Night didn't fall. It sank.
Jian Yu sat beneath the pavilion of the Moon Tree, where the petals had stilled like breath held too long. Beside him, Yuan sat in silence, her gaze fixed on the dark garden ahead. Neither spoke. Neither moved.
The flower that had bloomed at the edge of the path—black, perfect, unnatural—still faced them, its petals open like a question.
But now, something else was growing.
A stalk. Thin. Black. And utterly still.
"That wasn't here before," Yuan said, voice barely audible.
Jian Yu stood slowly, eyes locked on the sprout that had emerged from the scarred earth.
His body ached. Not from the fight.
From something deeper.
Not in his dantian. Not in his spirit sea.
Deeper.
Where names were stored. Where longing had no language.
He stepped toward it.
"You don't have to follow," he said without turning.
But she didn't move.
"I'm not following," Yuan replied. "I'm staying."
He knelt before the stalk.
And closed his eyes.
The world fell away.
He didn't feel his breath. He didn't feel the wind. But he heard it—
You're not supposed to be here, the Sutra whispered.
Its voice was distant. Muffled. Like it was speaking from behind a door.
You're looking in the wrong direction.
He opened his eyes—
And was somewhere else.
The ground was soft, like ash over stone. The air shimmered with silver mist. Lotus petals hung suspended in the sky, unmoving.
And in front of him stood a door.
No frame. No walls.
Just the door.
Black wood. Symbols etched in red that pulsed like breath.
Some he recognized—petals, spirals, roots.
Others moved when he blinked.
He stepped closer.
The door didn't open.
It remembered.
A vision flooded his mind.
A dozen petals blurred across his thoughts, each showing a different version of himself—smiling, dying, burning, vanishing. None of them were real. But all of them were him.
And then—
A courtyard. Older. Colder. A pond of ink where water should be.
He—no, someone with his face—stood beneath a burning moon. Across from him, a girl knelt beside a tree, whispering in a language he could almost understand.
Yuan.
But not this Yuan.
Another her. Another him.
And between them, a single flame hovered, untouched by time.
Jian Yu gasped.
Back in the garden, Yuan reached out as he staggered.
"Jian Yu?"
He clutched his chest.
The flower pulsed.
The Sutra hissed, rising in panic.
That wasn't your memory.
Jian Yu opened his eyes.
"No," he said.
"But it was mine."
Yuan froze.
Her hand fell away from his shoulder. Not from fear—but from recognition.
"The tree… I've seen it before," she whispered. "But it wasn't dying."
Because in her chest—just for a second—
She remembered that courtyard too.
Yuan didn't return to her quarters that night.
She walked the halls of the sect like a ghost in silk, her footsteps soundless, her breath uneven. The petals above the walkways no longer swirled for her. They stilled—just like they had for him.
The image replayed again and again.
The door.
The ink.
The tree.
The flame.
And his eyes—not Jian Yu's eyes. But not a stranger's either.
Why do I know that place?
She pressed her hand against her chest as if the answer were buried in the bones beneath.
When she finally lay down to rest, the candlelight in her room flickered once—then vanished entirely, though no wind had passed.
Sleep took her like falling into deep water.
She stood in the same courtyard from before.
But this time, it wasn't memory.
It was presence.
Her robe was different—woven with strands of silver and red. Her hair was longer, heavier, braided down her back in coils she didn't remember ever learning to tie. She didn't move.
Because she was already kneeling.
Before a man.
No—not a man.
Jian Yu.
But not.
His eyes were gold.
His voice came like embers.
"If I forget you, let my desire be burned from the roots."
He reached for her cheek.
And she let him.
"If I remember you, let the world forget everything else."
She woke up choking.
Sweat coated her skin. Her throat burned. Her hands trembled.
But the worst part wasn't the dream.
It was the name.
A name she hadn't spoken aloud in years.
A name no one in the sect knew.
And yet… he had whispered it in her dream like it was sacred.
"Mei Lian," he had said.
That wasn't her name.
Not anymore.
But it had been.
Once.
The Hall of the Nine was colder than usual.
Not in temperature—but in breath. In posture. In trust.
The petals carved into the ceiling had not moved since the Ritual. Their golden edges seemed dulled now, as if afraid to shine.
Nine thrones circled the chamber. Only seven were occupied.
Elder Suen stood from her violet crystal seat, her voice cutting through the silence like frost through skin.
"How long will we watch this unfold without action?"
Zhen did not answer. He sat at the throne of obsidian and gold, unmoving.
"He has fractured a Mortal Soul cultivator without drawing a single seal," Suen continued. "The courtyard itself reacted. The petals obeyed. That is not a technique—it is invasion."
