The Gentle Breeze Sect was named with irony. There was nothing gentle about it.
Its mountain walls stood proud and unyielding, jagged like the teeth of ancient beasts. Wind did not dance there—it screamed, scraped, howled as it lashed against the spires and stone bridges. From afar, the sect looked like a temple of serenity. Within, it was a fortress dressed in silk.
Disciples moved gracefully across the stone courtyards, their steps light, their robes spotless. To outsiders, they seemed like blossoms swaying in perfect harmony.
But Yun Qingxue knew better.
She had seen the poison hidden in tea cups and the swords behind smiling lips. She had watched girls tear each other apart with compliments. She had smiled as her peers fell into traps she herself had dug.
And she?
She was the flower placed at the center of it all.
Not cherished.
Displayed.
A doll strung in silk.
From the moment she could walk, her path had been chosen. She did not remember lullabies. No soft arms, no tender coos. Her earliest memories were of cold hands gripping her chin, tilting her face upward beneath candlelight.
"Too stiff," her mother murmured, her tone flatter than the marble floor. "Smile again. No teeth this time."
She obeyed.
Moved her lips just so.
Tried to think of something warm, something soft. But she had nothing.
"Better," her mother said, giving a curt nod. That was all the praise she ever got.
Praise was currency in the Gentle Breeze Sect—measured in nods, glances, silence. Rare and precious. Her father never gave her any. Her mother gave just enough to keep her reaching.
They taught her how to smile before she could spell her name. She was made to kneel beside incense burners while tutors lectured her on posture and elegance. Her hair was combed with perfumed oils long before she learned to tie her own shoes. Every morning, she bowed to her elders. Every night, she studied etiquette until her eyes blurred.
"You are the daughter of the Sect Leader," they told her. "Your blood is valuable. Your beauty is political. You are not a person. You are a symbol. Symbols do not weep."
So she didn't.
Even when her knees cracked from kneeling on frozen tiles. Even when her maid was beaten for a crooked braid. Even when her father walked past her in the great hall without even a glance.
She smiled.
They told her the sect was pure. Righteous. That it purged evil from the world like a cleansing wind. That they hunted demons and sealed corrupted lands not for glory, but for justice.
But she had seen the "justice."
She had seen old men return from hunts grinning with blood-soaked boots. She had seen innocent villagers burned for suspicion of dark arts. She had seen elders take relics from "tainted" families under the banner of righteousness.
Her mother called it "necessary theater."
Her father called it "duty."
Yun said nothing.
She bowed her head, poured the tea, and watched with unblinking eyes.
Then came the test.
A spiritual appraiser from the inner sect came to measure her potential. Yun was eight. She still remembered the trembling hands, the sweat gathering at his temples as he stared into the artifact's light.
"Extreme," he whispered.
The room had gone silent.
Extreme.
A spiritual root so rare it was spoken of in hushed reverence—if it was spoken of at all. It amplified intent. Twisted emotion. Heightened spiritual sensitivity to the point of danger. With it, a single desire could echo outward, infecting those nearby.
An obsession could become a storm.
A tear could become a flood.
She didn't understand then. Only that her mother's eyes had lit up—not with joy. With calculation.
"She must be taught restraint," said one elder.
"She's a liability," said another.
"She is an opportunity," her mother said.
And so, the mask tightened.
Her lessons grew harsher. Her schedule, stricter. She was denied rest if her tone slipped. Made to meditate beneath waterfalls until her thoughts aligned. Forced to smile while her muscles trembled from fatigue.
By twelve, she had already bent the hearts of Rank 1 disciples.
Not because she wanted to.
Because they offered.
A kind word, and they followed her. A gentle glance, and they defended her without question. They called her kind. Selfless. Pure.
It was almost laughable.
She didn't give orders. She didn't need to. If she looked sad, someone would act. If she laughed, people would smile with her—whether they wanted to or not.
They called her beloved.
She called it survival.
She never used her root for power. Never gave commands. Never punished. She only smiled, and the world bent itself to accommodate her.
Because if they loved her, they wouldn't discard her.
Because if they loved her, she'd be safe.
But safety is not peace.
At night, when the lanterns dimmed and she was alone in her room, she couldn't sleep. She'd sit on her bed and stare at her hands. At her reflection in the jade mirror. The face everyone adored. The eyes they praised.
A mask.
One evening, she asked her mother, "What if I don't want to smile anymore?"
Her mother looked at her in silence for a long, long time.
Then turned away.
"A flower that refuses to bloom will be uprooted."
That night, Yun stared at her mirror for hours. Practiced new smiles. Slight tilt. Hint of sadness. A breath of resilience. Each one rehearsed until it became second nature.
By fifteen, she had learned how to use her root properly.
She whispered, not shouted. Suggested, not commanded. Tilted her voice with just enough tremble to inspire protective rage in others. When a senior disciple scolded a girl for clumsiness, Yun said nothing.
But she let her silence linger.
Let it echo.
Soon, he was whispered about. Accused of arrogance. Disrespect. Bullying.
She didn't start the rumors.
She only watered them.
When a major banquet was planned, with Divine Sword Sect attending, Yun was already prepared. She'd heard of the heir attending—an arrogant boy known for his temper. She watched him insult a junior during practice.
Said nothing.
Whispered later.
Just one seed.
A day later, two knew. Then five. Then ten.
By the time the banquet arrived, the entire sect buzzed. The boy was seated low. His father offered an apology.
Yun? She sat quietly near the edge of the great hall. Porcelain cup in hand. A faint, unreadable smile.
The boy met her eyes.
He knew.
And she knew he knew.
But no one else did.
They praised her silence. Called her gracious for not speaking against him.
"She brings peace wherever she goes," someone said.
She wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both.
Instead, she smiled.
And when the banquet ended, and the lanterns were doused, and the halls were emptied—
She closed the silk curtains of her room, leaned against the cold wall, and finally let herself cry.
Not because she was sad.
But because no one thanked her.
Because even when she did everything right—everything—there was still a hole inside her chest. Gaping. Cold. Starving.
And she wondered, in the silence:
Would it ever go away?