat. But he couldn't refuse it either. To refuse would be to prolong this unbearable psychic torment.

With a choked cry of rage and humiliation, Wei Tian slapped the bowl from Wei Yuan's hand.

The bowl flew through the air, its contents arcing in a pale, pathetic streak. It hit the stone path and shattered, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.

The spell was broken.

The instant the physical act of violence occurred, the Artist's focus dissipated. The immense pressure vanished. Wei Yuan was himself again, the Waking Self, left standing amidst the shards of broken ceramic and splattered congee. The backlash hit him like a physical blow, a wave of agony lancing through his meridians, making him gasp and stagger.

But he had seen it all. He had been a willing participant this time. He had felt the power, the cold, detached certainty of the Artist. He understood.

Wei Tian stood panting, his face a mess of confusion, fear, and shame. He had lashed out like a cornered animal, and in doing so, had revealed the depths of his terror to everyone present. He shot Wei Yuan one last look of venomous hatred and then turned and fled, his two lackeys scrambling after him.

Wei Yuan stood alone in the courtyard, his body aching, his soul trembling. He looked down at the shattered bowl, at the wasted food.

The Loom flickered into his vision, its message a simple, damning observation.

[Discord achieved.]

He had won the confrontation. He had faced down the clan's prodigy and sent him running. But it was a victory that felt more like a damnation. He had embraced the monster, and he was terrified by how natural it had felt. The path of the Artist was a path of power, but it was a lonely, heretical road, and he was now walking it with his eyes wide open.