Bo, elder of vines and root, exhaled deeply. "It is not invasion. It is awakening."
"A dangerous one," Suen snapped. "The Spirit Root Realm does not produce waves of Qi that corrupt formations."
"Because he is not drawing from the same stream," Bo said. "He is not using Qi as we understand it."
Zhen finally spoke. His voice was calm, but heavy.
"Explain."
Bo nodded once. "Cultivation draws from external energies and refines them internally. Qi, Spirit, Essence. But this… this is older. Jian Yu is manifesting a field of influence not through power—but through resonance."
"Meaning?" Suen pressed.
"Meaning he is not cultivating," Bo said. "He is remembering."
A murmur stirred among the thrones.
Another elder, one cloaked in pale iron robes, leaned forward.
"You believe this is… what? A reincarnation effect?"
"No," Bo said. "Worse. I believe the Sutra is feeding on forgotten pathways—what we once called Qi of the Heart. Emotion-born energy. Longing. Pain. Desire. Abandoned by the sects because it corrupted balance."
Zhen's eyes narrowed. "You speak of Emotional Qi."
"Yes," Bo replied. "And Jian Yu is a conduit for it."
Elder Suen's hands clenched. "Then he must be severed from the source."
"You would kill him?" Bo asked.
"No," Suen said. "But I would bind his spirit. Cleanse his meridians. And if that fails… seal his dantian."
Zhen raised one finger. The chamber silenced.
"He is currently in Spirit Root Realm, Stage Four," Zhen said. "Yet he disabled a Mortal Soul cultivator in seconds. Without movement. Without technique."
"Exactly," Suen said. "A weapon of instinct. Not cultivation."
Zhen turned to Bo.
"If this is Emotional Qi… can it be contained?"
Bo looked away for a moment.
"I do not know."
Zhen leaned back slowly in his throne.
"Then we will not bind him. Not yet."
Suen's jaw tightened. "You would let him roam free?"
"No," Zhen said. "We will give him space… and then we will give him a choice."
Bo's eyes flickered. "You mean to use him."
"I mean to observe what the Sutra chooses next."
The petals above the thrones pulsed once.
Faint.
Barely visible.
But they moved.
Dawn did not come gently.
Jian Yu opened his eyes to a courtyard that felt… wrong.
Not broken. Not empty.
But quiet in a way that wasn't natural.
The petals above did not stir. The Moon Tree's branches no longer swayed. The air carried no sound. Even the Qi that normally hummed at the edge of his perception was still.
Like the entire sect was holding its breath.
He stood, muscles tight, spirit heavier than it had been since the Ritual.
The events of the night lingered like smoke in his blood.
The door. The vision. The name on Yuan's lips.
Mei Lian.
He wasn't sure what terrified him more — that he had seen her in that memory, or that she had seen it too.
And now, she was gone.
Not missing.
Just… not nearby.
He felt it. Like an absence in the center of his chest.
He turned to leave the courtyard.
But he wasn't alone.
The figure stood where the stalk had grown.
Robes of ink and silver. Mask without eyes. Presence without weight.
"You're late," Jian Yu said, voice rough.
"I was watching," the masked figure replied. "You learn more by silence than interruption."
Jian Yu narrowed his eyes. "You always speak in riddles?"
"No," the figure said. "Only when speaking clearly would cause damage."
Jian Yu took a step forward. The air didn't resist. Not yet.
"You said the Sutra remembers," Jian Yu said. "But it doesn't. It forgets."
The masked figure tilted its head.
"Of course it forgets," he replied. "It was designed to."
"Why?"
"To protect itself. And you. And her."
Jian Yu's breath caught.
"You mean Yuan?"
The figure didn't answer.
Instead, he raised one hand.
In his palm, a single petal hovered—black on one side, white on the other.
"The Sutra holds fragments of a cycle that broke once," the masked voice said. "You are the echo of that break."
"And what happens if I remember everything?" Jian Yu asked.
The figure paused.
"Then the Sutra will remember too."
"And?"
The masked figure let the petal fall.
And it landed on the stone like a blade.
"Then it will awaken fully. And so will everything it once silenced."
Jian Yu clenched his fist.
"So you're saying I have a choice."
"Yes," the figure replied. "You can continue as you are… or you can walk the path the Sutra has buried."
"And where does that path lead?"
The figure took a step back.
"To a door."
Then vanished.
The petal remained.
Jian Yu knelt.
Touched it.
It burned.
But only for a moment.
And then… it pulsed.
End of Chapter🔗 Join our Discord for discussions, lore, and early chapters: https://discord.com/invite/y8xDvzAX
Next Chapter: Chapter 19 – The Sutra Opens With Blood