Chapter 9: Pale Roots Beneath Cold Soil

There was a stillness to the Inner Sect's third courtyard, a deliberate hush cultivated by its architecture.

Unlike the clamor of the outer courts—where ambition rang with every shout, every clash of blades—this place did not need noise. Power here was patient. It coiled beneath stone paths and lingered in shadows. Even the wind, as it passed through lacquered eaves and ancient pine, seemed to whisper in deference.

Wei Xie stepped onto that quiet ground for the first time as an Inner Disciple.

He did not feel pride.

Only purpose.

The black robes clung lightly to his frame, the silver threading of the sect insignia gleaming dully in the early morning light. Beneath the hem, hidden from any curious gaze, the black petal still nestled in his inner pocket—crushed slightly from movement, but intact.

He crossed the stone bridges slowly, memorizing the layout with each step. Courtyard to courtyard, pavilion to training ground, library to meditation hall. No movements wasted. No glances given.

This was not a tour.

It was reconnaissance.

The Third Courtyard was a garden of buried secrets.

The architecture bent oddly here—curved corridors leading to blind corners, hollow stone lanterns humming with dull formation energy, and silence-laden statues with eyes that always seemed slightly… off.

Wei Xie noted every detail.

It wasn't long before his presence drew attention.

Two disciples followed at a distance. One tall and lean, robes too crisp; the other younger, his gaze nervous but quick. Both carried blades etched with the inner sect sigil, though neither had touched the hilts.

*Testing me already?* Wei Xie mused.

He walked into the old meditation hall. The entrance was low, intentionally so—it forced all who entered to bow.

Inside, incense burned slowly in bronze bowls. Stone mats covered the floor, each inscribed with faded characters for virtue, clarity, restraint. No windows. Only slits of sunlight from the upper eaves. It smelled of ash, dust, and quiet.

Wei Xie took the third mat.

He closed his eyes.

And waited.

Not for enlightenment.

For movement.

The two disciples entered five minutes later.

They chose mats beside him. Too close.

Their silence was louder than speech.

Wei Xie did not move.

Instead, he opened the small pulse of qi behind his eyes. Just a sliver. Just enough to feel the ripple of intent.

It was there.

Hidden behind the younger one's aura—a quiet aggression masked beneath forced serenity.

The older one shifted subtly.

He would speak first.

And he did.

"You are Wei Xie," he said, voice low.

A statement. Not a question.

Wei Xie did not open his eyes.

"Yes."

"You advanced quickly."

"I walked the steps. I passed the trials."

The younger one flinched slightly. The older continued, "Some wonder… if strings were pulled."

Wei Xie smiled without humor.

"Then let them wonder. But next time, send someone better at pretending to meditate."

Silence.

Then:

"You speak boldly."

"I speak precisely."

The younger disciple stood. "You think you're untouchable?"

Wei Xie opened his eyes.

Dark. Calm. Unblinking.

"I think," he said softly, "that I am already inside the wound you're trying to open."

The older one stood now too, slower, eyes narrowed.

Wei Xie rose after them.

Neither drew weapons. Not yet.

Wei Xie's hands remained behind his back.

"You don't belong here," the older said. "You bring rot."

"Good," Wei Xie whispered. "Rot nourishes the seed."

The younger disciple lunged—just enough to test.

Wei Xie stepped sideways.

A foot extended.

The younger one tripped.

No dramatic clash. No burst of qi.

Just silence.

The older disciple didn't help him up. He only looked at Wei Xie for a long moment, then turned.

"This won't end well for you."

Wei Xie nodded.

"It never does."

---

That evening, Wei Xie cleaned the cracked stone basin outside his new quarters. He did not summon a servant.

He cleaned it by hand.

Each motion precise.

A memory flickered—hands scrubbing stone in the outer courts, the sting of cold water in winter. A younger him, silent and watchful.

The water ran red where he dipped the cloth.

Not blood. Just rust.

But it pleased him all the same.

---

Elder Yun summoned him the next morning.

The private pavilion was empty of guards, disciples, or assistants.

Only Yun, seated before a steaming kettle, his back straight as a blade.

"Wei Xie," he said without looking up. "You cause ripples."

"I prefer still water," Wei Xie replied.

Yun poured tea.

"You've earned enemies."

"I expected none less."

"You've also earned *curiosity.*" Yun looked at him now. "From me."

Wei Xie inclined his head.

"I am a simple disciple."

"No," Yun said, voice sharp. "You are *not.*"

The silence that followed was dense.

Yun sipped his tea.

"Do you know of the *Subterranean Vein* beneath this sect?"

Wei Xie's eyes flicked up.

"I've heard whispers."

"A vast root," Yun murmured. "Older than this mountain. It feeds on memory and marrow. It teaches… differently."

Wei Xie said nothing.

Yun studied him.

"You've walked part of it already, haven't you?"

Wei Xie answered only with stillness.

Yun smiled faintly.

"I'll show you the entrance. But only once."

---

At dusk, they walked in silence. Past the training pavilions, past the water gardens, through a narrow path behind the shrine of the Broken Star.

There, hidden behind wind-worn stones, lay a gate of white wood.

No lock. No guard.

Only a single phrase carved into the frame:

*To enter is to remember.*

Yun turned.

"Three things. First: go alone. Always. Second: never speak aloud. The vein *listens.* Third: if it offers you a truth… do not believe it."

Wei Xie nodded once.

Yun stepped aside.

Wei Xie entered.

---

Darkness.

Not absolute.

A dim, pulsing light shimmered along the tunnel walls—like veins beneath translucent skin. The air was cold and wet, and it tasted like old breath and forgotten names.

He walked.

Each step echoed not just ahead, but behind. As though someone else walked too.

After some time—hours or minutes, he could not say—he came to a chamber.

Circular. Empty.

Except for a single mirror.

It was ancient. The glass cracked. The frame black iron. On its surface, no reflection.

Until he stepped closer.

Then it showed him—not his body, but moments.

*His first lie.*

*His first betrayal.*

*His first taste of control.*

Each played in silence. Each faded into smoke.

He did not flinch.

Instead, he placed his palm on the glass.

And whispered, "Show me what I will become."

The mirror flickered.

A hundred faces. A hundred masks. Blood. Ash. Petals.

Then… one face.

His own.

Older.

Eyes hollow.

Mouth smiling.

Back turned to a burning mountain.

The image burned away.

And the chamber darkened.

He turned to leave.

But the path was gone.

No door. No tunnel. Only smooth wall.

He waited.

A hum began. Low. Deep.

The stone parted.

Wei Xie stepped out into moonlight.

He stood not at the sect's edge, but at the top of the Bell Tower.

Alone.

The wind whispered.

Not words.

But memory.

And somewhere far below, in the courtyard, a petal fell.

Black.

Weightless.

And waiting.