Chapter 8 - To Protect

  ***

  Zhéguī exhaled slowly, steadying himself. He had spoken to countless recruits before—lost souls, outcasts, people searching for a purpose. But this was different. Huànxiàng wasn’t just lost; he was something else entirely. Something unnatural. Zhéguī still didn’t know what he was dealing with, and that uncertainty gnawed at him.

  But uncertainty had never stopped him before.

  He studied Huànxiàng carefully. The giant sat stiffly, wrapped in his bandages, his hands twitching every so often like he was listening to something no one else could hear. That unsettling stillness, the unnatural way he moved—it all sent warning bells ringing in Zhéguī’s mind. He pushed those instincts aside. If Huànxiàng was a danger, then the best way to control that danger was to direct it.

  Zhéguī cleared his throat and crouched down slightly, leveling his gaze with Huànxiàng’s. His tone softened, slipping into a more suave manner of speech.

  “Huànxiàng, I’ll be honest with you. I don’t know what you are. But I know what I see.”

  He let that hang in the air, just long enough for Huànxiàng’s slow, quivering eyes to settle on him. Zhéguī continued, caution and deliberation laced in each word.

  “You’re strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve met.”

  He motioned to the crumbling crater left in the wake of Huànxiàng’s outburst of strength.

  “You can take hits that would kill a normal man. You could tear through stone like it was paper.”

  He tilted his head slightly

  “But tell me… what are you using all that strength for?”

  Huànxiàng blinked at him blankly, his scattered flesh crawling on the floor toward him like wriggling worms. Zhéguī swallowed his saliva and looked up at Huànxiàng’s blank mask, trying to prevent himself from throwing up. He had to remind himself that Huànxiàng, despite his monstrous appearance, had the mind of a child.

  Zhéguī continued, not letting the silence or his discomfort slow him down.

  “Power means nothing without purpose. Right now, you’re just existing—drifting from one moment to the next. No goal. No direction. That’s no way to live.”

  He let his voice drop, quieter now, almost coaxing.

  “But what if you could do more than that? What if you could matter?”

  Huànxiàng’s fingers twitched again. A small movement, but Zhéguī caught it.

  Good. He’s listening.

  He leaned in slightly, voice lowering as if he were letting Huànxiàng in on a secret. His hair stood on end, just as it had when he had encountered phantoms before. The expressionless mask that covered the boy’s countenance looked more and more eerie the closer and closer he drew to it. Not only that, but the boy before him had been named “phantom.” It felt like some kind of sick joke but he couldn’t do anything about it now- he had to finish what he started.

  “I need your help in the Research Division, so that we can reclaim City 1 and stop the possibility of another one of our cities becoming a ghost town.”

  He let the words sink in before continuing, his voice taking on the quiet intensity he had used to still his mind.

  “It’s dangerous. Full of phantoms. People disappear in there. But we’re trying to take it back. To make it safe again.”

  Huànxiàng’s brow furrowed slightly. Zhéguī pressed on.

  “We need people like you. People with strength. People who can do what others can’t. You could be the one who helps us reclaim that city. You could be the one who makes a real difference.”

  Still, Huànxiàng said nothing. Zhéguī could feel him teetering on the edge, uncertain, lost in whatever thoughts existed in that odd, quiet mind of his.

  So he changed his approach. He took a risk.

  “You care about Yǚchén, don’t you?”

  That got a reaction. Huànxiàng’s posture stiffened—just slightly, but it was enough. Zhéguī latched onto it. His voice dropped more, almost to a murmur.

  “You follow him. You protect him. That’s what matters to you, isn’t it?”

  Huànxiàng’s fingers clenched against his knees.

  Zhéguī nodded slightly, as if confirming something.

  “Joining us means you get to keep protecting him.”

  He let his words sink in before adding,

  “What do you think happens if you don’t have a place here? If you’re just a wandering… thing?”

  He let that word slip deliberately. Harsh, but effective.

  He straightened up, giving Huànxiàng space to think.

  “But if you work with us, you belong. You have a role. A purpose. And a life with a purpose is a life well lived. If you make sure Yǚchén stays safe, you’ll be fulfilling that purpose.”

