Chapter 11: Whispers Beneath the Flame

Wei Xie sat cross-legged before a withered censer, the thin trails of incense rising like spectral vines twisting toward the rafters of his secluded chamber. His quarters were modest, sequestered on the edge of the Inner Sect compound—a place too remote for the ambitious, and too silent for the devout. But for Wei Xie, it was perfect.

A cracked window let in a dull sliver of moonlight, casting long shadows that danced with the smoke. The incense he burned wasn't regulation; it was one of the odd herbs he had collected in the bell tower's underchambers. There, in the crumbling remnants of forbidden scrolls and black-petaled offerings, he had found the faded recipe for the blend he now used. It stung the nostrils, sharpened the mind.

He preferred it that way.

From within, he could still feel the faint throb of the sigil etched into his back, dormant but never quite silent. It pulsed on occasion, a heartbeat not his own. The Black Lotus did not demand obedience outright—only the slow erosion of all other loyalties.

This week, he had done well.

Two disciples had been removed from the trial lists due to sudden and unfortunate misunderstandings—a stolen manual here, a disrespected elder there. Wei Xie had not lifted a finger. He had simply tilted a conversation, adjusted a few perceptions. He never lied. Not directly. He had learned the art of giving people what they already suspected.

People were always eager to ruin themselves.

A knock came. Soft, measured. Not unexpected.

"Enter," he said, not turning.

The paper screen slid open. Lan Mei stepped through, her white robes faintly tinged with dust. She bowed, her voice low. "Senior Brother Wei. It is done."

"And?"

"Xiao Ren took the bait. He believes it was Zhou Ping who reported him. The two nearly fought in the alchemy hall."

Wei Xie finally opened his eyes. Calm, heavy-lidded, unblinking. "Good. Let them break each other. We need only collect the pieces."

Lan Mei hesitated, then asked, "Will you be attending the Grand Flame Lantern Ceremony?"

He offered a small nod, more to the incense smoke than to her. "Yes. Too many eyes would notice if I did not."

"An Zhi will be there."

Of course he would. An Zhi—righteous, golden An Zhi, the boy everyone believed would become the next heir of the Inner Sect. The only one who looked at Wei Xie as if he saw through the veil of civility.

Wei Xie stood. His movement was fluid, practiced. The long black sleeves of his robe whispered against the wooden floor.

"Let him be there," he said, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. "Some things are best tested under fire."

---

The Grand Flame Lantern Ceremony took place at the foot of the Skyfire Cliff, where a thousand lanterns would be set alight and released into the night. It was a ceremony meant to honor the legacy of the sect's ancestors, a solemn vow of devotion renewed each year.

Wei Xie walked among the crowd like a shade, unnoticed but always watching. Robes of senior disciples fluttered in the wind; candles flickered in ornate paper lanterns shaped like lotus flowers, dragons, and spirit beasts. Elder Yun stood near the front, flanked by other teachers. His eyes met Wei Xie's once—brief, unspoken recognition.

He knew.

But he said nothing.

A ripple passed through the crowd as An Zhi approached. Tall, clad in snow-white robes etched with flame sigils, his expression was that of calm detachment, but his gaze scanned the crowd with deliberate calculation.

He spotted Wei Xie.

Wei Xie offered him a courteous bow.

An Zhi did not return it.

Instead, he said, voice clear, "I heard strange rumors about a certain student who rose from Outer to Inner Sect in a matter of weeks."

Silence fell. Eyes turned. The firelight from the cliff made shadows twist under An Zhi's cheekbones.

Wei Xie met his gaze without flinching. "Rumors have always been popular around rites and flames, have they not?"

"Indeed," An Zhi said, "But not all rumors lack substance."

"Then I suggest you test their weight before the crowd grows tired."

That sparked something. Not outrage. Not mockery. Curiosity.

But the moment passed as quickly as it came. The ceremony continued.

Yet something had changed.

---

That night, as lanterns rose into the sky like a constellation born of paper and fire, Wei Xie stood apart on a ridge above the ceremony. He watched the lights ascend, felt the wind brush through his hair, and listened.

To the murmurs in the dark.

He had begun to hear them more frequently now. Whispers in a voice not quite human, not quite alien. Not sound, but thought. Urging. Beckoning.

"Let the flame bloom. Let the root take rot."

When he closed his eyes, he could almost see the black lotus again—not in bloom, but in bud, half-shuttered. It wanted something. It waited.

---

The following day, Wei Xie woke before dawn.

Something scratched at the edge of his dreams. A scent. Iron and ash. He lit no candle, moved only with the first grey sliver of morning. Outside, mist clung low to the ground. The compound was silent.

But there was blood.

A thin smear along the corridor wall.

It led toward the records wing.

Wei Xie followed it, his footfalls soundless. The hall was colder than it should have been. No lanterns lit. Only the scratch of wind and that thin, drying trail of crimson.

It led to an antechamber just beneath the scroll vault. A place used mostly for copying sect texts.

Someone had been here. Recently.

And not willingly.

Wei Xie stepped inside.

There was no corpse.

Only a robe—Inner Sect issue, soaked in blood and discarded.

And beside it: a lotus.

Not black. Red.

Its petals were wet, glossy, as if it had just bloomed.

Wei Xie crouched. He did not touch it. His breath was calm, slow. But within, something had shifted.

This was not his doing.

This was not part of the plan.

Which meant someone else was moving. Quietly. Murderously.

A rival?

Or something older?

He took the lotus with a cloth, wrapping it carefully.

Later, when the sect noticed the disappearance, Wei Xie would have already ensured a scapegoat was available. Zhou Ping, perhaps. Or Xiao Ren. Lan Mei would spread the whispers.

But Wei Xie would remember that scent.

The scent of rot sweetened by purpose.

And in the back of his mind, the sigil pulsed.

Not yours. But close.

He returned to his chamber, placed the lotus in a sealed box lined with talismans.

And sat.

There would be more deaths.

He would not prevent them.

He would only learn.

And eventually, he would find the one who dared bloom in his shadow.

---

Down beneath the sect's roots, deeper than the bell tower ever dared reach, a chamber opened.

A figure stood in a lotus field of blood-red blossoms.

His face was wrapped in silk. His hands were bare.

In his palm, he held a mirror made of bone.

Within it, Wei Xie's reflection flickered.

And the man laughed.

Softly. Lovingly.

"Soon, little lotus. Soon, you will bloom properly."