Chapter 10: The Man in the forget-me-not- flowers

"Don't move... unless you want him to suffer."

The voice was quiet but bitter, like a thorn veiled in velvet. It came from the demonic child—the same boy who had once clung to Qinghui's robe, pleading to find his father.

Lan Feirong swiftly extended an arm, stopping Lan Zeyan from acting. The Second Master had already half-drawn his talismans, but this was not a moment for impulse. Both men observed Qinghui, now unconscious and wrapped tightly in a cocoon of roots.

Yet the scene was strange—unnaturally gentle. The roots did not devour, did not constrict. They caressed Qinghui's face like a mother soothing a fevered child. His body, though pale, was whole. According to Lan Zeyan's understanding, the transformation into a "tree puppet" should have begun by now. But instead... Qinghui was merely sleeping.

With furrowed brows, Lan Zeyan slid the talismans back into his sleeve. He stepped closer, his gaze landing on the thick tendrils that pulsed faintly with dark energy. "He's leaking too much corrupted Qi," he murmured. "If the backup arrives and sees him like this, they'll assume he's been practicing demonic arts. The punishment will be severe."

Lan Feirong nodded grimly. "I understand, but we can't act recklessly. That child—he controls the roots. If we provoke him, Qinghui-ge will pay the price."

Straightening his posture, Lan Feirong cleared his throat and spoke toward the child, "Why are you doing this to Qinghui-ge?"

"Ge?" the child snarled, face twisting in fury. "You don't get to call him that! You're not his brother!"

As his anger surged, so did the roots. They snapped and hissed like vipers, lashing toward the cultivators with unnatural speed.

Lan Feirong and Lan Zeyan moved simultaneously. With practiced ease, they leapt into the air, evading the strikes. Golden light burst from Lan Zeyan's fingertips as he unfurled a talisman mid-air and flung it toward the nearest root. The paper flared, glowing with divine script before igniting into purifying flames.

Lan Feirong, drawing his spirit sword, slashed down the roots in arcs of clean silver. The blade hummed with righteous Qi, severing the tendrils that coiled like serpents.

"Tch, loses his temper like a spoiled brat," Lan Feirong muttered, sidestepping another lash. "What kind of monster has tantrums?"

The roots screeched as talismans burned them and swordlight tore them apart, but for each vine severed, another grew in its place.

—

Meanwhile, in another realm—one far removed from battle and blood—Qinghui stirred.

His eyes opened slowly, but they were glazed, his consciousness adrift in illusion. He stood barefoot in a sea of forget-me-not flowers, their soft blue petals glowing faintly beneath a pale moon suspended in an endless, starlit void.

The scent of dew and memory lingered in the air.

He looked down—and found a man kneeling before him, head bowed low so that long, dark hair veiled his face.

The man's robes were ceremonial and intricate—split precisely down the middle in white and black silk, symbolizing divine judgment and shadow. Prayer beads of pearl and obsidian adorned his sleeves, each ending in metallic lotus charms that chimed gently with his movements. A silver crescent crown rested upon his forehead, with a pearl embedded at its heart. Dark teardrop earrings swayed from his ears, like sorrow made manifest.

Qinghui blinked. The sight stirred something in him. A memory? A longing?

He approached carefully, then slowly sat before the man, blue petals brushing against his robes.

"Who are you? Where is this place?" Qinghui asked quietly.

His hand reached out halfway, tempted to touch the man's shoulder—but he hesitated. If this place was born of corruption, even a brush of skin might tether him to it.

The kneeling man didn't answer. His face remained obscured, but the corner of his lips curved faintly in a soft, knowing smile.

"Tch. Why are you smiling like some creepy ghost?" Qinghui muttered, frowning as he turned away, only to glance back at the man with cautious curiosity. He circled the figure playfully, his fingertips brushing against the fine fabric of the robe.

"This robe must've cost more than a sect treasury," he said, tone light, almost teasing. He tugged slightly at the sleeve, inspected the intricate embroidery, then boldly reached up and brushed a strand of the man's hair aside, letting his fingers skim across a cold ornamental pin shaped like a lotus.

He was fully aware this could be a dream—no, more likely an illusion. After all, the last thing he remembered was pain—roots tearing from his back, dragging him down. Whoever this man was, Qinghui didn't trust him. But he knew better than to show fear in front of someone like this. So he played along.

Then came the laugh.

"Ahaha..." The man giggled softly, almost like a breeze swaying through wind chimes. Yet he didn't move, didn't reveal his face—only knelt there like a sculpture frozen in time.

Qinghui narrowed his eyes. The voice—it stirred something vague, something too distant to grasp. He shook it off.

"Did I say something funny?" he asked, suspicious.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." The man tilted his head slightly. "It's just... you haven't changed at all. Still so easily fooled."

Qinghui froze for a beat.

Then the man stood.

His robe fluttered as he rose to his feet, revealing a tall, slender form bathed in faint light. Hair cascaded like ink, covering half his face, but even the glimpse of his visible features was enough to momentarily silence Qinghui. The man was... beautiful. Impossibly so. A kind of beauty that felt sacred, yet wrong in its perfection.

Qinghui, unimpressed, crossed his arms and deadpanned, "What, trying to seduce me out of suspicion? I don't fall for pretty faces. Especially not ones hiding under hair curtains."

The man laughed again, clearly delighted. "You talk just like before."

Qinghui's smirk sharpened. "You act like you know me."

"That's because I do~"

"Then tell me—" Qinghui stepped forward, tilting his head with a taunting smile. "Who am I?"

The man didn't answer. Instead, he approached and gently cupped a strand of Qinghui's bangs, lifting it to his face as though it were a fragile blossom. He inhaled softly.

"You still smell the same."

Qinghui recoiled, his glare sharp enough to cut. "Okay, enough. If you're going to play games, I'm leaving. Tell me how to get out of this illusion."

At last, the man stepped back, his expression calm and composed—almost too serene, like he had all the time in the world.

"Leaving is simple. But... aren't you curious?" His gaze seemed to pierce through Qinghui. "About the roots outside this realm? The ones that dragged you into that cave? The ones that bind you still?"

Qinghui paused.

That did strike a nerve. When he had awakened in the cave, alone and bound by those living tendrils, his only clue had been pain and confusion. No memory, no reason. Just the name—Qinghui. And the question: why was he chosen?

"...Fine," Qinghui said with a sigh. "If you know something, then speak."

The man smiled, more gently this time. "The Roots of Sentiment. You made them."

Silence.

Then—"What?"

Qinghui's breath caught in his throat, his fists clenching. "That's not funny."

"I wasn't joking," the man said cheerfully. "You made them."

"I would never create something that hurts people!"

"Wouldn't you?" The man tilted his head, gaze unreadable. "Not even for someone you loved?"

His voice lingered like mist.

Qinghui's fury built, but before he could say anything, a familiar voice cut through the air like a sword—

"Qinghui!"

The illusion around him trembled, a sound like shattering glass echoing through the flower field.

"Wake up!"

The dream began to crack apart, like a mirror breaking under pressure. Qinghui turned—his heart pounding—to the man, now fading into fragments.

The figure remained smiling, unbothered.

"Till we meet again," the man whispered, his image dissolving into petals.