  The silence between them was heavy. Zhéguī watched Huànxiàng carefully, feeling the moment stretch and shift.

  Then—slowly—Huànxiàng gave a small, almost hesitant nod.

  Zhéguī exhaled, keeping his expression neutral, though inside, a coil of tension unwound slightly.

  That’s it. That’s the hook.

  He spoke easily, as if they had simply agreed on something casually.

  “Good. Then, we’ll start tomorrow.”

  He turned, not giving Huànxiàng a chance to change his mind, and to let his newly-found “purpose” set in.

  What was the saying?

  He grinned to himself.

  “Once you give a man a purpose, he rarely lets it go.”

  ***

  Yǚchén lay back on a bed, his brow furrowed in mild irritation as Doctor Mò stuffed another ground up ball of unidentifiable herbs down his throat. Her face was unreadable, but her hands moved with purpose, rapidly patting his cheek until he opened his mouth to take in the bitter medicine.

  “This again?”

  Yǚchén muttered, wincing as he finished swallowing it.

  Doctor Mò stared at him, her eyes filled with a wordless… determination? It was still difficult for Yǚchén to read.

  “Eat. Good for men.”

  Huànxiàng, still confused and awkward, sat with his back on the wall, his hands resting nervously in his lap. He looked at Doctor Mò, then back to Yǚchén, clearly unsure of what to do with himself in this strange environment.

  Zhéguī, ever the opportunist, sprawled across a table nearby, his eyes half-closed as he napped, waiting on Yǚchén’s blessing to take Huànxiàng away. Every now and then, he glanced at Huànxiàng, his sharp gaze calculating, eager to get to work in City 1.

  After a while, Huànxiàng broke the silence, repeating the words Zhéguī had told him, though in his own simple way.

  “Zhéguī said… he wants me to help. I can protect you. Be useful.”

  Yǚchén listened carefully, his mind already processing the implications. He muttered softly.

  “I see… Zhéguī wants you to join the Research Division. It’s not a bad offer, but…”

  He hesitated, his thoughts turning over. His eyes glanced over at Zhéguī, but his gaze was caught by the boy, grinning toothily. It sent goosebumps racing down Zhéguī’s body, causing him to lower his voice further.

  “There’s something off about him. Something doesn’t sit right.”

  Huànxiàng tilted his head, not fully understanding.

  Yǚchén sighed.

  “I’ll be working as an assistant researcher for now. Until I-”

  “Yes. Science.”

  Interrupted Mó, her hands raised in an exaggerated motion. Yǚchén pinched the bridge of his nose, his head facing down.

  He looked back up to Huànxiàng and continued, preparing himself for the headache of dealing with his senior in the days to come.

  “...until I recover, I’m cataloging findings and helping with medicines. But once I’m healed, I’ll investigate the moss and City 1. If you join the Research Division, you’ll end up involved in that too. Just… be careful. Zhéguī’s motives aren’t always clear.”

  Huànxiàng nodded slowly, confusion laced in his voice instead of fear.

  “The… moss?”

  Yǚchén brought his voice to a forceful whisper.

  “Don’t go near it when others are watching.”

  He exhaled strongly.

  “And don’t ever tell anyone that you’ve ever been near the stuff.”

  Huànxiàng nodded, but his eyes showed no true understanding. Yǚchén could only hope he’d remember the warning as they stared at each other in momentary silence.

  Zhéguī broke that tension.

  “Come on, we’ve got work to do. City 1 won’t investigate itself.”

  Yǚchén’s gaze hardened as he looked at Huànxiàng, speaking in a low voice.

  “Remember, report anything odd to me. Watch Zhéguī closely. There’s something about him…”

  Huànxiàng nodded, still oblivious to the full scope of the situation. Zhéguī interrupted that sentence with a holler from across the room.

  “You done talkin’ to your boyfriend? Let’s hustle, get a move on!”

  Huànxiàng looked back over at Yǚchén, his eyes asking for permission. Yǚchén beamed, speaking uncharacteristically happily as he playfully socked Huànxiàng’s shoulder.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “You heard the man- ruins don’t explore themselves!”

  Huànxiàng followed Zhéguī as he sauntered out of the room, a strange sense of duty settling in the undead boy’s chest.

