The White Lily Blossom Sect stood high atop the mist-covered mountains, a harmonious maze of white stone pavilions and polished courtyards, where the air forever smelled of lotus blossoms and sandalwood incense. From the lowest courtyard to the high balconies of the Grand Hall, the sect pulsed with quiet, measured life. This was a place forged through centuries of discipline, meditation, and silent strength, devoted to balance, tradition, and the pursuit of inner perfection.
Each morning, as the first sunlight pierced the ridgelines, rows of disciples gathered in silence. The thrum of fists striking wooden pillars echoed beneath the crimson sky. Beneath the watchful gaze of the elder instructors, they practiced sword forms, breath control, and spiritual mantras. These rituals were as old as the mountains themselves.
To the outsider, the sect seemed time less, untouchable.
But that morning, something felt wrong.
A strange tension gripped the air. The wind carried with it not peace, but the faint metallic scent of smoke.
Zhao Qinxing walked quickly through the eastern corridors, his long ivory robes sweeping behind him like trailing smoke. His face was calm, composed but each step was quicker than the last. Something had happened. A young disciple, no older than sixteen, had failed to report for morning prayer. Normally, such an absence would merit no more than a reprimand. Yet this time, there were signs.
Signs that Zhao couldn't ignore.
He turned a corner and halted at the threshold of the southern dormitory courtyard. There, in the center of the stone path, the earth had been burned black. A perfect circle of scorched tile. Cracks radiated outward like lightning strikes frozen in stone. The damage hadn't been caused by any torch, any lantern, or any kitchen accident. This was something else. Something fierce.
He knelt slowly, reaching his fingers toward the ash.
Still warm.
Zhao Qinxing's expression didn't change, but his breath hitched. It was impossible. He hadn't used his fire. Not since the vow. Not since the forest.
Behind him, other instructors approached in silence. Their eyes moved from the scorch marks to Zhao, and then back again. No one spoke, but the air was heavy with unspoken accusations.
"Master Zhao," came a calm but piercing voice.
Zhao turned. It was Lin Xian.
The boy stood with his arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed on the scorched ground. He was lean, with a narrow face and tightly bound black hair. There was no fear in his gaze, only thought. Lin Xian had been taken in by the sect as a child, discovered begging outside the southern provinces. He had no family name, no origin worth noting. Yet he had climbed the ranks faster than any of his peers. Zhao himself had chosen him as a disciple, impressed by the fire behind the boy's silence.
"What do you think caused this?" Lin Xian asked, his voice devoid of accusation.
Zhao stood slowly, brushing ash from his robes.
"Something we have not seen in many years," he replied. "But it was not me."
Lin Xian nodded once. He said nothing more, but his gaze lingered.
That night, the sect returned to its still rhythms. Lessons resumed. The missing disciple was noted in the records, and the patrols combed the mountainsides finding nothing. No sign of struggle. No trace of a body.
And yet, the scorch mark remained.
Whispers crept through the halls like smoke. They said Zhao Qinxing was too calm. That he had once studied a forbidden fire technique. That he had not aged since the last war. Rumors, born of ignorance and fear. But they spread all the same.
Zhao heard them, as he always did. He said nothing. He returned to teaching. To silence. To restraint.
Lin Xian, however, watched.
Each day, he trained harder. Listened more. Watched his master when others turned away. He saw how Zhao's hand would twitch ever so slightly when near flame. How his eyes flickered in torchlight. Something in him, deep and quiet, told him there was truth to the rumors.
But there was something else, too. A reason Zhao stayed. A burden not yet shared.
And Lin Xian, abandoned child, nameless disciple had made a silent decision.
He would find the truth.
Whether the sect wanted him to or not.