  ***

  The two of them made their way toward the Grand Elder’s hall, the massive, imposing structure looming ahead. It towered before them atop a hill of stone, a silent monolith against the cold glow of the lanterns peppered across the jagged cave wall behind it.

  It was less a building and more a relic of something ancient and immovable, like the ribcage of some long-dead beast left to fossilize in the cavern’s breath. The stone walls stretched upward in uneven ridges, their surfaces worn smooth by time, yet still bearing the scars of old chisel marks—proof that human hands had shaped this place, though it now felt as if it had always existed.

  Its outstretched pillars curved inward like the gnarled fingers of a buried colossus, clutching at the vaulted ceiling, where veins of luminous moss pulsed dimly, like a dying heartbeat. The entrance yawned before them, a jagged archway so dark it seemed to swallow the faint blue light that dared approach.

  To stand before it was to feel miniscule—to have your presence silently quashed by the quiet, unspoken pressure, like stepping too close to the deep sea or the mouth of a sleeping giant. The air here carried a weight to it, thick with the weight of a crown. Whatever fate had been sealed here, whatever whispers had turned to law, the stone had absorbed it all.

  Despite the grandiose structure Huànxiàng’s eyes were drawn to a different place. Every hair on his back stood on end as they passed the entrance of a gigantic tunnel, even not looking at it. Huànxiàng couldn’t help but ask the almost absurdly casual Zhéguī, the hatted boy’s hands cupped behind his head as he sauntered forward.

  “What’s that?”

  Zhéguī glanced at him, his expression turning thoughtful as he spoke matter-of-factly.

  “That’s the old grotto. Generations ago, we found a network of giant mushrooms there. They were used to construct and support the city. Every city is built next to one of them.”

  Zhéguī whispered to himself, his voice suspicious.

  “Except for City 1…”

  As Zhéguī and Huànxiàng stepped across the threshold, the Elder’s Hall swallowed them whole. The hall stretched outward in quiet vastness, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow, where the faintest traces of bioluminescent moss clung like distant stars in a night sky.

  The floor beneath them was dark, polished stone, its surface marred by countless scuff marks and grooves, as if it had borne witness to hundreds of generations of warriors and stonecutters. Massive pillars lined the hall, their bases thick as ancient trees, rising in twisting patterns like petrified roots clawing toward the ceiling. Between them, the walls bore murals—faded, almost ghostly depictions of past Elders, their figures locked in unmoving judgment, their hollow eyes following all who entered.

  Torches burned low in iron sconces, but their light barely reached beyond their own flickering glow, leaving much of the space in shadow. The deeper they walked, the more the darkness seemed to breathe, shifting around them, pressing in at the edges.

  At the far end of the hall, atop a dais of black stone, sat the Grand Elder’s throne. It was not gilded or adorned with jewels—no symbols of luxury marked its frame. It was a thing of sheer, unyielding presence, carved from a single slab of rock, its edges worn smooth by time and pressure. It did not invite comfort. It did not invite conversation. It stood staunchly still, like a judge that had already rendered its verdict.

  As they approached, their footsteps echoed—too loud in the silence, as though the hall itself disapproved of their presence.

  Atop the throne sat the Grand Elder, sat in perfect posture as though he were a living statue. His gaze seemed to push them to kneel on the ground with its sheer weight.

  He smiled a bit.

  “It is good to see you two in good health.”

  The Grand Elder’s chuckling voice echoed through the chamber, a deep, rich sound that filled the cold halls with the cozy warmth of a fireplace.

  “Zhéguī, always so eager. And Huànxiàng here… A good porter, isn’t he?”

  Zhéguī held his tongue but couldn’t hide his slight smirk. The elder continued, his voice filled with a fatherly mirth.

  “Well, then, I will give you your charge, since you are so eager to help.”

  The elder lightly drummed his fingers along the front of his arm rest before speaking in a more formal tone.

  “Investigate City 1. Find a way to drive out the phantoms.”

  His gaze shifted back to a regal, indifferent glance.

  “Remember, the Research Division’s fate is tied to the city’s. If you succeed, you will shape the future. Fail, and it will be the last thing you do.”

  “...Yes, we will. We'll head off now.”

  As Zhéguī and Huànxiàng departed, the weight of the task settled upon them. Zhéguī held the door open for his new porter, glaring back at the Grand Elder with a determined gaze before leaving. The old man could not help but think a bit out loud to himself when he was alone once more.

  “Three kids, not a single one telling another the truth, yet forced to ally with one another. Maybe you’ll find it, or maybe not. Either way, I suppose I’ll be entertained.”

  ***

  The morning air clung to the earth like wet silk. Pale mist curled between the mountain paths, rising from the stones as if the world were exhaling slowly. Liángsēn stumbled forward, Méi cradled against his chest. Her skin was cold, her weight all bones and breath, and still he held her like something more precious than his own life.

  Ahead, the elder walked without sound, his lavender robes trailing behind him like drifting smoke. His retinue flanked the path, a silent procession dressed in the same pale violet, faces half-shadowed beneath high collars and loose hoods. Their eyes followed Liángsēn.

  He didn’t trust them. Not with her.

  His fingers twitched on the hilt at his waist, calloused knuckles gone white.

  A flicker of motion.

  Three of the disciples stepped forward—not rushed, not hostile, but inevitable, like water rising in a well. They moved with the surety of those who never questioned their strength. In a breath, they stood between him and the elder, forming a ring.

  Liángsēn said nothing. He simply shifted, sword half-drawn, body angled to shield Méi. His stance was wrong—too open, too slow, too broken—but he didn’t waver.

  The wind picked up. Somewhere in the distance, a crow screamed.

  Then the sword was gone.

  He didn’t see the elder move. Only felt the weight vanish from his hand—and there, the old man stood, his sleeve still swaying, Liángsēn’s blade hanging loose in his fingers. The man spoke, his voice calm, almost warm, like someone commenting on the weather.

  “Now you have a little less weight to carry.”

  He turned and approached the lacquered carriage, lifting the curtain. The horses snorted softly, stamping their hooves into the dewy soil. The wheels creaked faintly, already ready to move.

  Liángsēn followed. He ducked beneath the curtain and stepped inside, never loosening his grip on Méi.

  The space was dim, the light filtered through paper windows etched with patterns denoting wind. The air smelled of ink and pine. Across from him, the elder settled down with a quiet rustle of cloth, posture straight, hands resting lightly in his lap.

  Outside, the wheels turned. The path shifted beneath them, and trees passed by like watching sentinels.

  Then came a knock. One of the retinue passed in a bundle of white cloth, wooden splints, a jar of salve.

  The elder didn’t even glance. He reached out, took them, and leaned forward.

  Liángsēn flinched.

  He angled his body more tightly around Méi, eyes narrowing as the elder reached toward her broken arm. The boy growled like a cornered animal, his voice low and stiff, cracking from exhaustion.

  “Don’t.”

  The elder paused, not insulted, not surprised. He looked at Liángsēn, then at Méi’s arm—bent in a way arms should never bend, the swelling beginning to turn purple along her side. The elder chided calmly and quietly.

  “That mace nearly took her shoulder clean off, and at least three ribs are pressing into the lungs. If she breathes too deep, one of them might punch through.”

  Liángsēn tightened his grip.

  “I said—”

  “If I were going to harm her, she would already be gone.”

  The elder interrupted, his voice calm as water.

  “And if you keep clutching her like that, her lungs won’t last much longer.”

  Liángsēn froze. He looked down. Her chest barely moved beneath the robe—shallow, fluttering breaths.

  After a beat, he shifted, just enough for the elder to begin.

  There was no ceremony to the movements—only speed, and a precision born of practice. The elder’s hands moved in smooth lines as he cut away the blood-crusted fabric of her sleeve, revealing the full break. Bone had nearly pierced the skin. Her arm dangled limp, the elbow swollen and dark with internal bleeding. He muttered as he worked.

  “She’s lucky. This sort of crush, if it’d landed even a finger’s width lower, would’ve taken the whole joint off. But the nerves are intact. The bones can be reset.”

  He placed two fingers just beneath her clavicle, then lower, against the ribcage. His expression barely shifted, but something in it settled into certainty.

  “She’ll live. The arm will heal. We’ll reforge the shattered marrow once we’re back at Mount Huà. It’s been done before.”

  Liángsēn didn’t speak. But something in his shoulders eased—not entirely, but enough for the elder to begin his work in full.

  Liángsēn stared. Each touch was deliberate—he cleaned the dried blood from her temple with warm water, bound her wrist, splinted the arm that had twisted wrong in the fight. The carriage rocked gently, and still the elder worked as if nothing outside existed. Liángsēn murmured, a bit curious about the man’s intentions.

  “…You could’ve had someone else do this.”

  The elder replied, winding gauze around her arm.

  “I could have, you are right.”

  Liángsēn didn’t know what to say. He only watched the elder’s hands, the quiet in the carriage wrapping around them like the bandages he applied to the unconscious Méi.

  After a time, the elder inquired.

  “Where did you learn to fight?”

  Liángsēn looked away.

  The elder kept going, undeterred.

  “You didn't fight with a martial form. Not really. Your movements weren’t blocking or striking with intent to kill, only you were. Your feet were following something else.”

  He paused, tying off the bandage.

  “A dance.”

  Liángsēn’s head snapped up, startled despite himself. The elder caught it.

  “I don’t know much about sword dances, but perhaps I should learn. All things move in accordance with the Way.”

  The silence between them grew heavier. Outside, birds stirred in the branches, but the air remained still. A forest passed them by—a sea of shadow and green. Bamboo rose like spears, shaking softly in the breeze.

  Once more, the elder broke it.

  “What do you want to do with your life, boy?”

  Liángsēn took a long time to answer.

  “…Get stronger.”

  The elder nodded.

  “To protect her?”

  The boy looked down at Méi. His hands tightened.

  “When did you meet?”

  “Today.”

  That stopped the elder’s hands. He didn’t move—just let the words hang.

  And then, almost to himself, he spoke.

  “Mm. I see.”

  The carriage swayed again. The road ahead brightened as fog began to lift. Fields unfurled on either side—stepped terraces etched into the mountainside, dotted with white blossoms and small shrines buried in moss.

  The elder asked again, but this time his voice was quieter, like he was asking something beneath the words.

  “Why do you want strength?”

  Liángsēn looked at the wall beside him, watching the silhouettes blur past.

  “…So I don’t have to get dragged around anymore. So if I want something, I can get it. So no one can just take things from me.”

  The elder was silent for a long time. Then, he nodded once.

  “Power does more than protect. It reveals what you are, beneath the fear.”

  He reached up and tapped the wood of the carriage, once.

  “Rest now. Huàshān isn’t close.”

  —

  Liángsēn awoke to the clamor of the outside world.

  The air was different—warmer, buzzing faintly with life. He opened his eyes to find himself beneath the elder’s outer robe, its lavender folds stretched over both him and Méi like a shared tent of silk. The carriage had slowed.

  Outside, voices rose—laughter, sparring calls, the clack of wood against wood, and wood against stone.

  Through the paper wall, sunlight painted shifting silhouettes. He saw bowed heads, figures moving aside to let the carriage pass. Rows of martial artists stood in white and gray, children crouched with training swords in hand, faces shining with awe.

  Beyond them, rooftops rose: curved tile, bronze charms hanging from the eaves, smoke trailing from incense coils. Towering in the distance, shrouded in haze, stood the peak of Huàshān—jagged, regal, ancient.

  The elder shifted as he spoke. He was already watching.

  “We’ve arrived. Wèinán. We’ll make an offering to Xīyuè as thanks for our safe journey, and head up after.”

  The carriage stopped with a soft jolt. The elder moved first, stepping down onto the stone, then turned, offering a hand again.

  Liángsēn took it.

  Méi stirred in his arms, her breath feather-light. Together, they stepped onto the wide path leading up to the temple. Lanterns lined the way, red and gold, their silk bodies stirring in the breeze. A hush had fallen over the city. Even the market behind them was still.

  The elder paused at the base of the temple steps. The wind lifted his robes. Behind him, Huàshān loomed against the sky, its peak biting into the clouds.

  He turned, his expression unreadable—but a smile tugged at his mouth, quiet and knowing.

  “Welcome, children.”

  He said.

  “To Mount Huà.”